quizzical pussy

Are you ever pottering around the internet and find yourself wondering what kind of things and people and naked people QP likes to look at? I mean, yeah, probably not. That’s fair. But I still feel like it’s weird that I forgot to mention I have a tumblr where I keep that stuff.

Fap to what I’m fapping to. Laugh at what I’m laughing at. Squee for what I’m squeeing for. Guess which is which. I dare you.

Sexyfriend revealed to me that he was kicked out of boy scouts for being caught naked and fooling about with another scout. No regrets on either party’s side, and I found it adorable!

Cosigning the adorability. I think of consensual, non-exploitative, regretless sexual exploration as one of the most innocent things there is because the moment we learn shame and guilt is when we actually lose our innocence. And when we unlearn shame and guilt maybe we get it back.

And I just think we should be getting badges for that kind of thing.

I am the confessor who was afraid to have sex in this ConTuesday. At the New Year I met an amazing man and being with him has helped me move past a lot of my issues. We haven’t had intercourse yet but I actually feel ready this time, like I really, truly want it. We have had amazing sex and I love him. Oh also he’s bi and he wants me to fuck his ass someday. Sometimes we pretend, and I bend him over with his face in the pillow and it’s amazing too. Yay!

I am so fucking happy for you! ::internet high five::

I was in his bed. I was on my period. His fingers were on my clit…through three layers: pants, panties, pad. It felt great, but what I needed to make me come that night was bare hands on bare pussy (sex and even dry humping weren’t options for medical reasons).

So I said, “This feels really good, but it’s more like you touching my breasts than my clit–I’m not going to come tonight, but it’s not your fault.”

I was so afraid I’d disappointed him.

Later, as we cuddled our way to dreamland, I asked him to ‘tell me something, anything.’

The anything on his mind? “I’m really glad you told me what was up when I was touching you earlier. I would have sat here feeling guilty all night.”

For some unknowable reason, I keep feeling the need to dial back on enthusiastic/explicit consent stuff, emotional communication, emotional and sexual needs with this guy–afraid of seeming too girly, too feminist, something. But every time I ask for explicit consent, initiate emotional communication, or share my needs, it turns out to be even more necessary than I thought it was, and the results are much better than my best-case scenario.

And he thanks me, every time.

I still have my own issues with communicating about sex; I think most people do. I’m better than I used to be, but there’s still a part of me that feels unworthy of wanting things. And there’s another part of me that feels like I should just go with the flow because I’m so easy to get off anyway. And yet another part of me is pretty certain that sharing my desires will result in very bad things. But those parts of me are stupid, and on a more fundamental level every atom in my body vibrates with the understanding that talking about sex is  important and utterly wonderful when we do it right. So I squee for you.

You are awesome.

Not just for your posts (wonderful as they are), but especially for your confessionals. You claim to judge, yet you sit in wonderful care and ‘I’ statements. I have an incredible amount of respect for you for this. And not a little inspiration for striving to be a less judgmental person.

Much love for you

I sometimes feel weird about posting confessions like this, but they make my day, and you know what? I’m posting this anyway. Thank you so much for your kind words.

I just had an amazing sexting session with my former Mistress of two years. She nervously mentioned the idea of playing again … maybe with roles reversed and I soon had her begging for permission to masturbate.

After six orgasms for her and one for me I made her stop fucking herself before she got to seven. She was nearly in tears with frustration and “hating me” for how much it was all turning her on.

I’ll call this a success.

Yes. Yes, I would feel safe saying that it’s a success.

There has to be a word– perhaps in another language– for the exquisite naughtiness of being turned on by something we don’t strictly want to be turned on by (because shame and guilt and loss of innocence and lack of merit badges or, I don’t know, lots of reasons).

A couple of nights ago, we tried intermammary sex for the first time in years. I found it amazingly hot — way better than I remembered it to be, probably in part due to being in a good headspace and partly due to her being on top — and the dynamic for both of us was all smiles and gasps and goodness. Afterward, my wife said that she doesn’t see what the appeal of intermammary sex with her is to me — her breasts aren’t huge and she wonders why it’s so fun if they don’t ”grip” my cock. I told her, and now I’ll share with the QP readership: sternum on underside of cock is hot. Breasts brushing by, gently or frantically and nicely in reach, is hot. Eye contact and gasps and goodness are hot. Doing something a little different that we’d last done years ago before kids and mortgage and greying temples is hot. No change of breast geometry or cup size would change any of that.

The term “intermammary sex” would generally sound more like an antidote to hot if we were going by me (which we’re not anyway), but the fact that you had so much fun completely neutralizes that. Fuck yeah intermammary sex!

Fuck yeah sex confessions!

Share/Save