quizzical pussy

I am ready to design sexy Halloween costumes. Lately I’ve been studying the art and science of taking a costume idea and removing as much material as possible, and I feel like I’m really starting to hit my stride. I realize this is a highly competitive field, but I feel I have the courage to push the cleavage envelope. I know in my heart that I can make people aroused, frightened, and nostalgic all at the same time…and maybe even make them think a little. I just need this chance.

It all started when AAG was having a lingerie.com Halloween costume giveaway on her blog where the winner got to pick any costume in stock, and I totally won (thanks again to both)! I have won two random drawings in my life, and the first time I won hairspray. Needless to say, this time I peed a little. With glee. And I just knew, like you just know your high school crush probably ended up in jail, exactly which costume I was going to pick: “Miss Krueger”, which is like dressing as Freddy Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street but replacing all the scariness and ugliness with sexiness and legs. It arrived very promptly. The hat is a little too big, but otherwise it’s everything I dreamed it’d be. Disregard the fact that I have no costume parties to go to this year. I’m wearing it around my house and threatening to kill my dog in his sleep (Look, even if he could understand English he’d appreciate my witty turn of phrase, so no calling the ASPCA now).

But looking at the other costumes available on lingerie.com I realized there were a lot of horror movie villains left out. Was no one trying to make them sexy and desirable? So I decided to be the change I want to see in the world, and designed some myself.

Oh yes, I really did, and here are some hastily drawn sketches that should give you a rough idea of my visionary talent. Novelty Fashions Industry, you are going to want to headhunt the shit out of me.

1. That Creepy Girl from Ring. The whole “being a little girl” part has to go, but we just replace it with cleavage! I love horror movies.

2. Chucky from Child’s Play. This is exactly what it would look like if Chucky didn’t insist on being a My Buddy doll and let himself be a sexy, sexy lady. Sure, you can theoretically wear a striped shirt under the cut-off overalls, but I need you to know that the sideboob is part of my vision.

3. Ghostface from Scream. This was a challenge because there’s nothing all that sexy about a billowy robe and a Munchian mask. But there’s inspiration to be found in streamlining. So I just lost the robe and made the mask the entire outfit. Seriously, everyone is going to want one of these.

(My final masterpiece is a little spoilerish. If you’ve never seen Sleepaway Camp maybe you shouldn’t click this…) Read more…

I’ve been in a mood lately. It’s hard to explain. Maybe if you have a chronic illness it’ll resonate. Maybe it’ll resonate anyway. Sometimes your body just says, “fuck you” for a few days, a few weeks, maybe months at a time. Every string of every muscle, each thicket of cartilage thrums with pain and hums with an unwholesome exhaustion. This isn’t the tiredness that comes after a toe-curling orgasm, or that bludgeons you after a rough workout, or even a battle of a day. It’s a crackling defiance against life itself. No part of your body wants to move the slightest bit, but deep within the pain lies a restlessness. You get no respite from this. A revitalizing sleep feels like the promise of heaven, and you’ve realized you’re nothing but worm food.

It feels sometimes like the anger and frustration and anxiety– hell, even the self-loathing– aren’t reactions to what’s happening physically, but actually originate inside this pulsing, livid, struggle of the flesh.

And that’s been my emotional state for the past couple weeks: pain/anger, tension/frustration, constriction/anxiety, exhaustion/self-hatred, they come in these binaries: they stay, they press, they fill me. And somehow I can’t force the emotional ills out of me any better than I can will away the physical issues. They’re wrapped up in each other, not always, but inevitably in the worst times.

So I’m feeling sick, I’m feeling down. Obviously, that makes me feel like a sex goddess. Yeah… not so much. Clearly I still want to fuck (I’m me, aren’t I?) but I feel about as sexy as a windshield wiper, which makes the self-loathing worse, which makes me feel even less sexy, which… you get the point. Of course, getting sucked into cycles like that is probably the worst choice I could make at this point. I need to focus on staying positive, dammit. SO!

This is the part of today’s entry where I stop bitching about my maladies and malaise and make a random, abbreviated list of some things that I find Super Sexy™. Let’s begin!

I love the whole world…

1. You know what’s sexy? Getting wet with someone: swimming, shower, rainstorm, ooh hot tub! As long as it’s not uncomfortably cold I’m into it.
2. Girls in boys’ underwear. Yum.
3. When someone gets wicked excited and geeks out about sex toys, that’s sexy.
4. Playful little nips in the middle of long, deep kisses.
5. Hidden, surprising tattoos are sexy as long as they aren’t the embarrassing, ill-advised sort. Okay, good visible ones are hot too.
6. It’s Super Sexy™ when someone has better MTG decks than I do.
7. When a guy is really getting into a blowjob and starts thrusting without really realizing it, I am overcome with the sexiness.
8. Adonis belts (a.k.a. “hip thingies” or “Apollo’s belts”) on guys and butch/gender queer girls. Likewise nice lats.
9. Play wrassling.
10. Freckles on a girl’s shoulders. And nose.
11. A twisted imagination. Not mean twisted. Nice twisted.
12. Watching two people kiss while one of them looks straight at me makes me swoon a little. You know, as long as it’s not in a creepy/cheaty way, obviously.
13. Infectious enthusiasm tends to make me wet. Even if it’s for something I’m not really all that into.
14. A good singing voice.
15. Knee socks, preferably striped, on cute girls.
16. Feeling an erection through a nicely fitting pair of jeans feels like… I dunno, like your character in NetHack just ascended. It feels awesome.
17. Doing something to a sex partner’s body that s/he never knew s/he liked before…getting that “Whoa! Do that again!” face flashed at you… that is fucking marvelous.
18. Large vocabularies are, um, you know, good.
19. Drag kings!
20. People with sex drives that match (or, hell, exceed) mine are bona fide Super Sexy™. Call me.

Okay. That actually sort of cheered me up. Boomdeyada boomdeyada boomdeyada boomdeyada…

(image source)

International Buy A Sex Toy Day is fast approaching (it’s June 4th!), and I’m contemplating what to buy. I want to make this sex toy purchase count (toward mad orgasms). I’m not above buying cheap-ass sex toys, no, but in honor of the first annual BAST day I want to get something special, something I’m sure I won’t regret. So I’ve narrowed my current wishlist down to five top contenders. And here they are…

1. Sqweel The way oral sex simulators are described always irks me. For instance, the marketing copy for this toy on most sites says: “Luckily, the Sqweel won’t give you any excuses. No tired jaw, no early meeting the next morning, so it’ll keep going as long as you need.” Ooh baby. Nothing makes me horny like thinking about how much people hate to go down on me! Nevertheless, this toy looks like fun, and completely unlike anything else out there. In partnered sex, I tend to prefer oral sex with hard fingering right on my G-spot, so I’m curious as to whether I’ll feel the need for some penetration while using this.
2. We Vibe 2 The We Vibe is made specifically for wearing while fucking, in the sense that it’s supposed to go inside you (and also outside you) while a penis is also inside you. That promises like a million and seven standard units of stimulation for everyone involved! A while back, Laramy and I visited a sex toy shop and the We Vibe 2 was sitting there all coy on a glass shelf, begging to be picked up and fondled. Once we figured out how to turn the damn thing on, the vibration patterns were mesmerizing, and my imagination was captured: I wanted to put it in and fuck him right there on the floor immediately. Unfortunately, it was not that kind of place. Two misgivings: I don’t really know if the added friction against something shiny and silicone (even though it is, as advertised, quite soft) is going to be a problem for my partner’s penis, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep up with the plot of the sequel without first seeing We Vibe 1.
3. Njoy Pure Wand This is the G-spot toy, apparently. I want it both for personal use and for its great potential in the realm of girlfucking. It should come with a t-shirt that says “I will make you squirt”. Or wait, would that be tacky? Oh wait, don’t care.
4. Lelo Ina So my Impulse Jack Rabbit all kinds of died. It’s pretty much a mere shadow of its former, bliss-giving self. We had a good run so I’m not mad…I’m just disappointed. But if the rumors are true, Lelo has taken the winning Rabbit vibe formula and elevated it to high art with the Ina. I feel like that might just help me through my mourning process.
5. Eroscillator As a huge fan of clitoral masturbation, ever since I read Epiphora’s review of this technological marvel I’ve been consumed with desire. I burn, I pine, I perish. For reals. Plus, this is the only vibrator ever recommended by Dr. Ruth Westheimer, and you may recall that BAST day is on her birthday. It’s fate or something, I swear. Of course, the package I want goes for $240.90, so I’m starting to think that fate is cruel. Realistically, I’ll probably start saving up now so I can buy it for BAST day . Still, it’s a beautiful dream.

Honorable Mention: Fleshlight Ice I can’t emphasize enough how dearly I want to fuck a Fleshlight with my Feeldoe. It would feel so deliciously postmodern. And the Fleshlight Ice is the clear favorite for this activity because of the visual treat of seeing every inch of my beautiful cock as it slides in and out. The only problem is that I mostly want it for novelty because I’m not sure it’ll beat jacking off with my Feeldoe one iota sensation-wise.

So there’s my shortlist. Each of my top five occupies a different sex toy niche, which makes the choice both more interesting and harder. As always, your input is welcome.

I hope you consider going online or visiting your local sex shop to buy a sex toy on June 4th, or at least spreading the word about BAST day! Blog it, tweet it, whatever! I think it would be wicked fun if it caught on.

(image source)

Fifteen minutes after the drag show wrapped up, the performers filtered onto the dance floor and were lauded like celebrities. The queens were cooed over and asked to dance, twirled and dipped recklessly. Close up their stage makeup looked like carnival masks. Platform stilettos and male bodies made them seem like statues scaled up from life-size (life-size in a lesbian club being roughly female sized).

But the drag kings got even more attention than the larger-than-life drag queens, somehow. As they swaggered onto the floor necks swiveled. Modelesque femmes in delicate heels and frothy skirts threw their pipe cleaner arms around the kings’ popped and tie-ringed collars, or followed them around like puppies.

On my first trip to the local lesbian club, the weekly drag show pulled me away from the dance floor for as long as it lasted. As I sat through the vivid parade of gender pageantry I was transfixed by the kings. The drag queens were gorgeous and fun: tinsel and butterfly wings. But the kings were hauntingly magnetic. They tugged some blushing, stammering, boy-band loving, adolescent fangirl you didn’t even know you had in you straight out of your spleen. They made her bounce up and down, squealing, on your diaphragm until you hyperventilated a little and toddled up to the stage to give them a tribute in dollar bills. You were powerless against this. I was powerless against this.

I’ve always been fascinated by butches in a “want to be one” way as well as a “want to fuck one” way. Drag kings were butches in overdrive. And I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Post-drag show, mid-dancing, there was a line like whoa for the unisex bathroom. As I stood there waiting a pretty young thing with a short skirt and teased hair sat on a nearby bench, weaving her impossibly long legs around each other–thighs and ankles both crossed, waiting to pounce on one of the drag kings as soon as she exited the restroom. The poofy-haired she-predator stalks its prey…

As the king emerged her confidence was almost a visible force surrounding her. Her hair was short, she wore a polo shirt and baggy pants over hundred dollar sneakers, the hip hop-loving frat boy look. She was unremarkable in terms of conventional beauty standards. She looked rather like Lance Bass, actually. As a femme she might not have gotten a lot of attention; probably not as much as that pretty young thing on the bench. But drag king Lance Bass wasn’t a femme. She was a king.

Prompted by PYT’s fluttering eyes and hair twirling, she struck up a conversation, and the pretty young thing hung on every word. PYT mentioned something about university classes, and Lance asked her major, like it somehow wasn’t the most mundane question ever conceived of. PYT’s eyes lit up to be asked anything about herself, and admitted she was undecided but leaning toward business. Lance instructed her that business was an excellent major and she should stick with it, then leaned down to PYT’s pretty young ear and whispered something that those of us in the loo line weren’t privy to, but made PYT’s eyes glow even brighter. In that moment I believed that PYT would earn a fucking M.B.A. just to impress this drag king she’d just met. After a few more minutes, Lance sauntered away with PYT’s number.

Later that night I passed PYT as she was talking to a flock of friends. “She’s probably such a player. She won’t even remember me tomorrow.” She was hoping she was wrong, but so obviously worried that she was right. I couldn’t help but think that in a typical, heteronormative high school setting (which would’ve been the reality, what, three years ago tops for these chicks?) PYT would’ve probably been too pretty and popular to say three words to Lance, who would’ve likely been in marching band. With me. Since I was the type of nerd who always nursed crushes on cheerleaders and chicks on the homecoming court, ace bandages were starting to look pretty good.

I resolved to try to harness the ineffable power of the drag king for myself. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I had, and still have, several things working against my goal. For instance:

1. My face is decidedly feminine. I have big Disney eyes and girl features. I don’t know how to avoid making highly exaggerated facial expressions. I’m hoping that makeup tricks can correct these handicaps, but the most I can realistically hope for is to look like a very effeminate man.
2. I have proportionately large ass and hips. This is not a typical male shape.
3. When I walk, I naturally sway my hips. If I consciously try not to do this I somehow end up also not bending my knees at all so I’m basically waddling like a duck. Not even necessarily a male duck.
4. Often I actually have considerable trouble walking at all because of my disability so it’s extra hard to try to learn to walk like a man when some days I barely know how to walk anyway.
5. Drag kings are at their best when they can dance a little. The only type of dance I’ve actually studied is belly dance. So not masculine.

Despite all this, I’m planning to do my first performance sometime in the next month. But I do have factors in my favor too. My boobs are small enough that they should be pretty easy to strap down. I have short hair (that’s going to get dramatically shorn for Spring all too soon) so I won’t have to hide my tresses under do-rags or hats. I’m nearly immune to stage fright. I’m used to people thinking I’m an incomprehensible idiot so “wtf?” stares don’t get me down. I have lots of swagger even if it is accompanied by a hip waggle at the moment. I think with a little practice and the right guidance I could possibly not suck at drag. I’m sure even Lance Bass had to start somewhere.

I know at least six people who reached adulthood before realizing that narwhals are real animals and not mythological creatures like griffins and hot, single bisexual women. I’m just about at that point right now with narwhal dildos. I think they should exist, but I’m not sure they do yet. And if they really don’t, who dropped the ball on that one? I can get a replica kangaroo penis but not a narwhal tusk toy? Fuck yes I’m judging you, world.

A recent conversation with my friend Lucian Treblewood follows.

______________________________________________

Lucian: So ummm, hey there… watcha wearing?

Quizzical Pussy: A bearskin! (note: If you ever ask me what I’m wearing you’ll likely get an absurd kind of answer. Fair warning. -Q.P.)

Lucian: Sweet! Like with the mouth and teeth?

Quizzical Pussy: Of course. And I’m holding a narwhal tusk as a scepter.

Lucian: Well wearing just a bearskin rug, I hope you will not be innapropriate with your narwahl tusk… *tisk tisk

Quizzical Pussy: We may have different ideas about what qualifies as “inappropriate”.

Lucian: Perhaps I would find it more or less appropriate only due to the fact of the instrument in question (I don’t even know what this means, which is why I’m about to answer with “Narwhals are sweet, man.” Watch… -Q.P.)

Quizzical Pussy: Narwhals are sweet, man.

…I should design a narwhal dildo.

Lucian: Bet its been done

Quizzical Pussy: I’ve found ones branded as unicorn horns, but not narwhal horns. Or tusks. Whatever.

Lucian: Hmmm, now I shall be on the hunt. If I can’t find you one, I will craft you one. (I can guarantee you that Lucian has forgotten this promise by now, but I have not. -Q.P.)

Quizzical Pussy: Even though you find it inappropriate???

Lucian: I only asked you… I said it could be more or less. You will find, I am pretty open and accepting.

Quizzical Pussy: Oh, so you’re a fencesitter!

Lucian: Hardly

Quizzical Pussy: Okay. It’s time to come down on one side. Narwhal horn fucking: pro or con?

Lucian: It would be hip cuz it’s exotic

Probably not on the narwhal

Quizzical Pussy: Well, no. That’s turning the corner into bestiality town. And it should be fake because they’re an endangered species. (Actually, I guess they’re not, but I’ve never met one, so… -Q.P.)

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Now, I realize that narwhal tusks are pretty damn sharp and way too long to be at all comfortable for insertion, so a realistic one might not be a super great idea, but it’s a helical tusk, people! That’s nature’s “ribbed for her pleasure”. If Viking women of yore didn’t carve dildos out of those things, I feel like they should stop calling themselves Vikings because they’re abusing the privilege. So, we could just chunk up the design and round it out a little, and maybe the blowhole should be incorporated somehow. Honestly, I haven’t really worked out the details… but, but, narwhal dildo! The idea sells itself.

Sugru seems like a pretty neat development in the world of making your shit a little cooler. A malleable, silicone-based substance that cures at room temperature and comes in bright, happy colors, its tagline is “hack things better”. That’s what it’s for: hacking your stuff and making it softer, stronger, quieter, safer, comfier, better, or less broken. A super cute Irish chick invented it. Her accent makes me feel happy in my pants. Please understand that I’m not trying to objectify her and overlook her accomplishments or anything just because she’s a woman. If a cute Irish boy had developed sugru I’d be minimizing his intellectual merits in favor of leching all over him too. Trust me.

Anyway. Some facts about sugru:

• It’s named after an Irish word for “play”. Hehe.
• Sugru is like modeling clay when you take it from its pack. Once it’s exposed to air, it cures to a tough flexible silicone overnight using the moisture in the air.
• It’s designed to stick to as many other materials as possible. It forms a strong bond to aluminum, steel, ceramics, glass and other materials including plastics like perspex.
• Sugru is resistant from -60°C to + 180°C. It gets hot and cold but it won’t get softer or harder or melt.
• It’s completely waterproof and dishwasher safe.
• It is only a matter of time before people start making awesome, custom, one-of-a-kind sex toys using this stuff.

When there’s a new technology, people will figure out a way to use it to get off. Of all the things we humans like to hack, our bodies and sex lives are perennial favorites. Sugru has some real potential along these lines. Not only can you make an original silicone phallus with hints of your fingerprints all over it (that would make a romantic present, right?), you can also modify your current sex toys. You could enhance textures, add little pockets for bullet vibes…the possibilities number in the many! I’m not sure if it would bond to silicone toys or not, but it would be worth a little experimentation.

The website says sugru isn’t suitable for use in direct or prolonged contact with food, so that might raise some questions about its promise as an insertable. But I really don’t think that’s going to stop people.

Of course the first run of sugru sold out in no time flat. Well, technically 16 hours. But they’re working to produce more, and I can’t wait to see all the dildo pictures start rolling in when the stuff becomes more widely available.

P.S. If you were lucky enough to get your hands on some sugru and have a dirty mind, please send me pics of what you’ve done with it!

Quizzical Pussy: WTF????

“Another reason we didn’t work… I think I’m a little kinkier than you.” There. I said it. It was a step away from admitting that my sex life with Edwin Pomble had been on the boring side, sometimes.

We’d been broken up for months, and we still had these periodic conversations about why he thought we should get back together and why I disagreed. I was willing– even anxious, for motives that have all but escaped me now, to try being friends. But I couldn’t date him. Not ever again. The reasons were manifold: they covered energy-sucking dealbreakers like his propensity for creating drama out of thin air, and his hobby of always making everything about him. There was the intellectual and educational deficit that echoed between us, parroting back his plaintive “I don’t know what sanctimonious means, so it doesn’t do any good to call me that.” There was also the fact that he’d said incredibly ugly things when I admitted to him that I’d been raped back in college, which made me loath to trust him. Maybe I didn’t even want to forgive him. Somewhere in the midst of all of it, I suppose I sort of stopped liking him. But also, as a little side issue, there was the boredom.

I have no problem with plain old vanilla sex. I love it, actually. Vaginal penetration, maybe a little foreplay beforehand– I’d never want to give that up. The problem is that it gets boring when the feeling that there’s never going to be any experimentation beyond that “no frills” plain sex insinuates itself. Because frills are such amazingly wonderful things. Even splendid traditional sex seems kind of oppressive when you start wondering if it’ll be the only thing on the menu until time beyond knowing. And that had been my relationship with Edwin. When we had plain old vanilla sex it was often good: his penis was just about as big as I could handle, and he often described cunnilingus as his favorite thing to do– many women would be ecstatic with this combination. He wasn’t very imaginative, though.

Whenever I brought up trying new things he never had a single solitary idea. I understand that sometimes these things are hard to talk about, but I don’t think he was hiding any dark fantasies; I really just don’t think he had any. He did mention that he was open to trying new things with me, though.

Once, I asked him to be aggressive during sex: quite aggressive, actually. We all want to be thrown around a bit and called a dirty little slut from time to time, right? Well, I do! I don’t want constant or erratic, unrequested aggression from a partner, but sometimes in a purely sexual context it’s a game I want to play for a little while. He seemed confused by the request, but he tried it out and did surprisingly well. He actually got quite into it after the first couple moments of uncertainty. I got off many times, he got off, and I felt heartened. It seemed a resounding success! “That was awesome,” he breathed. “Yeah,” I agreed. As we held each other in the dark afterward, waiting for sleep to seep behind our eyes, a new optimism flooded me. Maybe this was the beginning of something. Maybe we could start experimenting more. Maybe I’d underestima…Edwin interrupted my reverie with “If all rape was like that, they wouldn’t call it rape, amirite?”

Um. No. Fuck! Way to make it go from zero to creepy in one sentence, buddy. It kind of made my skin want to flip inside out just to get farther away from him.

I’m not going to say I never discussed trying new things with Edwin after that, but I always kept the discourse hypothetical: I never asked for another damned thing. It wasn’t the first bad experience I’d had sharing a fantasy, but I was determined that it would be the last time with him, anyway.

It helped that I didn’t need anything specific. My kinkiness isn’t very exact. I guess I want to try (mostly) everything: I want to take charge sometimes, get used as a fuck toy others. I want to play with an exaltation of toys, roleplay to make myself dozens of different people, and give and accept pleasure in a thousand different ways. As long as it’s safe, sane, and consensual, sex should be rife with boundless and varied possibilities. That’s the way to keep the game fun, I feel sure.

After our breakup, Edwin was angry and had a lot to prove. He talked about wanting to change for me, but I never wanted that. I didn’t want a different Edwin; I just didn’t want Edwin period. He figured if he could convince me that he’d transformed into a creature that contradicted all my stated reasons for not rushing back into his waiting arms, he would never have to feel rejected again. A few weeks after our conversation about kink, we decided to do the “hang out as friends” thing people often seem to try after deciding they were a big fat mistake together (dating-wise) but before deciding that they’re a big fat mistake together (any-wise). He reminded me of what I said with a smug little grin on his face. “You may have underestimated me,” he divulged. “You think I’m not kinky, but lately I’ve been researching a lot of new sexual positions. Don’t you want to try them out with me?” Aww, honey.

An expanded repertoire of ways to have no-frills vaginal penetration? Wow, somebody call the kink police immediately. Also, no. I do not want to try them out with you. I can actually find sexinfo101.com on my own, thanks.

If you read this blog and haven’t yet realized that I’m sort of a geek, I find your naivete both charming and worrisome. I’m not claiming to be geeky in any useful or entertaining sense: I’m not working on a new app for your iPhone or anything, and I’ve gnawed through the necks of zero chickens so far, but I like sci fi and video games and nobody talked to me in high school, so I guess that’s what’s important here.

And considering I’m a geeky girl who can remember any part of the late eighties/early nineties, you sure as hell know I wanted to fuck Data. You know, Lieutenant Commander Data of the Starship Enterprise, from Star Trek: The Next Generation… the pasty, stoic android with a heart of gold (proverbially speaking). I don’t know what it was about him, but I think most little girls who grew up on TNG grew up wanting to get on Data (or maybe it was just me, but I cherish my delusions). Maybe it was because he was childlike yet adult, so we could relate to him but also perceive him as a sexually mature male. Maybe it was the Pinocchio pathos of his whole story arc. Anyway, when I was a wee lass I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to do with Data, but I certainly knew I wanted him, especially when he dressed up as Sherlock Holmes. I’m wet as October just thinking about it.

That early crush may be a contributing factor in the lust I later developed for the replicant cyborg Bryan Fury from the Tekken games. I even wrote a series of haiku for Bryan. Among them:

Cyborgs are machines!
I like to grab your joystick
It’s just two quarters

I also had ravenous crushes on Tasha Yar, Geordi LaForge, and Beverly Crusher, whom I credit with my later interest in chicks with short hair, literature, and… er… blinky scanner thingies, respectively. I’d probably still pine for Jean-Luc Picard to this day if I didn’t identify with him so strongly. I’m really a bald, French, male starship commander with an English accent trapped in a woman’s body, you know.

But I have to admit that I haven’t watched much TNG since I was a kid, so when Laramy asked me, “You’ve seen the episode where Yar and Data fuck, right?” I was like “Whaaaaaa?” because while I’m sure I saw it back in the eighties, I’m also positive that I had nothing approaching any concept of what was going on in sex scenes until circa 1993.

So, of course, we had to watch The Naked Now, like, now. While naked. Just kidding. Although we probably should’ve thought of that.

In The Naked Now, the crew of the Enterprise is infected by some exotic water molecules, which pick up carbon from their bodies and somehow produce dramatic intoxication, rendering everyone completely uninhibited and wacky. This was the second episode ever of TNG, and in it they had basically everyone break character, which is an odd choice for so early in their development. But anyway, all you have to know is that Tasha Yar seduces Data (whom we learn is fully functional and programmed in multiple techniques, a wide variety of pleasuring), but she wasn’t in her right mind so we the audience aren’t obligated to think she’s a slut. What the fuck is that, anyway? The only time this character can exhibit sexual agency is when she has zero personal agency? That’s super weak. Tasha had every right to keep boning like mad until she got killed by that evil blob guy.

I explained as we were watching that I used to want to lick Data like a 9-volt battery, and Laramy suggested I fulfill the old fantasy: all I’d need is a white dildo with a subtle shimmer.

…

That’s when it hit me. That dildo already exists. I’ve been making fun of it for months! Sweet William H. Macy on a stick!

Have you seen this? It’s called the Vamp. Toymaker Tantus thought it would be a good idea to capitalize on the Twilight series mania, and made a dildo that was pale, shimmery, and retains temperature. Put it in the fridge for a couple hours and bingo, you’re fucking Edward fucking Cullen. But it occurred to me that this novelty dildo was perfect for fucking Data, too. I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Tantus.

And really, isn’t the super creepy, controlling vampire heartthrob that has captured the hearts of repressed, immature females everywhere actually just a poor woman’s Data? I trudged through part of the first Twilight book before it put me off my feed, so I know what I’m talking about here: Edward Cullen is cave creature-pale, has yellowish eyes, isn’t quite human, has superpowers, and uses unwieldy diction. Sure the details are different: Data has more awesome, less emo powers like logic and speed reading against Edward’s preternatural moping and mind reading. But really, the major difference between them is that Data doesn’t suck, and he doesn’t hesitate to pleasure (with wide variety) a lady when she asks nicely. Now that’s a character truly deserving of his own dildo.  Plus, he isn’t profoundly troubling like some other pasty anthropomorphs I might mention. Could everyone please stop teaching young girls to fetishize abusive relationships? Eschew trashy supernatural abstinence porn, kiddies, and embrace the high tech lechery of science fiction.

Now, to order a Vamp and emblazon the Starfleet logo on the bottom. Oh, my delicious android: I’ve waited far too long.

You know that perpetually amused observer that lurks in your head, noting every perception, action, or thought that might possibly have a funny slant to it? Mine noticed something recently.

I’ve felt pretty rough this week. I had this infernally sore throat, complete with ugly, swollen tonsils. My stomach was unhappy with life, food. I had a sore, stiff neck, felt feverish, and was kind of useless in general. But still, the image of having my mouth fucked danced across my mind each and every time I masturbated, and damned if I didn’t consistently arch my back, tense my limbs, and moan deep into the thought of it.

It’s not always a good idea to actually give a blowjob, but it’s pretty much always a hot idea.

Also, I think I’m feeling better now. Cock, please.