quizzical pussy

I always know that the truly rough part of the month has descended when I find myself saying “I can’t do this anymore. I cannot do this.” and I have no clear idea of what “this” is.

The trouble is that the PMDD (or whatever it is) is now kicking in earlier and lingering longer. Whereas usually I’m only depressed about half the time, this go around I only got one week off between the anguish of asking Oren how I’m supposed to tell him if I start having overpowering suicidal urges again¹ and the numb despair that means it’s all starting again.

I can fake normal. It hasn’t gotten so bad yet that I can’t fake normal pretty convincingly. It just takes a lot of energy, and energy is not an abundant resource in my homeland. I can keep it together. I can focus on everything but myself and drown out the weird little voices. I can keep this from bothering anyone. I can do this, whatever “this” is.

As long as “this” doesn’t involve being okay.

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1. I still don’t know. [↩]

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There are things I am good at.

I can find an orgasm in a bag of mediocre. I can give you goosebumps with my voice. I make the best brownies on the planet and my pumpkin pie is worth its weight in plutonium. My sense of style is irrepressible. I am a damn good person to have on your team because I’m loyal and giving and clever and awesome.

I’m enumerating all these positive things because it’s important to me you don’t think I’m just feeling sorry for myself when I say that I seriously suck at dating.

Because I seriously suck at dating.

Lately I keep meaning to date more. Mostly because I want to have more sex, but also because I feel like I finally have room in my life again for another partner. I’m not in a hurry to get into another relationship, but I’m more open to it now than I have been for a while. The only problem is that I suck at dating. And it’s kind of more stressful than it used to be now that I understand why.

I mean, I like meeting new people. I want to hang out and ride bikes with every kickass person who comes my way, and there are a lot of kickass people on this planet. And I’m not generally unlikeable, so it’s not like dating is like sopping up failure with biscuits or anything. But dating is incredibly frustrating because I’m not attracted to many people, which means that dates are awkward and ambiguous and I’m oblivious to woo. I’m forever assuming that the lack of attraction is mutual, and that usually isn’t true because duh, these people wanted to go on dates with me in the first place. In contrast, the only reason I’ll be on the date in the first place is because I enjoy someone’s personality, and have agreed to go along for the ride on the off chance attraction develops. Chemistry for me is so often more of a slow burn, and it seldom really catches. Even if I meet people in an expressly-for-dating website, I mostly end up wanting to be friends. I find that this is especially true with cis men (sorry cis men!)

This used to be mere triva. I don’t have to feel magically drawn to someone to be willing to experiment with them sexually. I have even had lengthy relationships with people I wasn’t particularly attracted to. I could tap into their attraction for me, or use the power of having many orgasms together, or mine a thorough understanding that a person was awesome and fetching, to cultivate an appreciation that compensated for visceral attraction. It took me a very long time, actually, to realize it wasn’t the same thing.

But having experienced a few connections involving deep, resonant, multi-leveled attraction, I’m sort of meh about doing it the old way. Which means that if I’m not fundamentally excited about people I just can’t get excited about people because they’re excited about me. Not anymore. Not in the same way I used to. I’m not saying that the attraction has to be compelling and immediate for me to want to explore a connection, but I’m starting to question the wisdom of totally ignoring my gut. True attraction is a very strange alchemy for me, and it’s worth studying.

Another problem with not being attracted to most people is that I basically never seem like I’m attracted to anyone. Even when I feel a pull, I’m mostly just nonplussed because it feels so alien. And I normally withdraw or get all bro-ish when I start realizing a person wants to get me naked. For some reason this makes me bad at flirting. Weird, right? And then when I do really like someone there’s this weird thing in my brain that keeps telling me that if I’m obvious about it my face will completely melt off my skull and, unrelatedly, no one will ever love me again.

So while I’m hypothetically totally open to dating, it’s a fussy proposition to implement on account of me being so fundamentally fucked up. I know there are people out there whom I can have brilliant, life-altering sex and relationships with. I know I’ll find some of them eventually. Whenever it happens, though, it’ll shock the hell out of me.

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I think it’s pretty well documented that I have no idea when people are attracted to me. They actually have to not only tell me, but also have sex with me for it to (ahem) penetrate, and even then it’s dubious for me. This means that I just go around assuming no one is attracted to me until there’s overwhelming evidence to the contrary. This isn’t because I think I’m ugly, or can’t conceive of anyone finding me attractive; it just kind of doesn’t occur to me one way or the other because I’m pathologically dense about these things.

But I can usually tell at a glance when tendrils of attraction are budding between two people who both aren’t me. That’s easy. They glow neon lilac and my pinkie nails start to vibrate.

At particular times of the month, I find myself inexplicably attracted to male friends of mine who have large families. I can think of a few who are fathers of three or four, whom their adored wives look after at home, with the smallest (it comes out as ‘latest’ in my head) on their hip whilst they pack the others off to school. This is not something I want, at all, and I don’t fantasise about being in that position, nor do I have any of the more typical ‘breeding fetish’ ideals… it seems to be that my hormones just SUDDENLY direct me to be turned on by demonstrably virile men for like two days a month. I can accurately calculate my cycle by keeping a track on when these people pop up in fantasies. It’s most disconcerting.

Hormones are terrifying, dude, and I’m not just saying that because mine make me suicidal sometimes.

I knew for years that we weren’t sexually compatible, but I stayed anyway. I adored her brain. I still do adore her brain. But I’m so not into her body or sex with her, and it’s been an ongoing struggle for me–especially since she frequently professed how hot she thinks I am.

We broke up on new years day, and I feel…awesome. I feel awesome and then terrible about that, because how can I feel awesome when I broke her heart? She’s my best friend, I shouldn’t feel awesome if she feels terrible.

We were nominally poly, and the guy I’ve been seeing hasn’t made a move at all beyond kissing. I kind of suspect I’m never getting laid again. Ugh.

Oh, you’ll get laid again. My pinkie nails are going crazy just thinking about it.

I am turned on by Amy Wong, on Futurama. I want to put my mouth to that cute little bare midriff of hers, and see where things go.

Even more of a turn-on, though, is the character Nani, from Lilo & Stitch. Her strong thighs and broad hips, small breasts, wide-set eyes and non-traditional nose all get to me in ways that I shouldn’t let a cartoon affect me. I have more than once fapped hard to her image on the inside of my head.

I’m sorry your love can never be.

I went from a years-long dry spell to getting flogged and kissed and beaten and fucked and tied up and such on a regular basis, and oh my god, it’s amazing. I was all repressed and sad and lonely for so long, and now people want to have sex with me and do other stuff too! I’m so much happier and more comfortable in my skin now that it’s ridiculous. It’s making me consider going to my 10-year reunion just so I can feel smug about how great my sex life is.

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I don’t know if I qualify as kinky. I don’t think about it much, to be honest. I mean, sure I like rough sex in the right context. Okay, actually I really love rough sex in the right context. And I just masturbated while watching Criminal Minds ((Which I feel is distinct from masturbating TO Criminal Minds, but still…), but I don’t know whether kinky is the right word or not. Some of you guys are  definitely kinky, though, you magnificent creatures, you.

My girlfriend and her husband are having loud kinky sex in the next room, right this minute.
They took a break a few minutes ago, and asked me to bring them some water.

This is pretty great, I think. I’ve had threesomes with them before, and I’m sure I will again. But sometimes it’s just nice knowing that we’re all so comfortable with each other that they can ask me to fetch things for them while they’re fucking.

I always have a water bottle at the ready, but you can’t have a threesome with a water bottle.

Although you kind of can…

I’m currently in a happy triad with an adorable, inquisitive budding sadist girl and an awesome man (the first guy I’ve ever been in a relationship with) who makes me stupid in ways I hadn’t thought possible.
Thing is… The sex is incredible, the conversations fascinating and entertaining and fun. He reads me scary well, knows me too well for only having known each other four months.
I think I’m falling for him, well and truly, and am half terrified of this. I don’t do the forever thing I’ve barely done the relationhip thing, and it’s not really an option for us anyway.
I’m leavng this place in a few months, and am currently attempting to work out a way to deal with the possibility of sub frenzy after I go (did i mention the subby masochistic part?). I know he’ll try and help me work that out, we have a mutual friend that will be leaving with me and will probably be the one to help. But I have no idea how to have this conversation, deal with the emotions or gods forbid even tell him what I’m feeling for him. Let alone how to deal with the fact that I don’t feel near as strongly for the girl we’re seeing.

So basically you’re going to learn a fuckton from all this, is what I’m reading.

I love your blog! I love the sex positive writing and how inclusive you are. I just put myself out there where my sexuality is concerned. I decided to post on Craigslist for a dom. I mean, this is a huge step for me, having always been a goodie two shows, repressing my need for submission, bondage and spanking. I was impressed by the responses. I am just going to let things unfold. Take the necessary precautions and see where it goes!

::Internet high five:: for you! Because you are a boss to go after what you want like this.

I’m a young male who’s just getting into kink; a brief but intense relationship I was in with a delightfully masochistic young lady woke up my dormant love of handcuffs and painplay, and though I sort of banked those urges when we went our separate ways a couple of years ago, I’ve found them quickly starting to re-emerge over the last little while. At this point I’m more comfortable with my leanings towards BDSM than ever before, and while I’m not actively searching for a relationship right now, I’m getting a better and better idea of what it is I’ll be looking for when I start to do so.

But I still had to suppress an embarrassed chuckle when I found myself standing in front of the rack of canes at the local drugstore, eying them contemplatively. Too thick. . . too short. . . got weird feet on it. . . ooh, that looks interesting – no, too expensive. . . I think my mutterings may have worried the nice older gentleman standing next to me a little. Sorry, Gramps!

So I guess I don’t actually have much to confess, except that I’m gradually getting more and more comfortable with the kind of sex I want. And hey, by all means tell me if you have recommendations for a favorite impact toy, because my subconscious is apparently in the market!

Hey, everybody, suggest impact toys!

I want to become an advocate for BDSM to teach people that’s its perfectly normal if its done consensually but I haven’t come out to anybody but my boyfriend about my kinks.

Coming out is super personal, and I’m confident you’ll get there when the time is right.

When I was a kid, from a very very young age I was absurdly uncomfortable (irrationally angry, turning red, squirming in my seat) whenever anyone had the hiccups. This was a problem when watching a lot of cartoons, or even in middle school and high school when in a class I couldn’t leave…

Until I was a year into my first serious relationship, 19 years old, having just started to be sexual and FINALLY learning to identify my own desire and arousal. Then suddenly I realized that I hated the hiccups so much because I was insanely, uncontrollably turned on.

Uncontrollably turned on when my boyfriend gets hiccups after eating spicy food too quickly? Awesome. Uncontrollably turned on when drunk friends get them? Awesome deposit for the fantasy bank. Uncontrollably turned on when my parents, siblings or babysitting kids/preschool students get them? REALLY, REALLY NOT AWESOME.

It’s not like I am particularly drawn to the person who has the hiccups; when someone I don’t like or someone inappropriate for my attentions has them, I just ignore the arousal. But it’s still INCREDIBLY uncomfortable. I am so glad I don’t have a penis or this would be so much worse.

This was fascinating. That’s pretty much what I have to offer here.

Coming here now hurts.

I started reading here a couple of years ago and love the ConTues. I have, over and over again, typed into the comment box below your posts. But I leave before I hit submit.

I want to come out here about my poly and BDSM. I recognize a few of the people that comment here and I deeply long to be accepted by them, but I also know that they would recognize me and then this would be nothing but negative.

I think I need the therapy of talking to people and QP would be a fantastic place to do that. Unfortunately for me that wont work.

Thanks for listening QP. I wish I could trust enough to comment on your excellent posts.

I wish you felt free to comment here. I feel like I should point out the extreme “glass house” position of people who come and read and comment and confess on quizzical pussy. I mean, clearly there here for a reason too; I wonder why you’re so sure they’d judge you, but I don’t know your situation. All I can do is fervently hope that you find an outlet to talk about this stuff. My email address is here if you want it.

I started dating a good friend and a housemate of mine that I’ve been crushing on for about a year. About a month ago, I ended up telling him about the crushing and his immediate response (which was, btw, the most flattering thing that’s ever happened to me) was to offer to break up with his (now ex) girlfriend and start dating me. So he did, and we are and I lost my virginity two days later.

It was awesome :) He and I have always talked a lot about sex and about our mutual kinks, so I feel completely comfortable talking to him about pretty much anything. We’ve tried some light bondage already (we’re working our way up and I’m going to buy a pair of handcuffs soon), I’m learning to deep throat, he’s learning to talk dirty and let his dom side out. Anyway, it’s amazing and right now I have some lovely, tender bruises on my boobs and am a little sore in the best possible way from being bent in half and fucked into my bed. Just wanted to share that my life is awesome right now, even though the sex is distracting me from school a little bit.

::Internet high five::! I can’t even explain how much I love it when I get “my life is awesome right now” confessions, and I love the sheer variety of ways people find to make their lives awesome even more, if that’s possible.

Anyway, confess stuff.

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Sometimes I wonder how you like really know you’re in love.

You know you’re in love when there’s a moment during naked-snuggle-time where it’s appropriate to yell “Get back here so I can gum your nipple like a horny tortoise!”

I… does this mean I’ve never been in love?

I’m excited to go to the doctors tomorrow!

Er, wut? Well, I’m young, single, sociable and a total sex-clued, hedonistic, pleasure-seeking kink-friendly nympho… when I’m not medicated to the eyeballs. Unfortunately, due to general health issues (not all that dissimilar from yours, from what I can gather, QP!) it’s been totally necessary to medicate me to the eyeballs and beyond for quite a while now, and antidepressants in particular have taken a cane to my sex drive, and not in a good way. I’ve gone from losing my libido to inability to orgasm right through to not even finding anyone attractive anymore, because what’s the point. Ugh. So far, my attempts to raise this with my doctors have been met with everything from “meh, it doesn’t really matter, enjoying sex isn’t medically essential (Heavily implied: “…for women”)” to “I’m uncomfortable with this conversation… did you say you were getting headaches? Let’s give you something for the headaches!” oh and the ultimate classic “I’ve never heard of that as a side effect… (reading the patient leaflet I have just presented her which clearly states it as one, plus doesn’t like, EVERYONE know SSRIs inhibit sex?!) Hmm, no, I’ve not heard of this before, nobody has reported it. Perhaps you’re just not comfortable having sex because you’re not married. I’m sure you’ll be fine when the time is right!” Just… fuck the lot of them. Tomorrow I go to my new doctor, explain that I am unhappy with the extent to which this has affected me, and suggest swapping to Wellbutrin, and he IS going to listen to me, and I AM going to remember what it feels like not to cringe to the depths of my soul when somebody touches me. Wish me luck.

Holy dildoballs. I can’t even process how idiotic your previous doctors have been. I am wishing all the luck that your new doctor is competent and understands that sexual activity is a quality of life issue for many of us rather than some weird species of alien slime that one should never look at directly lest it infect one’s retinas.

The more comfortable I get in kinksville, the less comfortable I am in vanillatown. I almost don’t feel like I can be myself around my vanilla friends anymore. I find this unexpectedly stressful, and I’m not sure how to fix it. I can’t give up kink, and I don’t want to alienate my oldest friends. :(

If you’re not insisting on bringing floggers to their tea parties or making every conversation about your latest adventures in bite marks, I guess I’m just wondering why they can’t be happy for you. Of course, sometimes we grow in divergent paths from our long-term friends, and there’s really no one to blame for that.

About a year ago a whole bunch of my friends and I spent a few days on holidays together. We were all sleeping on the floor of the rumpus room and spent a lot of time chatting instead of sleeping. This made me pretty tired, so one afternoon I decided to take a nap.

Only I couldn’t fall asleep so I decided to get off instead. I was touching myself under the covers when my friend came in to get something from her bag, so I froze and pretended to be asleep. She left, I started up again, then another friend came in. It became a game, touching myself when no-one was there and stopping myself when they were, a self-administered orgasm denial scheme that stretched on and on until I was left alone long enough to come like a freight train. It was the best wank of my life.

This year, we were back up at the house and I had another afternoon wank in honour of that time. I think I could make this a tradition :)

P.S. Also, for some reason at the time I was fantasising about a Dom tormenting me by spraying me with ice cold water. I’ve never had that fantasy before or since. Libidos are weird.

And then again, it occurs to me that sometimes kink and vanilla friendship coexist just fine without actually interacting in any way. I’m only assuming these friends are vanilla because most of my kinky friends would likely pick up on this game and offer to enhance it in numerous creative ways.

My partner once told me of an… appreciation for lasses wearing animal ears. I looked everywhere when Halloween came, but nothing could be found that wasn’t ridiculously expensive.

So today I was out buying some random stuff, and what should I happen upon but a set of leopard ears (in the bachelorette party section, right). On the one hand, I reeeeeally want to see the look on his face.

But I can’t think of any combination of things I could buy with it that would make it less than completely obvious what I plan to use them for…

PS. I’m totally overthinking this, right? Fuck it, I’m getting ’em!

I want to tell you something, and I hope it’s reassuring. Cashiers don’t give a shit. They don’t. If they do because they’re still teenagers or because they’re extremely bored, you just made a life more exciting. You are a great person!

Hope you and your partner gleefully wear those ears out.

My confession? I love reading other people’s confessions. I look for new ideas, and evidence that other people are having awesome sex. It makes me feel good. Having my (previous) confession posted was also awesome, but I love everyone else’s confessions. And crazy hot sweaty monkey sex with my boyfriend and periodic guest stars. :)

I pretty much entirely agree with this except my sex with my boyfriend tends more toward the sweaty hot lemur sex, but live and let live.

Straight male, married almost 7 years, together for over 10.

Had amazing FF(Me!) threesome with wife and wife’s friend last night. Wife and I have been pure vanilla up until a few months ago, and she has only recently confessed to have some tendencies (and I don’t know how strong they are) towards bisexuality. Luckily we have an awesome like-minded friend to play with.

Getting fucked with a strap-on while fucking my wife was quite an experience and the shes and I can’t wait for more.

I totally understand that threesomes are not for everyone, but still, I get a happy, glowing feeling when I know that more of them are happening in the world.

Because threesomes are motherfucking magic. Now you know.

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Better late than never.

QP, this isn’t a confession, but please, PLEASE tell us how you met all your awesomekinky friends. I so want to live this life. I feel like I’m wasting mine – live with my parents, never had a long-term relationship, masturbating so much my clit is officially pushing up the daisies… I’m fucked-up and kinky and interested in all sorts of cool things and I want to meet other fucked-up kinky interesting people! With blue hair!

Tips? Should I get into theater or something? Should I move to Seattle? I heard Seattle has a great poly/kink scene. I dunno, probably I’m just stereotyping people and I need to be more open-minded. But I still can’t help thinking I want to find a cute butch girl and fall in love and use a feeldoe. How does one find other people who might be interested in such things?

My greatest talent may be recruiting amazing people onto my team. Okay, I actually can’t take a lot of credit for this because most of the time I don’t know how it happens or how I could have possibly deserved it. I can tell you, though, some of the major things I changed in my life between having a lot of the problems you have and now.

So, you’re trying to build a ridiculously awesome phalanx of glorious freaks. Here are my tips for you.

1. Become the kind of person you want to hang out with. Ideally, this will have the primary benefit of making sure you’re always in marvelous company, even if you’re alone. As a side benefit, the kind of people you want in your life will sense that you’re their kind of people. Interested in cool things? Do as many of those cool things as you can. Like people with killer style and flamboyant hair? Maybe you’d like yourself with those things. And if you don’t already, figure out how to love yourself.
2. Find the others. The internet will help you immeasurably here. I have friends and loved ones that I met at events I found on Fetlife (sign up if you haven’t, and don’t look for people as hard as you look for local events), through OkCupid (sign up if you haven’t, answer lots and lots of match questions, and pay attention to match/friend/enemy percentages. They aren’t perfect, but they’re indicative of like-mindedness and compatibility), and through mutual friends. If you’re a fan of something (particularly gaming or science fiction) try to find a convention you can go to; geeks are very often deviants. Some of my kinky friends I’ve known over a decade; some are recent additions. Some grew up a few miles away from me; some were born a continent away. They’re everywhere, people like you. We’re hiding everywhere in plain sight.
3. When you find people like you, be open. Share yourself with them, be interested in them. Care about them. Help them and accept help. Be an awesome friend to them because you’re lucky to have found each other.
4. Live life as much on your own terms as possible. If you feel that your current living situation is restricting you and it’s in your power to change it, do so. If you’ve explored what counterculture your current area offers and found it lacking, go elsewhere if you can. Go to Seattle if that idea speaks to you. Try new things. Take chances. Experiment a great deal. Look like an idiot sometimes.

Anxious-type confession.

Today was a day I was pretty damn bad at the sexy. Messed about in the shower this morning and couldn’t manage to please the penis of the penis-owner with whom I was messing about. Hands didn’t work (I pulled. Like accidentally HAULED on that sucker.), mouth didn’t work (I am ashamed to admit that I unintentionally bit), slippery soapy grinding, nope (kept staggering, having various limbs in uncomfortable positions etcetera). It made me sad.

And on top of that I’ve taken my first-ever birth-control pill in preparation for my first round of PIV sex so I will not be making of the babies, and I’m freaking the fuck out about all the horrible things that the hormones might do to my body… or worse, my libido.

Insert kinda sad face.

I hope your body likes the hormones and the penis pleasing is coming along nicely and happy face.

So, not terribly juicy, but I have had a crush on a certain someone since I was too young to know what a crush even was. First person I’d ever thought about kissing, and even throughout a very happy marriage to somebody else, extremely attracted and all weird with blushiness whenever we spoke.
FINALLY, after 26 years of waiting, in a position to maybe start a relationship, and he took up smoking.

What a colossal WASTE of TWENTY-SIX years of anticipation, because all that attraction gone.

Dear smokers: I’m starting to suspect you’d have more fun if you quit.

Love,

Quizzical Pussy

I’ve recently discovered that nothing turns me on faster than having my partner pin me down while he fucks me. During sex, oral, even masturbating by myself, it’s just… damn. I’m not a very muscly person, and generally speaking, having concrete evidence of how much stronger than me somebody is kind of freaks me out. But for some reason, with him it just makes me feel completely safe and loved. Also short-of-breath and tingly in the nether regions, but that almost feels like a side benefit.

Sweet Horus, I love being pinned down (by the right person). I’m not sure “safe” and “loved” are my key words on that one so much as “aroused”, but this is adorable.

I love it when I drag the ridge on the corona of my cock against her G spot as I’m on the upstroke. When I first started sex, I thought that the upstroke was a lost stroke, only good for getting some negative space to fill, and grind that clit with my pubis.

Now? I know that the Out stroke is as good as the In stroke, near enough.

I feel like I just learned something about having a non-silicone penis.

So I’ve recently figured out this whole squirting thing, and am pretty sure I could adequately direct a partner to get me to squirt. Problem is, I don’t want to. Know that whole “ladies you feel like you’re going to pee but that’s just your orgasm building up” business? Welp, for me, it’s not just the orgasm. Sometimes a dribble of urine comes out on the first orgasm. I have no way of telling when it will happen. And I really don’t want to gross out any of my primary partners.

Squirting is novel at first, and the orgasm is really good, yeah, but–urine or not– some of us still prefer not to make that huge of a wet spot. I mean, I get that it’s not a choice for a lot of people, but for me it mostly is, and I don’t try for it very often. My body my choice, dagnabbit.

While my boyfriend and I were getting ready to go to bed, like we do every night, he started crying because he was half-afraid I was a dream and he would wake up. I grabbed a box of tissues and held him until he stopped shaking.

And I realized neither of us give a fuck about gender norms.

I have this theory that giving a fuck about gender norms really limits the amount of soul-crushingly cute one can be. This is my impression of you and your boyfriend:

Hey. Confess stuff.

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I think I’ll have to compile ConTuesday tomorrow because I’m too tired out from making tutus. Yes, this is my real life.

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Things about this past weekend:

• Orgasms on command, and not just mine.
• Sexual energy whipping around like a stripper’s blonde extensions.
• A really lot of bacon. Some of it with Thor.
• Riding a 24-hour high while petting self, the Universe.
• Beautiful women. Dashing men. Dashing women. Beautiful men.
• Kitchen dance parties.
• Slumber parties.
• Private parties.
• TWO three-way simultaneous orgasms.
• The Dinosaur Dress, and the girl wearing it. Damn.
• Skirting the definition of orgy.
• Birthday condoms from The Creepy Guy.
• Pinning her down and getting her off.
• Getting mauled and getting her off.
• The death of things we thought were solid.
• The death things we knew weren’t.
• The proper birth and summoning of Spring.
• Watching them kiss. And them kiss. And them kiss.
• Euphoria because sex and lust and community are great fucking drugs.
• Fucking with an audience. Many times over.
• Energy.
• Scratch marks and bruises and bites and wearing a scarf to family functions.
• Screams of pleasure and chuckles of sorrow and sobs of holy shit.
• Yes yes yes yes yes to everything. YES. Except photographic evidence. No to that.

I don’t like to throw around the word “epic” because frankly, the internet has ruined it for at least the next decade. But if I were going to go back in time as a bard and write a poem about what happened over the weekend what else should we call it? Epic. Has to be. Spanning planes of existence and miles and story arcs. Brimming with heart flutters and heartbreak, debauchery and sweetness. Or maybe not epic, because all in all there was shockingly little drama compared to joy. And none of the former, and so very much of the latter, was mine.

I want to tell people that life can be like this because I feel like most of them probably don’t know.

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You know how they say that whenever God closes a door he opens a window? Well, I don’t believe in God, and open windows are rarely so convenient as doors for ingress or egress, so I would maybe invest in some lock-picking equipment or something instead.

My boyfriend of two years had to move away for work, and I had to stay behind, for various reasons. Money, mainly.

The last night before he left, instead of having crazy wild monkey sex like I had planned, I wound up crying all over him.

Now he’s gone and we won’t have crazy monkey sex for at least a month, till I can go visit him.

My confession is that I feel guilty that I didn’t make out last night together sexy and happy. And my resolution is that when I see him again, I’ll make that night sexy and happy. Hopefully he’ll see this and recognize me, and know that I’m sorry for being a nut job about it.

It took me a really long time to even halfway learn that being emotionally vulnerable with someone and crying in front of them can actually be a positive thing, but I’m starting to think it might actually not be bullshit (extra points if you’re dating a dacryphiliac).

He kept pressuring me for the number of guys I’d slept with. I insisted that there was never any good outcome to answering that question, that I wasn’t going to tell him. But after the third time he asked I finally told him that he was the second. Even though he’d sworn he wouldn’t judge me, he took it kinda weird. We never had sex again. I wonder if the number had something to do with it, and if I’d just kept refusing to tell him, we might have kept going.

When we had fucked, he’d told me he really loved how much of a slut I was. But the low number had nothing to do with prudishness; I was so up for being his slut.

I’m annoyed with myself for not keeping my mouth shut.

I’m annoyed with this stupid guy who started treating you differently simply because you said the wrong number out loud. What a steaming douchekettle.

not exactly a sex confession, but – my partner and I just came to a decision that next month we want to quit birth control and start trying for a baby. we’ve both wanted kids for a while, and it seems like now the time is right, and I’m so excited! I just had to share with someone. :D

I think this is the weirdest fucking kink I’ve ever encountered in a confession, but I’m happy you’re happy…

Just kidding. Go make a new person, you crazy kids.

Love your blog, second time confessing, thanks for posting my confession last time!

I cut contact on my abusive ex sometime last summer and have been looking for a casual fling ever since. I was pretty hung up on the ex and I am also pretty picky so it was difficult to peruse potential partners and find any appealing.

Then, suddenly, this awesome guy fell into my lap. He is super fabulous, respectful, kinky and we are great friends outside of the bedroom too. I’m very lucky and I’m now having really awesome sex with a really awesome guy and life is grand. He doesn’t want to treat me like shit or domesticate me. He just wants to be friends and fuck.

*happy dance*

::Internet high five:: all the way.

Recently, an old friend got back in touch with me. When I first met her at work, she was going out with a very controlling man, and during many a lunch break she and I talked about that. We became friends. For some reason, although I was a very hetero mid-20’s male who was aware of her mid-20’s hotness, I decided to try to preserve our friendship even after she broke up with the guy. I never made a move on her during our years of knowing each other, even when we both were unattached.

I got married. My friend got attached to a great guy, and they and my wife and I would double-date. It was fun. After one such outing, I had a mini-intervention with her about her recreational abuse of prescription drugs. The next time that I called, she had changed her phone number, moved, changed her job, and cut all ties. We didn’t talk again for over 10 years.

Recently, she friended me on Facebook and started talking. I chatted with her on the phone, glad to interact with my old friend, but leery of possible flakiness. Finally, I confronted her about her disappearing act. She finally came clean: “Look, I’ve had a crush on you since we first met. I carried a torch for you the whole time we hung out. Then you got married, and I didn’t know what to do. When you came down on me over the pills, I just bailed.”

Could have knocked me over with a feather.

QP, I need you to understand: she was WAY out of my league. Her body, her face, her education– she had it all over me. She had men at her beck and call. All she would have had to do was tell me. I’d have been there. The sex would have been epic.

But I’m a married man. She seems to still have issues. Time to move on. I unfriended her.

“For all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, ‘It might have been’.” -John Greenleaf Whittier

If we unfriended everyone on Facebook who wanted to bone us, we’d have very pared down news feeds indeed. But sometimes these things are unavoidable.

There is a gorgeous boi who has wandered into my life of late; she’s smart, driven, radiantly positive and kind, but that’s not all: we write long e-mails full of allusions to wanting to gently and consensually maul each other when we can’t spend time in person, and she completely rocks a bow tie. If all goes well, by the time this letter winds up in a ConTuesday post, there will have been some gentle and consensual mauling and I will be one happy, slightly vibrating boy.

You guys know I’m not often overtly creepy about confessions, but if you’re into sharing you should give her my number.

My husband and I have been together almost four years now and I only just got the courage last week to use lube. Using lube shouldn’t take courage, but I guess I’m still working on communication and paying attention to what my body wants. It generally takes me a while to get really aroused, so we kind of force things at times. The lube helped SO much, though, and now I’m gaining confidence. Yay better sex!

This is awesome and you totally deserve an ::internet high five::!

Sex Confessional

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Oren Regardie will be the first to admit that he’s lucky. And, at least by many people’s standards, he is pretty damn lucky. Let’s look at this: he is married to Poppy, who’s one of those women men just spontaneously collapse over because of her sheer multi-disciplinary awesomeness. He also has me, and I’m not so terrible either. And together, Poppy and I make a pretty adorable, crayola-headed pair; actually, we look like the Manic Pixie Dream Team. In addition, because he’s charming and attractive and because we move in social circles that are very snuggly indeed, Oren never has a shortage of lovely ladies to make out with and cuddle and whatnot. So his life doesn’t suck. It really doesn’t.

Last Saturday night the three of us (a couple of our friends have taken to calling us The Trident) were hanging out in a bar with several friends, many of whom are fetching ladies. The bar is equipped with booths and bar stools and even a dance floor, but only two comfy chairs. One of my friends and I (both of us with chronic pain issues) agreed that the moment those chairs were open they were ours. And, because the Universe loves us deeply, that didn’t take long.

Oren came over to occupy the space between us, and some communal cuddling happened. Then some other ladies joined us. Because of the magnetic nature of cuddling in public, we soon had a joyous heap of people (mostly women) cuddling, with Oren roughly in the middle but not singled out in any way. But something interesting happened, though it’s only interesting when you actually think about it: the bar, which was mostly populated by males, started to kind of sort of wish he were dead. Men–total strangers– kept coming up to him, some congratulating on his pimposity, most commenting enviously on his position and acting vaguely hurt that they were being left out. When he got up to go to the bathroom a few guys hovered around, hoping to take his place. Glares followed him as he returned.

This dimly recalls the little economist who met the three of us on New Year’s Eve and had his mind blown as soon as he figured out our dynamic. “It was nice meeting you. Touché on the harem,” was his parting shot to Oren. But really this is not rare.

The really weird thing is that no one ever thinks to high five (or scowl at) me. I mean, there I was nestled between my incredible boyfriend and my gorgeous fuck-buddy-for-life Viola– kissing each at various points, and holding hands with another pretty chick. I’m going to go ahead and call that motherfucking lucky, but to average bar guy to process that I’d have to be a subject rather than an object, I guess.

Because when you break things down, it’s weird. Oren is lucky, sure. He is. Having two people you love loving you back is goddamn remarkable. But Poppy has relationships with several totally amazing guys, and no one ever seems to harp on that in quite the same way. It holds hands with that weird insidious old-timey sexism that warns never to congratulate a bride because that would be indelicate. You wish her joy. Because it would be rude to imply that her groom is the prize rather then her, and that she accomplished something by finding someone she wants to spend her life with. How vulgar to imbue a woman with agency, or attribute desire to her.

This cuts in every direction. When women are reduced to objects with no desires, men are reduced to insatiable desire.

I started reading Y: The Last Man. I’d been meaning to for a while, and it’s very good. But it’s hard to get around the fact that being the last surviving man on Earth seems to be a fantasy for a lot of guys (though admittedly not the main character of the comic, and I’m sort of expecting the series to deconstruct that), while I physically cringe when I think of any moderately realistic narrative of a last woman because in my mind it would automatically invoke absolute metric tons of rape. It’s such a bleak way of looking at gender dynamics, but is it inaccurate?

I hope so. I don’t know. I sure as hell know I wouldn’t want to be that woman.

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