quizzical pussy

“So what have you been up to?”

“Same old same old.”

“Last time I saw you you were naked, so…”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I meant by same old same old. Turns out I’m naked a lot.”

“Cool.”

My headaches (or really headache, since it’s acting more like one loooooooong one) are unreal this week. It’s getting to the point where my head is now on my top five list of least favorite body parts, and that list is normally reserved for my aesthetic complaints. Demonstabbyhead actually knocked my enormous man hands down to number six! Things are getting drastic.

It’s pretty frustrating. I’m certainly not feeling productive in any sense of the word. Lately, showering is my big adventure for the day. Also, there’s an unconfirmed rumor that I’m taking expired vicodin. As the kids these days would say: FML.

This brings me, of course, to that old chestnut: “Not tonight; I have a headache.”

(Disclaimer: I’m pretty sure I’m a sex fiend, so my views on this subject might not apply to all, or most, or even many.)

I want to have sex when I have a headache. I want to have sex when I have an insanely terrible headache. I might not want to move around a lot, nor be on top (which I normally like), but I want the comfort, the distraction, the orgasms, and the neurotransmitters. It’s good, free, pain management.

In fact, a few years ago when Demonstabbyhead was an unrelenting fixture in my life for months at a time rather than days, I would often catch myself absently reaching down to my clit and working it like worry beads. It was relaxing, reassuring.

So this week I’ve had some amazing sex. I’ve also masturbated a lot, often while watching episodes of the X Files and The Men Who Killed Kennedy with the volume turned down low. Body distraction and unrelated mind distraction seem to work well in tandem.

In short: OUCH! Sex, please.

So I’m pretty sure Laramy’s penis kicked me in the balls.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking: “Silly Pussy, chicks don’t have balls.” Well, you haven’t seen me sing karaoke, then. It takes serious stones to belt out Sister Christian by Night Ranger when you haven’t had a sip of alcohol since last October.

I guess you do have a point, though. Maybe I don’t literally have balls to be kicked in, and maybe Laramy’s cock doesn’t literally have feet with which to kick. But what did happen resulted in some crazy sensations that seem roughly parallel.

For a long time I’ve likened having my cervix pounded into to getting kicked in the balls. This was based only on the fact that it hurts and cramps and makes me want to stop having sex (I’ve met very few men who want to soldier on after I’ve accidentally taken out their artillery, if you know what I mean. Boo.) But one thing I pride myself on is my ability to understand proportion. I knew all along that it wasn’t a perfect comparison. There seems to be some sort of blinding nausea that comes into play in the balls scenario. As someone mentioned on twitter, it’s “like someone dropped a load of cement on your guts.” Also, there appears to be a profound full-body weakening that skates past mere pain and into the realm of horrifying comic book vulnerabilities. My cervix has never worked this kind of alchemy.

Until, perhaps, recently.

Laramy and I were in agreement: we were damn well about to fuck any minute. First, I thought I’d put on some music to drown out my caterwauling so I was bent over my keyboard, ass presented. Laramy came up behind me, my pants collapsed to the floor, and suddenly I found it incredibly difficult to concentrate on pointing and clicking anything. His cock slid in and I gasped as it split me. I’m not sure what it was: my pussy gripping harder than usual in ever denser and more furious orgasms, or some slightly altered angle as he fucked me from behind, but the intensity was blistering. I either had roughly 300 orgasms in rapid succession or one incredibly long one. I honestly couldn’t tell.

After a while like that, I was starting to feel crampy enough that the mad orgasms weren’t dulling it anymore. It was really starting to fucking hurt, actually. But I have these priorities, see. When one position is bringing pain, you don’t throw the baby out with the sexual bathwater (…it got weird, didn’t it?), you change position. So I switched to an even lazier posture: missionary. And then we fucked some more. The pain seemed less urgent. I pretended I didn’t see it sitting there, watching us fuck. The orgasms (orgasm?) kept coming in, crashing. Laramy was pounding harder now, building. It suddenly occurred to me that when all that climaxing, analgesic of the gods, stopped I’d probably have something unpleasant to deal with. But you know how when you’re in the throes of passion you just don’t care?

But, as they ever must, the orgasms eventually came to an end. And sweet leaping Odin, a singular and absurd pain broke across my body. It was rather like the feeling one has during and just after a spinal tap: blasted with weakness and nausea and an inexorable pressure. I was shuddering and hysterically panting/giggling, though I assure you it didn’t seem funny at the time. I wanted to get to the bathroom in case I had to throw up, but I could barely move at first. Just shake. And laugh. Then I tottered semi-successfully to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I felt right again within 10 or 15 minutes.

I think I traumatized Laramy a little. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt me, but I was so set on ignoring everything to keep having awesome sex he ended up not getting much of a choice. It was so totally not his fault, but I know he felt pretty bad. Probably because I looked so wrecked from it. Fortunately he wasn’t so upset that he’s refusing to have sex with me now or anything.

But you know, it did kind of feel like someone dropped a load of cement on my guts, so I’m wondering if somehow we fucked at an angle where his penis kicked my cervix, and that I experience the female version of being kicked in the balls. Either way, I’m going to recommend you go ahead and not try it.

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When you’re disabled you learn to live with limitations. That’s really the definition. No, I can’t drive that far. Sorry, I won’t be able to make it. I can’t keep up unless you slow down. Today I can’t get out of bed…even to shower. Fuck. These are sometimes the brutal facts.

In our culture, it’s seen as a virtue to scoff at personal limitations. We’re supposed to face our fears, defy the odds, and pull up our bootstraps. We look to the limitless, the boundless. We dream big damn dreams. We wait, breath abate, for the singularity.

Where does disability fit into this mindset? Disabled people are viewed in one of a few ways, generally: There’s the disabled person with some hope of a cure, a return to normalcy. There’s the disabled person who maneuvers around her obstacles to do something truly astonishing, like painting photorealistic landscapes with just her eyelashes. Then there’s the dreary, non-transcendent disabled person, whom you pity.

So basically, you can inspire hope or inspire pity. And you’d better have a phenomenal talent or something curable if you want to be in the hope club.

Of course there’s also the disabled person whose disability is less visible to the casual observer, but they don’t get the “disabled” tag at a glance. This last group doesn’t have it easy by a long shot, because it’s harder to get a break. The human attention span tends to gloss over the fact that you need special considerations or extra time. You have to remind people. They might even wonder if you’re not kind of sort of milking the issue. And like it or not, when you’re disabled sometimes it really sucks to have people expect you to function at the level of able-bodied people. Sometimes you might want special treatment because you goddamn need it.

I never thought that much about physical limitations until I got sick five years ago. Before that point, physical limitations meant worrying whether I’d fit into my skinny jeans. Needless to say I took my body and my health for granted. If I felt like dancing all night, we’re dancing! If I wanted to wake up at 5 A.M. to run a few miles, that’s what happened. I was the boss, and my body more or less did my bidding.

But losing control over your very motions is an extremely convincing way to learn that you’re not the boss of shit. Losing your balance teaches you that you’ll have to be a little more democratic about your “what me and my body are doing today” decisions. Chronic pain and exhaustion pin you to the mattress and make you give them your lunch money after screaming uncle uncle uncle. And you learn about physical limits in a way you never conceived of before. Sure, acute illness is a decent exercise in understanding this. There’s a point in a particularly horrible flu when you might wonder if you’ll ever feel normal again. You’re weak and suffering and you can’t imagine going to kickboxing class or walking your dog. In those moments, you probably kind of get it. But if you’re anything like I was, you forget those feelings within hours of beating the bugs back and emerging from the virulent mist.

The fact is, physical limitations are something we all live with even if we don’t pay much attention to them. You’re not going to jump 19 feet in the air. Ever. You’re probably never going to win an Olympic Medal. Sorry. You can’t sing G above high C. Unless, you know, you can. My limitations are just a little more depressing. For instance, I can’t walk to the bathroom right now without clinging to walls all the way there.

I’m committed to pushing my body as far as I can, when it’s wise to do so. I guess I still view myself as a disabled person who has hope, as ridiculous as that system of perception is. I want to burst through my limits and achieve the (currently) impossible (for me). But for now, I have these limits, see.

And one of them has exactly nothing to do with my illness or disability, and it’s this: WHY can’t I have my ass fucked in any other position than on my side, spoons style? What the hell is going on with my ass? Is it some kind of crooked freak or something? Seriously, anal is intolerably painful for me in every other position, but in that one magical set-up it’s amazing. I think I’ll say it again: What the hell is going on with my ass?

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So, realistically, how many sexing-me related injuries can my boyfriend sustain before he refuses to fuck me anymore?

Please say it’s at least in the triple digits. I’m not even sure what I’m doing to cause it, but he usually ends up in pain somehow. Eventually his penis is going to start calling me “the mean lady”.

To be clear, I did not break his penis or anything (this time), but two threatening pops came from his hips while he was thrusting in missionary, and I’m pretty sure that’s bad. At least he let me climb on top and continue. He’s a champ, that one.

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Many of the women in my acquaintance have remarked to me that they’ve given blowjobs to a lot more guys than they’ve had penis-in-vagina sex with. Some of them insist that their “number” doesn’t include blowjobs, but if it did they’d be dangerously close to the “slut” category.

I’m not in this camp. First of all, I see no problem with a higher-than-average “number”. I love sex, and I figure that anyone who would judge me for having had the amount of sex I’ve had would be someone who I’d either a) not tell (e.g. family members, employers), or b) not care if it bothered (e.g. people I’d rather know sooner than later that I oughtn’t date). As a nerdy chick who’s never been wicked popular in the romantic arena, I actually feel like kind of a stud each time my number goes up (it’s at a whopping, debaucherous eight now, if you care). Secondly, I’ve had vaginal intercourse with six guys and given blowjobs to six guys, although one guy was intercourse without any blowjobs and one was blowjobs without any intercourse… still, it evens out. Thirdly, though, I think that oral sex is sex. To me there’s no real ideological distinction, although there sure as hell are other distinctions. But I just can’t see my way to “not counting” oral sex if we’re counting sex partners. Am I just going to not count people I had awesome orgasms with? Am I going to not count women because neither of us has a (real, flesh) penis? Horsefeathers.

But that’s not to say that blowjobs are in every way equivalent to vaginal intercourse. That’s not true at all. I enjoy giving blowjobs, yes, but not in the same way that I love have a cock plunge into my eager pussy. While both can give me orgasms (giving head can be that much of a turn on, yes), the latter has a much more direct and reliable mechanism with which to do so. I’m more finicky about the former. If I don’t particularly like you, I might consider using you for sex but putting your dick in my mouth won’t appeal to me at all. So (perhaps predictably) when a relationship is going downhill, I tend to avoid giving oral sex but still want to fuck. Yeah, I’m pretty much a selfish jerk that way.

Oral sex is very intimate and personal, and that’s part of why it’s so sexy. It’s completely devoting your attention to someone else’s pleasure. That intensity turns me on like crazy. Which, paradoxically, makes me want to fuck. So, while it’s hot to suck cock until hot semen gushes down my throat and all, at times there’s a (big) part of me that feels like a little kid whose ice cream fell off the cone and onto the cruel, hard ground. To wit, it feels like a waste of a perfectly good erection that could have been pleasuring me. Again, yeah. Selfish.

So the best of both worlds is certainly to have a blowjob segue into intercourse: in hooker speak, the ever popular half-and-half.

But today I heard something rather disturbing. My friend Miriam Spiralti has great sex with her fiancé, but they aren’t entirely compatible in terms of drive. As she told me a few years ago, “When we were seeing each other once a week, we fucked once or twice every day… for two days straight. Now that we live together I want exactly that amount per week, and he wants exactly that frequency.” He especially wants oral sex daily, and she likes giving it, but it’s getting to feel like an obligation. And here’s the kicker… it “doesn’t count” if it transitions into sex. It also “doesn’t count” if it’s a short session, and he tries to make the spectacular “I’m getting my cock sucked” feelings last as long as possible. So Miriam ends up feeling burned out on marathon blowjobs and feels more and more reluctant to give them, and her man feels frustrated and unfulfilled. Not a great situation.

I blame this “it doesn’t count” mentality. What’s with all these rules about what counts when it comes to blowjobs? They don’t count as sex, it doesn’t count if they’re not done to completion, etc. I mean, there are no stone tablets I’m aware of that give us the Articles of Head, but to my mind, if I’m sucking your cock you’re pretty much getting a blowjob, and I should probably list you as a sexual partner. Just saying.

Anyway, I jokingly suggested that Miriam tell her fiancé he gets 30 minutes of oral sex a week, and can break it into six 5-minute blowjobs, three 10-minute blowjobs, or one half-hour session…his choice. “That’s actually a really good idea!” said she. If she actually implements this plan I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a hit out on me in the near future, so this blog might get very assassin-run-in heavy all of a sudden.

I’m realizing more and more that I’m oddly picky about sex terminology.

The term “cock worship” grates on me. I don’t love the term “pussy worship” either, but it doesn’t gnaw on my raw patriarchy nerve, and so doesn’t bother me nearly as much.

But I don’t like calling that cock worship. I guess I don’t want to feel less important than a body part, even if it’s a really fun body part. If that implication is built into your power dynamic, cool, but it’s something I’ve never signed up for, so it doesn’t apply to me. If I’m just sucking your cock don’t try to transform it into a religious experience I’m meant to be having without consulting me about it first, buddy.

The old adage that there’s no such thing as a bad blowjob is a little ridiculous. For one, it reinforces the man-as-sexual-supplicant myth, which really needs to end. Additionally, though, I don’t think it’s based in truth. I think that bad blowjobs can and do happen, and they may be happening to someone you know. Chilling, right?

Leo Tolstoy wrote that “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” That’s not actually true of families or of sucking cock. But there are many ways to give a bad blowjob, and each bad blowjob is probably uniquely bad in its own special way. However, if you follow the bulleted rules below, you will most likely succeed in giving one miserable excuse for a blowjob. And, because I’m a philanthropist, I’ll also have a short italic section in which I talk about ways to avoid or address each rule because I honestly don’t wish bad oral sex on anyone. I wish zero oral sex on some really nasty people, but never bad oral sex!

I don’t know how realistic this is, but when someone is giving me oral sex I don’t want it to feel like a favor. I certainly don’t expect servicing me to be the sexual highlight of anyone’s year, but an “Aren’t I incredible? I’m suffering through this for you!” attitude gets an automatic “You shouldn’t have. No, really, you shouldn’t have.” response from me. I can have fun without oral sex, but a martyr in my bed really spoils the mood for me.

But I’ve been fortunate enough to have some really amazing tongues give me mad orgasms with enthusiasm and what passed for joy. And generally these people don’t even have to ask me if they’re incredible because I make that damn clear. So goes the blowjob. While just showing up and putting a dick in your mouth is cool, I guess, it doesn’t necessarily cut it.

Thus, the first and most important rule of a bad blowjob is…

• Be lukewarm and begrudging about it. He’s lucky you’re exposing yourself to this indignity in the first place; make sure he remembers that every fucking nanosecond of this ordeal.

If you find that you aren’t enjoying giving blowjobs, or that your partner isn’t enjoying giving them to you, you might have to get really unorthodox and actually have a frank conversation about sex. Maybe the giver has had a bad experience in the past, maybe there are some hygiene problems, maybe something the receiver is doing or saying is turning the giver off (I have no idea why, but if you call a blowjob a “beej” it automatically halves my motivation to give you one, which is admittedly rather finicky of me, but also fact). Maybe you need to employ the old 69 trick of training each other to associate giving oral sex with getting orgasms. There are many ways to address this problem.

I’ve heard it suggested that the absence of deepthroating ability and refusal to swallow are features of blowjob malfunction. I actually think that these “faults” are greatly exaggerated. Most guys like the idea of bottoming out on a willing throat, but very few will actually complain if you can’t do it. It actually seems like deepthroating is considered more of an advanced oral technique rather than a basic requirement.

I’m going on record right now saying that I don’t understand spitting in the “spit or swallow” dichotomy. If your goal is to not taste semen, spitting actually maximizes its contact with your tongue as opposed to having it spill down your throat. Is there another reason someone might want to spit? Vegetarianism? But why should spitting make a blowjob bad? It’s technically over by then anyway. Also, some guys actually prefer to come on your face,  tits, or various other body parts. Last time I checked that’s not swallowing.

Contrary to these old tropes, the two complaints I’ve come across most often as to technique are more about the fundamentals than the frills, and inspired rules two and three of giving a bad blowjob:

• Avoid falling into any discernible rhythm.

• Make sure to stick with the exact same technique, style, and tempo for the duration of your cock-sucking adventure.

It may seem like these two are at odds with each other, but they’re really not. It’s important to establish a rhythm and not flop about aimlessly, but it’s vital to not get so focused on keeping a rhythm that it gets boring. Do different things: tongue the head, suck the shaft, vary your pressure and depth. Have you ever been fucked by someone who was inept and dull in bed? Chances are he or she was following one or more of these two rules, because they don’t just apply to blowjobs.

I’ve heard conflicting things about what specific techniques guys like and dislike (e.g. suction, head vs. shaft focus, interaction with balls, use of hand/s) and guess why? Because these things are personal preferences, and there’s no magic formula for the perfect blowjob. That brings us to our fourth and final rule.

• You’re an infallible sex deity. You know what men like. Pick a generic blowjob to give to every guy and stick to your guns. If he hints, suggests, or flat-out tells you that he likes a certain kind of stimulus, ignore him. You’ve got this.

Sometimes when people get overconfident in their status as superlovahs they forget that there’s no such thing as “what men like” or “what women like”. There may be some statistical trends, sure, but assuming that your partner complies with what you consider the norm marks the death of sexual discovery. No, this rule won’t always guarantee that you’ll fail at sucking every cock, but it will ensure that if you continue sucking different cocks, eventually you will fail a lot. That penis is attached to a person. Pay attention to the feedback that person gives you, ask questions. If you’re honestly not interested in personalizing this experience for your partner, then congratulations! You’ve actually just managed to make someone else’s blowjob all about you!

In closing, now I want a blowjob. A good one.

I wonder if other chicks are as splendidly neurotic as I am sometimes. Am I the only one who feels mortified when I feel like I might have crossed that nebulous line from “self-lubricated and ready to go!” into “superfluity of cuntjuice”? I’m not talking squirting here. That’s another neurosis altogether. This is more like when bodies are curling and undulating against each other and tongue is pressing tongue and hands go down to explore my nethers and mouth breathes “you’re so wet“.

And for some reason I want to apologize.

I’m not making puddles or anything. There’s still plenty of friction. I just have this feeling that if my pussy were dispensing the normal amount no one would mention anything about it. So I worry about it. I worry that my glands are belying my “I’m not desperate for this sex I’m dying for us to have, I swear!” act. And it’s not like I’m always wet. No, I just get very wet when I’m turned on. So I can’t say “Oh, it’s been like that for years. Just ignore it.” I’d be lying! It’s really a highly sensitive feedback system saying, “Put something in me, you lovely creature you!” There’s something embarrassing about being completely unable to hide the fact that your body’s clearly expecting something.

Keep in mind that I feel terribly rude expressing sexual interest. But I can’t get around it sometimes. It took me years to train myself to keep from humping a partner’s leg when I was aroused. I’m not even sure I can train this away! I am such a horny, horny girl, and not at all discrete about it. Maybe it should take lots of foreplay before I’m ready to go. Maybe I should require a ladylike dab of lube. But that really isn’t me.

In that way, sometimes I feel like my pussy’s the most honest part of me. I can be very shy and timid in the moment, but once the panties are breached the truth comes out that I’m really into it. It’s not easy to play your erotic cards close to your chest when your knickers are dripping. But damn, sometimes I’d like to have the option of coming off a bit more demure on occasion.

On the other hand, I don’t spend much money on lube.

It’s kind of cool when you realize that the positions you like best also seem to be particularly good for your partner.

I’m really super partial to what I guess we’ll call the “folded deckchair“, although traditionally I like to call it “throw my legs over your shoulders and fuck me sore.” For me, that and doggy are to sex what Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman are to modern comics. In vulgar parlance, they’re the my baby daddies of their respective fields.

But I also don’t like to ask for things in bed. Ever. You may recall that when I ask for things, it hasn’t always worked out in my favor. I guess with my experiences of it backfiring, my natural diffidence, and my reluctance to rock the boat when someone inexplicably actually wants to fuck me, I just tend to go with the flow instead. It’s to the point where I generally don’t even suggest new positions to try out (zounds but I’m dull!), although I do occasionally maneuver into them with utmost subtlety.

I’m not sure why Laramy and I hadn’t tried the “folded deckchair” yet. (Also, that name is stupid.)  I guess maybe we just hadn’t gotten to it yet, but that night it seemed like a good idea. We were settling into good old missionary when I flung my legs over his shoulders. Oooooh, yes! I thought, I remember why this is awesome now! Suddenly his cock was catching my G-spot from the most delicious angle and my orgasms came fast and urgent, one after another, building.

I have my suspicions that the texture of my G-spot or the grip of my pussy when I come so hard is something that Laramy likes especially, because we both seem to favor the G-spot heavy positions. With my legs like that, he was getting that face he gets when it’s unbearably good, slowing down a little to dial the intensity back. I felt a jolt of joy that we were together on this one: this was Watchmen, this was a triumph. At some points my legs moved down under his arms and he grabbed them for leverage, and at others I’d toss my legs higher again and we’d grimace together at the absolute bliss of that angle. We felt it together. We sucked in air together, except when I forgot to breathe while I curled my head back in climax after searing climax.

When you have dozens of orgasms, scores of orgasms, a motherfucking shoal of orgasms, the odds get pretty damn good that you’re going to have a simultaneous orgasm with your partner. Laramy and I come at the same time often, and it honestly doesn’t get old. It’s like twice the orgasm. The feeling of his cock pulsing and pouring its heat into me sometimes sends me over the edge even if I’m not quite there yet. But this time I really, really was. It was like Michael Bay was directing my vagina. I swear.

Laramy and I were both sweating and spent. He hung over me, draped on the frame my legs gave him. He was panting and grinning and blinking like a big-budget explosion had just torn through the bedroom: it was kind of adorable. I grabbed my ankles and pulled my legs back to my own shoulders, lowering him right over my lips, and then we kissed, which made us laugh. “I didn’t know you could do that!” he cried.

Piffle. Of course I can!