quizzical pussy

It’s Tuesday again, which means you’re probably here to read the secrets of the anonymous denizens of the internet. And I’m here to give them to you!

My wife, as we’re watching porn says ‘That’d be fun. I’d let another woman help me suck your c*ck’. Naturally, I’m interested in this possibility. I doubt she’ll make any effort to pursue it, short of my regular prodding. Yet, I don’t want to be annoying about it. We seldom go ‘out’ and when we do, it’s never anywhere we could people-watch and attempt to pick up a 3rd party. Besides, I highly doubt either of us would have the cajones to strike up a convo with that as the goal. After all, that really doesn’t seem to be the best option – to have an ulterior motive like that when engaging in bar conversation. I’d wager the success rate of that is nil. Aside from say, Craigslist or online dating sites, I wonder if there are any other ways I can expedite this sort of thing. Any suggestions?

Ah, the elusive unicorn. Finding a hot, bisexual woman willing to play with a couple isn’t necessarily the easiest thing to do (okay, maybe she doesn’t have to be bisexual per se, but she clearly needs to be open to the possibility of brushing lips with your wife across your very happy cock). People all over the world are on the same quest. Wouldn’t mind snagging one myself. Actually, though, don’t think about it that way or you’ll psych yourself out.

I’d say that if you’re really not interested in using the internet, make some new friends. To be more specific, join a group of friends that are bonded through a common geeky interest, preferably one that you share. In my personal experience, geeky groups are often comparatively open about sexuality, and are more likely to be polyamorous (this will eliminate your need to necessarily find a single woman to play with). Hang out with these people because they’re awesome, talk about sex with them because it’s interesting, and hope like hell that one of the women in that group is attracted to you guys (and vice versa).

Or, find a swingers’ club or party in your area. That will be faster and have a better chance of success, and you’ll likely still get new friends out of it.

I’ve been seeing this guy for over a year now and though he can go for HOURS, I’m not satisfied. He is smaller than most of the men I have been with and of recent I have found myself fantisizing about my ex after I leave him. I love the sex but it isn’t getting the job done and I don’t know what to do about it. We have used toys, changed the scheme of things, but nothing seems to be working. I’ve thought about maybe having a three some with the two of them, but then it would mean letting the ex know that I’ve been in a year + relationship with one of his best friends. Yes we have kept it quiet because it was supposed to be just sex, neither of us wanted to hurt him, but now I’m over hurting him and just wanting to use him. I told the ex today that he needed to come visit because I haven’t found a man that can do it like him. But I can’t let the guy I’m with now know that or he’d be hurt. What’s a girl to do??

The final question might be rhetorical, but I’ll try to answer it anyway. What is a girl to do? I’d experiment more with your current guy (it’s obvious that you already have, but more more more) and start dropping hints about a threesome to see if it’s a possibility. Since you’ll be in experimentation mode already it’ll be a relatively easy thing to bring up, although he still might not be interested.

I would also stop telling the ex that he’s the best you’ve ever had, though, because while that’s very flattering he might let it drop in the shock of realizing that you’ve been dating one of his friends. Then you’ve got trouble and feelings are hurt, and if nothing else you probably won’t be getting that threesome. Good luck!

If any readers have suggestions for either confession please leave a comment, because I am not the mayor of third party seduction.

Confess your sex secrets here! You can even take your sex life in your hands and ask me for advice, of all preposterous ideas.

I’ve been abused by a partner before, and I’ve had to deal with rape. You know what I think is really, really funny? Usually not jokes about domestic abuse and sexual assault. Go figure.

There was a time when these issues dominated my life much more completely than they do today. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “rape” in relation to what happened to me for a very long time, despite the fact that a man put his penis inside me as I begged him not to, having told him multiple times before that moment that I had no intention of having intercourse with him. I still couldn’t say the word. It’s still hard. And the physical abuse’s effects were even broader. I still cringe a little from any hint of anger in a man I’m close to. I have slid face first into flashbacks complete with dissociation because someone touched my neck the wrong way. I’ve felt like I was back in the thick of terror and pain just because of a sharp gesture in my direction. Now, jokes about rape and abuse don’t hurt me like they used to, but I will never think those subjects are intrinsically funny.

But clearly they are to some people. And that’s okay, to a point. Let it never be said that I’m the enemy to all offensive humor. But honestly, there’s a point at which it gets to be a little much.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the comedy community, with stand-up and improv performers, and I know that what is funny is deeply rooted in making unexpected choices. Sometimes the simplest way to be unexpected is to say something shocking. Even if it gets to the point where your audience is waiting for you to say something offensive, part of them will still be astounded if you go far enough.

That’s where gems like “What do you tell a woman with two black eyes? …Nothing. You already told her twice,” and “What do 9 out of 10 people enjoy? …Gang rape,” come in. Have you heard those? Have you laughed at them? Was it because you were uncomfortable or because you really think they’re funny?

If you actually like those kinds of jokes, that doesn’t make you an asshole. They’re well-constructed classic one-liners. The set-up questions each suggest a particular range of appropriate responses, and the punchline completely demolishes those anticipations in a shocking way. The first time you hear these they’re unexpected. And that’s comedy. And one truth in comedy is that sometimes what’s funny to you might be deeply hurtful to someone else.

A few days ago, Not An Odalisque, a blogger from the U.K., tweeted links to these two articles on The Guardian: The Rise of Rape Talk and The Rise of the Rape Joke. Basically, both deal with the idea that people are talking about rape more and more, just not in any serious way. Instead, people seem to use “rape” as a metaphor or a comedic device. A few examples:

• Heavyweight boxer David Haye tells an opponent that their upcoming match will be as “one-sided as a gang rape”, and then basically laughs it off when people are offended.
• Over a million people “like” “Thanks wind, you have totally raped my hair” on Facebook.
• Popular stand-up comedian Jimmy Carr’s new show is called “Rapier Wit”. Get it? Because of all the hilarious rape!

I agree with Not An Odalisque’s critique about the articles lacking nuance. In particular, the second one says: “Even the women are at it [making jokes about rape]: Geordie comic Sarah Millican has a skit about fetishistic rape roleplays with her boyfriend.” Rape fantasies and rape roleplay are not rape. They’re consensual. Therefore, Sarah Millican, whoever that is, doesn’t appear to be making rape jokes from the information they’re giving us. Although it’s possible that hearing about someone else’s rape fantasies could be a trigger for a rape victim, I can’t imagine it would be as hurtful for most as some guy joking about how he raped a girl who wouldn’t have sex with him.

I don’t know that this is necesarily a new thing. If we’re talking “last five years” new, maybe as an isolated stand-up fad (I haven’t researched that on my own), but otherwise not so much. If we’re talking “last twenty years”, it’s very likely that it’s more acceptable to say those things in public than it was back then, but odds are very good that behind closed doors rape jokes have been made for a very long time. Often it seems like society is losing its innocence when it’s really only losing its politeness. I don’t think people have ever been innocent; I just think that mass media used to a) not exist, and b) when it started to exist, took dramatic steps to hide human nature. There was probably no simpler time for society at large, just simpler gadgets. And of course most of us remember a time when everything was comparatively tame: it was called childhood. What I picked up on in the ’80s and ’90s doesn’t even come close to what was getting thrown around.

Maybe people are making light of rape now more than ever, though. If that’s the case, what can one do (assuming one thinks that’s a problem)? In the U.S. (and many other places), we’re lucky that there’s no way to stop them. I don’t want to stop them. I like free speech and I like it for tools, patriots, zealots, artists, meanies, boxers, and boring people as much as I like it for myself. But the right to free speech provides its own feedback system. If you think a comment or joke is in poor taste, you can speak up; you can make it a point not to laugh, even if part of you finds it funny. We as individuals have very little control over what other people (or even we) find funny. And if people will laugh at it, other people are always going to be willing to say it.

I think that The Guardian is absolutely right about one thing: we’d probably hear the term “rape” bandied about less in this manner if more people realized that rape is more common than they think. It seems like so much misunderstanding comes from the fact that people (rightly, to a point) consider stranger rape to be fairly uncommon, but they also think on some level that that’s what rape is. Period. It’s almost like they forget about acquaintance rape, which happens so much more often.

If people who told these jokes to a bunch of friends or an audience thought “Wow, the chances are pretty high that one of these people was the victim of the exact devastating thing I’m joking about,” it might change things. Of course, maybe for some of them that would make it a lot more funny, but those are the kind of people I don’t much want to listen to no matter what they’re saying.

(image source)

A couple winters ago I was on a notdate (you know, that social expedition that no one has defined as a date, but it’s pretty clear that at least one of you wouldn’t mind it going in that general direction) with a guy whom, I was certain by the end, I definitely wanted to not date. He wasn’t good-looking (in a general consensus sense), but, though I wasn’t blind to that, it also didn’t particularly bother me. He also seemed to have a lot of mental health issues. It happens. The real problem was, the more we hung out together, the more a striking resemblance developed in his features and expressions to a chick I often, to this day, have trouble standing. There’s no harm in her, and I’m disposed to be civil toward her because she’s married to a friend, but hers isn’t the face I want to see poised on the prow of a guy who wants to do me. It surprised me how deeply and utterly this resemblance bothered me.

Our conversation quality was fair; I usually have no trouble talking at length to anyone who can even pretend to comprehend English, and I think that put him at ease. I felt that we could easily be friends as long as a) he didn’t mind that idea and b) things didn’t get tragically awkward. The face thing that would murder my peace in a paramour I could easily deal with in a platonic way.

After a movie and some wandering while talking, we ended up in my car in the mall parking lot. I was going to drive him to his car since I have V.I.P. cripple parking. Snow drifts rose up where swaths of parking spaces should’ve been, and it was snowing gently, and he kissed me.

And it was awful.

I try to be accommodating, so I went with it, although at the beginning my involvement was no better than half-hearted (and actually a good deal less). There was absolutely no firmness or pressure in his lips or tongue, no apparent rhyme or reason to what those parts were doing, and his breath lingered on the unfortunate side of middling. Every second of horrible making out that ensued made me more and more miserable, and less and less sure of how to stop it without hurting his feelings. Just then, Untrust Us by Crystal Castles started playing, and it struck me all of a sudden what a terrible waste all this was. The veil of falling snow, the dark sky against the white hills, the warmth of my car’s heater in that ocean of cold, and that lovely, delicate song all conspired to create such an amazing atmosphere for those first fragile touches that, when they’re good, are so very, very good. It could’ve been so sweet, so… not awful, such a pretty memory. As it was, not so much. Maybe someday my mind will erase annoying-friend-faced-bad-kisser guy and slot someone more eligible into that recollection.

I still like that song anyway, though.

(image source)

ConTuesday! Anonymous secrets! Intrigue! Titillation!

On an unrelated note, this week’s title has nothing to do with any of the confessions I got. Laramy recently decided it’s insanely fun to make this “came in my pants ever so gently” breathing sound. I call this sound Creepyleaf, due to a late night discussion involving rakes and the fact that it does, in fact, sound creepy. Feel free to imagine him doing this after each confession, because that’s what I’m doing today!

Back when I was in my early 20s, I was a nanny for a couple and their young son. The couple’s 18-year-old nephew came to stay with them, and I started sleeping with him after about 6 months. I look back on him very fondly; he was sweet and respectful and ready to go again every 10 minutes. I also slept with the husband (the couple had a permissive relationship), who was in his mid-50s. That wasn’t so nice. But to this day, they were the youngest and oldest men I’ve ever slept with, and they happened to be related, and they definitely didn’t know about each other.

I just love ConTuesday.

Had a two-night stand with this guy… hot as hell, great accent, beautiful cock… but the sex sucked. I thought it was a fluke the first time so I tried again, and it turned out he just sucks in bed, at least as far as my likes are concerned. Now I’m flirting with a guy who definitely won’t be a one night stand or fuck buddy… not as hot but still very cute, and one kiss with him turned me on more than sex with the other guy. I can hardly wait to find out if the sex is gonna be as good as the kiss.

There’s enough lag between when I get these and when I post them that I bet it wouldn’t be unreasonable to ask for an update. How about it?

I’ve been reading your blog for a while now, since a mutually perverted friend directed me here… and when you talk about never getting enough, until your pussy puts up a white flag… I have to be honest and say that I’m the same lol. My ahem, longest time for fucking has been four hours solid, sleep for five, wake up for another four hours of fuuuuun! *giggle*

Three things: 1) Insatiable sex gluttons for the win! 2) Were you, by any chance, having sex with easy listening pop sensation Sting? 3) How sore were you after? Regardless, that’s sexy.

I used to be really good at giving blowjobs. Intact and cut guys, very large and average guys – they’ve all been very, very happy with my techniques. Hell, once I made a man have four orgasms in a row without even using my hands for extra help. …but I still haven’t managed to get my current partner off any way other than PIV. He needs me to move way faster than my head is capable of going and he really didn’t like the time I tried having him mouth-fuck me. I don’t think I’ve forgotten my old techniques, I just think they’re not compatible with his penis. He’s a great guy and the rest of the sex is wonderful, but I kind of resent that I can’t get him off that way. I miss having that sexy power.

I have a Feeldoe! Just saying. Sorry, that was probably inappropriate, and Laramy is likely making the creepiest sound right now.

Have a secret? I want it!

In the years to come, this summer will be known as “The Summer When Quizzical Pussy Did Not Feel Very Well At All, No Indeed.” Through judicious resting, a little feckless judgment, a will of pure petrified gristle, and massive recovery times I’ve been able to get out and do a few very fun things, but for the most part I’ve been in bed. And by “for the most part” I literally mean that if I were to calculate my time spent in bed since June, it would definitely be above 50%, and very possibly into the 70s. This, you may think, supplies a great deal of motive and opportunity to masturbate.

But I find that when my body has so little interest in cooperating with my wish to be a productive member of society, I tend to not want to do nice things for it. My masturbation habits got patchier and more grudging as the summer progressed. Yes, it’s unreasonable to punish my body for having a chronic illness by refusing to give myself orgasms, and I do not under any circumstances advocate trying to control someone with sex or withholding of same, but what can I say? Maybe with all the resentment and everything I’m just not emotionally attracted to me lately.

You can imagine how things have been: the fights, and stony silences, the outlandish threats. This domestic strife is the background to a series of extraordinary events (i.e. orgasms) that led to my clitoris dumping me for the LELO Siri, and I can’t say I half blame it.

I’d been wanting to try a LELO toy for some time. They have a reputation for being elegant, clever, and oh-so luxurious. Actually, though, I kind of also think of LELO as the IKEA of the sex toy world: the caps lock, the funny sparse-but-exotic product names (pop quiz: tell me which of these are sex toys and which are furniture: Odda, Noga, Ina, Nea, Agne, Mona, Malma) the simple lines and bright colors. I’ve always been of the opinion that IKEA could be greatly improved by the introduction of clitoral stimulation, so when I saw that Babeland had LELO’s newest creation, the Siri, up for grabs I knew I would at least temporarily lift my masturbation embargo. I’m mad, but I’m not stupid.

Happy the day that Siri graced my front door, dressed in an unassuming brown box and the glamor of youth! If I ever try to convince you that I didn’t rip it open immediately, I’ll be lying to you. Do not trust me.

The LELO Siri comes in a fucking classy series of minimalist boxes, the first of which claims to hold a “Siri pleasure object”. I applaud their decision against going that extra step into pretentiousness by calling it an “objet”. As it is, I’m pleased. And aroused, because I’m a fan of pleasure. It comes with a little satiny drawstring bag, meant, no doubt, to prevent the Siri from ever being stored in a ziplock sandwich bag. Someone must’ve told LELO about my current toys’ accommodations, and they are clearly not impressed.

The Siri itself is cute, shaped like an aerodynamic computer mouse, but smaller. It’s a clit vibe/massager, so in other words you don’t insert it, which happens to fit very well with my usual masturbation style. Roughly one (the white plastic) half is devoted to business and buttons and charging and such. The other half is covered in LELO’s vibrant matte silicone (purple, in mine), and this is the half devoted to business and skin and vibrations and climaxing. As I plugged in my adorable new pleasure object, whose charger took my cell phone charger’s place on the power strip, being of similar size and shape, I mused to myself how advanced-looking the Siri was next to my cellphone, and not just because I drop my phone all the time. I was also immediately grateful that the former had no camera function (although I should probably invent something like that because I’m sure there’s a market). It only took a couple hours to charge, and conveniently tells you when it’s ready by producing a continuous blue LED glow from the button vicinity; it blinks while it’s still charging, and reportedly glows red when it needs juice (although I haven’t experienced that yet, because this thing is a laster). Helpful!

“Realize I’m not doing this for you,” I informed my body as I held the fully-charged Siri over my nethers. “I haven’t even begun to forgive you,” but we agreed to put our differences aside for the moment. This thing was bigger than our ongoing issues.

I turned it on. This was going well. I turned it up a bit. Oh, this was going very well. I kept turning it up, and it kept going up, past the point where I felt sure it would stop. This pleasure object is small, but it’s fierce!

The Siri has four buttons, and even from the dizzying heights of orgasm it isn’t confusing to work them. The plus and minus sign buttons turn it on and off, and coax the intensity up and down. The arrow buttons step through six vibration patterns. I’m not usually a huge pattern person, but some of these were, in a word, compelling. Especially the last one, which when you put it up against your temporomandibular joint sounds like an NES theme song.

I find it easy to grasp and hold onto and adjust in my hand for more focused or more diffused vibrations. This is not a hard toy to work one-handed, which makes it nice if you want to add an insertable to the party.

My clitoris, especially, seemed overjoyed with the experiment. After too many orgasms to count, did my clitoris thank me? Did it thank our friends at Babeland? No. It was all about the Siri. In the days that followed, my clitoris kept pestering me: “When are we going to use the Siri again? Do you think the Siri liked me? Why are we playing a video game when the Siri’s sitting right there? Why are we driving to the doctor’s office when we could be playing with the Siri? We never do what I want to do,” and frequently, “SIRI!” out of nowhere, at any time of the day or night. Bitch woke me up twice.

After a difficult week of zero masturbation mostly unrelated to my tiny, high-maintenance passenger, I brought out the Siri again. I was surprised to find that a) it had held its charge beautifully, and b) there was a note, signed by my clitoris, in that little satiny drawstring bag. The text is as follows:

I burn, I pine, I perish.

No one ever accused my clitoris of being original. Did I ignore the note and go on to use the Siri and have some really stellar orgasms? You know I did.

It wasn’t long before my clitoris notified me that because of my neglect and general unpleasantness in comparison to some, we would remain connected only because of physiological necessity. From this point on, we were not “together”, because it now belonged entirely to my Siri. It also informed me that I look stupid in boyshorts.

Overall, I love the Siri. It’s exactly what I hoped it would be: an easy-to-use, stylish, surprisingly mighty clit vibe. Also, it’s cute as a button and cuter than most actual buttons. The only minor complaints I have against it are:

1. It doesn’t cycle through its vibration patterns. That is, you can go up through patterns 1 to 6, and you can go back down again. You can’t easily get from 6 back around to 1. I personally would find it very useful if I could, since pattern 6 is a great buildup and pattern 1 is the steady vibration, which is what really gets me off the most. As it is, the quickest transition seems to be turning the thing off and on.
2. This thing is not waterproof. You’re supposed to keep water away from the charging port and buttons. It’s really not that difficult to clean if you take a bit of care, but if you’re a squirter there could be complications, depending on how you’re positioning your Siri and the trajectory of your orgasm.
3. It stole my motherfucking clitoris. Homewrecker.

A thousand thanks to Babeland!

Do you ever look at your arsenal of sex toys and think, “I feel like none of these dildos are, you know, steampunk enough to grace my privy parts.” Honey, we’ve all been there. It’s embarrassing when there’s nary a gear nor a speck of bronze spray paint on one of the things that you own!

Enter Lady Clankington and her Cabinet of Carnal Curiosities, home of the Little Death Ray and soon-to-be home of the Butt Rogers Uranium Pistol.

I’d have to get my hands on one of these puppies to really weigh in on whether they’re spectacular sex toys. My guess is that they’re really going more for the novelty angle. Basically, we have a standard-issue slimline vibrator, or a slightly more interesting contoured (glass? pyrex?) butt plug seated in a cute gun-like handle. I’m not sure if the handles are porous, toxic, made of licorice, perfectly safe and easy to disinfect, or what. It would, however, be kind of fun to see one of these as a prop at a steampunk or Sci Fi convention. Is it sexual harassment if I keep it holstered?

The website is young, so more information should appear soon. I really can’t wait to see what the Dueling Academy section is all about. The game is afoot!

ConTuesday may be coming late today, but it has not forsaken us. I was just really tired from an exciting, dehydrated day at an amusement park and I scheduled it wrong. Oops! Here are the anonymous internet confessions you may have been expecting, and certainly deserve.

P.S. I’m chatty again in this one.

When he was young, my boyfriend was bi-curious, and he experimented a bit. His experiments showed him that he was definitely straight, but he said that the one thing he did enjoy was sucking cock – he just wished it hadn’t been attached to a guy. Ever since he told me, it’s haunted my fantasies. Sometimes, when my boyfriend is going down on me, I imagine that I’ve got a cock that he’s sucking, and that he’s being pounded up the ass by my guy best friend. I know they’d both be freaked out and upset if they knew about my fantasies, but it gets me off every time.

I can’t help thinking that the average hetero guy who learns that his female partner has/had bi tendencies has a very similar reaction, and no one ever seems all that shocked. Double standards!

While studying abroad, I fell hard for a boy on my program. He even goes to my college back home. But he doesn’t want to be in a polyamorous relationship, and I already have a girlfriend, so that’s just non-negotiable for me. We had sex for perhaps the last time last night, what with me going home in four days, and the ache in my pussy and jaw (we do last-time sex right, dammit!) is serving as a constant, depressing reminder. So I’m self-medicating with ice cream and Mad Men.

Ouch, that sucks. Hope you’re feeling better by now. Christina Hendricks always cheers me up.

Sometimes I feel like I know too much about sex toys. I just found out via Facebook that somebody from my high school is hosting Temptation parties (those Tupperware-but-for-toys parties), so I went to her blog and checked out her product list. It’s all jelly toys, which I feel obligated to warn people about anyway, but to make it worse, her blog also announced that she’s pregnant. I feel guilty about not warning her about the birth defects linked to jelly toys, but I just don’t know her well enough to say anything!

I’m not sure if there’s such a thing as knowing too much about sex toys, unless of course the mystery somehow dies and they no longer inspire passion. That might be close to too much. But yeah, jelly toys are varying degrees of a bad idea for most of us, folks.

I’ve always felt filthy and ashamed of myself for having any kind of sexual desire for as long as I can remember. I’ve always thought of myself as ugly and unloveable. I’m never in my own fantasies. A friend suggested I read some of the sex blogs, and I started to, for once, feel like maybe I wasn’t so bad after all.

Then I read far enough back to find that none of the acceptance applies to us furries.

One of the things that I challenge myself with in writing this blog is trying to portray myself honestly, insofar as an anonymous blog allows for that. I’m insecure and flawed. I make terrible decisions sometimes. Odd thoughts blindside me and I run with them. Oh, and I have an irrational fear of most anthropomorphic animals. And then I’m a jerk about people that like them. I’m working on accepting furries more. And, you know, I really am glad if that’s what makes you happy, or gets you off, or makes you comfortable. It’s just something I as an entirely imperfect person have issues with. I also can’t watch Yogi Bear cartoons. Please don’t let me being an asshole about the stuff you’re into make you feel worse about yourself. You can go ahead and be pissed about it, of course, if that was more the subtext.

Confess everything here!

The Royal Kumari of Kathmandu always strikes me as a tragedy. Not a walking tragedy, mind, because of course she is not strictly allowed to walk.

The Royal Kumari is a little girl in Nepal who has passed a long list of physical, behavioral, and astrological criteria, and a series of complicated tests, to be declared the physical manifestation of the badass goddess Durga. She has among her attributes (according to Wikipedia):

• a neck like a conch shell
• a body like a banyan tree
• eyelashes like a cow
• thighs like a deer
• chest like a lion
• voice soft and clear as a duck’s

…whatever that means!

After she’s been selected, the Royal Kumari leaves her old life behind. She moves to a palace and becomes a living deity. Each movement and expression is analyzed; she’s treated with awe and deference; her feet can never touch the ground. She also wears a really complexion-killing amount of makeup on her forehead every day.

Then, one day she gets her first period, and it all stops. She’s no longer a goddess. She’s just some kid the goddess used to inhabit but doesn’t anymore and never will again. They start looking for a new, untainted Kumari immediately, and she’d better have a neck like a conch shell, dammit.

The scorned, newly adolescent, erstwhile Kumari will get a pension from the government for the rest of her life, probably move on, get married (despite a tradition that it’s unlucky to marry a former Kumari), do whatever it is you do with your life in Nepal. It’s not a bad gig, really.

But how jarring, how devastating is it to be a goddess one day and a mortal girl the next? How cast-off must she feel? How embarrassed and enraged that her body betrayed her by succumbing to menarche?

I wonder if it feels like the first time you realize someone is falling out of love with you, but in her case that someone is a deity, a religion, and an entire country.

(image source)

ConTuesday! A magical land where you get to read a bunch of (probably) strangers’ secrets!

I completely get off on clinical sex terms, especially when mixed with normal dirty words. If a girl ever said “Ooh, I want to feel you ejaculating in my cunt” I would probably in fact come instantly. This has always just felt too goofy to tell any of my partners. It does make reading awkwardly-written internet porn stories strangely hot, though.

I don’t write fanfic otherwise, but I love anonymous kink memes on Livejournal. When I fill someone’s prompt, I feel like the Porn Fairy, spreading hotness throughout the fangirl world.

I know someone who might appreciate some Porn Fairy magic! (see above)

I recently managed to step into a fuckbuddy relationship. I have no emotional attachment or engagement towards her and it’s purely physical on my side (she has a smokin’ body). The problem lies on her side. We’ve known each other for about 3 years and all that time I know that she’s had a crush on me and now I feel like I’m just using her. I’m terrified of the moment when she’ll start talking about our “relationship” but until then I’m going to be banging away, because somehow the whole situation turns me on even more in bed. It’s like… well, I really can’t explain it. Also, hope you feel better soon.

Thanks! I’m starting to!

Sometimes, when I’m having sex with my fiance, I’ll look up at him and get this gut feeling of “ugh, why the fuck am I fucking this guy? His body is revolting.” I’m not sure what happened, because I used to think he was hot. I still love him, but now I sometimes want to leave the lights off when we have sex. (Because he’s still a god in the sack. I just don’t want to look at him.)

Got any secrets to share? Put them in here!

If Receiving Cunnilingus were my girlfriend, our Facebook relationship status would be “it’s complicated”. While some women don’t care for it at all, and some literally can’t get off outside of a tongue placed just so, I’m somewhere roughly completely outside those extremes. Oral sex gets me off fast, and well, and feels amazing. I love it, really. But on the other hand, I always try to dissuade my partner from giving it to me.

At this point it’s probably occurring to you, and rightly so, that I’m not the altogether most healthy, normal person you’ve ever come across.

What is it about oral sex that turns me even more neurotic than usual? I think it’s the focus. While one of the things I love about giving oral sex is being able to focus on someone else, I feel guilty once the tables are turned. I feel like it’s really unfair for me to accept that level of attention.

I’m aware that this isn’t exactly rational.

Early on with a new person, it’s usually much easier for me. There’s a lot of lust flying around, and everyone wants to put their mouths everywhere. But after a while things tend to settle down a bit, and I start feeling like it’s getting to be a chore, going down on me. Like my naked vulva is sitting there expectantly and prompting an aggrieved “Gawd, this again”.

Not that there’s anything preternaturally trying about giving me oral sex, that I’m aware of. I come within seconds, I give enthusiastic and appreciative feedback, I reciprocate, and I don’t think I taste weird. Sometimes I squirt, but definitely not always! My problem is really conceptual more than practical.

The thing is, I’m not hard to satisfy in bed. My orgasms come fast and boisterous, and although it takes some effort and skill to blow my mind, it can usually be done without a lot of fuss. In no way do I need oral stimulation. So it seems almost too greedy in my case to ask a partner to pay attention to me in any way that’s so one-sided. That’s where the guilt comes in.

Sure, sometimes I want it. Sometimes I even crave it. It feels really good, and the exact orgasms I get from it don’t occur elsewhere. But in my experience, once you start seeming reluctant to receive oral sex, you kind of get fewer and fewer offers for it. And that situation is both comfortable and depressing. Because in my weird, twisted little world that somehow makes perfect sense, asking for oral sex would be even more unforgivable than actually getting it!

I’m absolutely insane.

(image source)