quizzical pussy

I have to confess I haven’t been doing very well lately. My health has taken a turn for the worse, much to the chagrin of my sex life (and life in general). It’s getting to where I’m just too exhausted to see my boyfriend regularly, let alone pursue madcap sexual adventures. I’m hoping this is very temporary, but in the meantime I thought I’d infuse a little positivity by posting some of the most joyous– perhaps verging on gloating– anonymous confessions to ever appear in my inbox. Read and enjoy, because these people certainly are! I’m into it.

My long distance girlfriend came to visit last week. A good time was had by all, including some fun with chocolate sauce and a basting brush. By the end of the week she was around, she was referring to me as “The Energizer Bunny” and “A God in Bed”. Even managed to make her legs give out at one point. I just had to brag a bit.

(Re: June 29th confessions) Being bi is totally awesome for avoiding jealousy. My partner and I check out women or men together and we share porn all the time. (Gloat brag gloat)

I got the hood of my clit pierced a few years ago because guys had too hard of a time finding it – my clit’s too small. That’s not a problem anymore!

Last week I bound my breasts for the first time. I love being female and I love my boobs, but I wanted to know what it would feel like to have a flat(ter) chest. And it was awesome! I was bound all afternoon at work, put my (Share XL) cock on before I went to see my partner, and greeted him with a big, packaged hug.

Sometimes I get the feeling I’m easy to fall in love with. This isn’t the type of thing you can just tell people.

Got something to brag about? Or bitch about? Or just confess anonymously? Bring it all here.

Hopeless tool of the patriarchy that I am, I just don’t like having very much pubic hair. I’ve been shaving to various degrees since I was sixteen, even though no one was helping me enjoy it until two years after that. It’s a tactile thing: I like feeling smoothness when I play with myself; I don’t want hair dampening sensation. To me, a shaved pussy doesn’t look much– if at all– better, and as long as I can sort out what’s where I don’t mind other people maintaining a healthy bush themselves.

But I’ve always had different standards for myself than I have for others. That’s why I feel confident saying you’re a degenerate for reading this smut.

In the realm of pussyshaving, though, you know what I hate? Razor burn. I hate it with the passion that we reserve for those who disagree with our politics and cut in front of us in line. It itches, and looks ugly, and sometimes even hurts (especially if you try to shave over it). I’m going out on a limb and guessing that every person who’s ever seen me naked, and not mentioned a razor burn that I had at all, didn’t exactly swoon over it either. I only fuck the brave, oblivious and/or polite, apparently.

Because, you see, I tend to get it a lot. Those chicks with gorgeously naked genitals swathed in silky, flawless skin? I’m not sure what they’re doing but I suspect they’re not shaving. Or maybe they are, and my skin is even more sensitive and fussy than I thought. Or I’m a Oh God I’m a freak of nature, aren’t I?

Bikini Zone cream has always helped the issue, but I accidentally transferred it from my hands to my lips after applying once, and the taste is not something you want on your pussy unless you’ve utterly despaired of getting oral sex that day. So there went that solution.

It’s actually been a lot better lately because I’m following the rule of only shaving with the grain of hair growth, which I used to think was for pussies. It turns out that it really, truly is, and should be observed accordingly. I’m also shaving a little less often (mostly because I’m exhausted and therefore not as precious about my bush these days), and conscientiously applying coconut oil after shaving.

Still, based on the recommendation of some head-shaving friends, I’m wondering if a safety razor is actually a gentler, superior shave, or just makes them feel like fancy gentlemen. Also, if this stuff works.

Whenever I get even the faintest whiff of myself trying to be sexy I get that feeling you get when you introduce your most embarrassing relative to the coolest people you know. Just. No.

Oh god, no.

This…

…is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

I’m so sorry, guys. I cannot take her anywhere.

This feeling informs very little of my behavior during actual sex (I have convinced myself, and dearly hope is true), but it dramatically influences–nay, dominates–the way I flirt, or even interact with my friends and the people I fuck. A great example of this is the fact that I do not, will not, can not send anyone sexy/risque/flirty/myspace profile/whatever pictures.

No part of me projects these self-judgments onto other people who take, send, and share sexy pics of themselves. Oh, not by any means. Please feel free to test me on this.

Over the weekend I went to a party at the local goth club. Objectively speaking, I can get pretty tarted up as long as I’m convincing myself that this is “just for fun” and not anything remotely close to trying to be sexy. I do tend to give myself the benefit of a doubt when it comes to dressing. It’s similar to my completely sense-making habit of enjoying wearing cute underwear but being terribly embarrassed whenever I’m found out. This particular night I put on a short skirt, high (as I can manage with my walking issues) heels, a t-shirt I assaulted with a pair of scissors, and these adorable striped thigh highs. And a good time was had by all.

Laramy wasn’t able to come out, having had kind of a shitty day. So as I got home and started to strip off my sweaty clothes, he was on my mind and I had a dramatically uncharacteristic thought process:

1. These thigh highs are kind of cute…
2. Laramy’s mentioned a couple times that he likes my legs…
3. He’s had a super bad day…
4. I never send him pics of me…
5. Ergo… maybe it would cheer him up if I emailed him a picture of my legs in aforementioned thigh highs!
6. I’d better hurry up and do it before I think this through any further.

And I wasn’t even drunk or anything! I’m not going to say that what I produced in the following moments using a camera phone, specialty hosiery, and an inexplicable lapse of inhibition was a “sexy pic”. It really wasn’t. The whole thing was supposed to be a silly “thinking of you” gesture, I guess. But after I sent it, I realized that it was hazardously close to a “sexy pic” attempt. The more I thought about it the more I started neurotically wondering if it was going to come across as entirely pathetic or just mostly pathetic, and by the time I got up the next morning I was grimly expecting the worst.

To his great credit as a gentleman, Laramy’s reaction via instant message was a lot more “I like the thigh highs” than “You preposterous creature, what’s with the flailing abortion of a jpg in my inbox?” But it was a bit of a struggle to resist asking, “So like, that picture is pretty much an embarrassment to everyone involved, right?” I felt kind as if I was watching myself in horror as I proudly brought roadkill pie to the cool kids’ sushi and sake party. My stoicism through all this was an inspiration to both of me.

Mere minutes later, I kid you not, a friend sent me a genuinely super-sexy pic of her amazing bare breasts, asking me to forward it on to Laramy. Which I did, gladly, content that I had actually found a way to at least help brighten up his morning in a much more productive way than my previous attempt.

Have you ever played “I’ve Never…”? If not, you have to take a drink now because that’s how the game works.

And oh, here are some anonymous internet confessions that may be related…

I’m a 25-year-old male virgin, and I’ve seriously considered hiring a prostitute to change that. The strange thing is that I know that it would not be particularly difficult for me to put myself out there and get laid the way everyone else does, but hiring a professional is oddly appealing to me. Perhaps because there is much less risk of rejection? I think it’s more complicated than that, but I may be rationalizing. The decision has been a source of some anxiety for me lately.

I’ve never received oral sex. I’ve been in one relationship and my gf just was never into the idea of it enough to give it a try. She’s my ex now and after we split, I started testosterone to make a gender transition. I love what testosterone has done for my genitals. They feel and act like my brain says they’re supposed to. It makes me want oral more than ever. But I don’t know how to explain my anatomy and I worry that I’ll never get someone to go down on me b/c what I’ve got is unusual. I think it’s quite sexy myself, but I’m aware there’s a lot of myth and prejudice floating around about trans bodies, and orientation and kinkiness (or lack thereof) don’t seem to make a difference in the level of transphobic BS. Worse than that, I’m afraid that getting a blowjob is somehow going to make me dissatisfied with my cock, either because my size will compromise the experience or because my partner says or does something interpetable as dislike or pity. I don’t want pity. I want someone who’s as into my cock as I am. I don’t know how to find that and I sorta think that admitting how good I feel about myself will come off as crass because it’s cliche that men are all about their dicks, right? And no one wants to hear about that. But I really, really, really want a blowjob!

Sounds like you’re proud of your body without being a narcissist, which is sexy. And chicks like me abound, and we love giving blowjobs to sexy guys. Thus, I find it hard to believe this story isn’t going to have a happy ending. Please let me know how your first blowjob goes!

I haven’t had sex in five years and I’ve never dated. I’m almost thirty and I have no idea what I’m doing! I thought this was only supposed to happen to religious fundamentalists.

I frequently lie about my sexual experience (pointedly the lack there of). To myself I count the times I had sex as one, but he didn’t get his dick all the way in before he came so I’m even lying to me about it kind of. The real confession is that I read sex blogs and pretend I have the bloggers sex lives when I’m talking to my friends.

Calling all firsts, lasts, fantasies, lusts, fables, and laments: send me your secrets here.

“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.

ConTuesday is here, and it’s all about creative problem solving. Here are some innovative anonymous confessions from mysterious denizens of the internet:

As quite an overtly sexual, somewhat kinky type, I’m often attracting shocked/disdainful/disapproving looks from passers by, when sneaking betwixt clubs and hotels and whatnot.

When I receive such a look, I really enjoy (despite almost never finding the person attractive) vividly imagining the giver of the look and myself engaged in the filthiest sexual practice I can come up with at the time, then making eye contact and imagining how they’d feel if they knew what I was thinking.

I’m increasingly unsure if this is hilarious or genuinely sinister.

I’m a rather closeted bisexual-sex-fiend and there are no sex toy stores near me, thus explaining my lack of dildos. I use mascara tubes after they’re done. My fravourite is Lash Max by Maybelline ;D

Now I’m wondering if those vibrating mascaras would be any good.

I cheated on my boyfriend. Three times so far (all with the same guy). The first two times I just gave him head, but the third time we had sex. I really don’t like the guy I’m cheating with, but his cock is really fabulous so I keep wanting to do it even though I know I shouldn’t and really don’t want to except for the awesome sex. I wish my boyfriend gave me as awesome sex, then I wouldn’t still be waiting the other guy.

My husband and I have an “open marriage”. My husband fucks like a porn star but he kisses me like I’m his 90 year old Aunt. Kissing is just about my favorite thing to do, so much so that I’d rather make-out with someone than get oral. If he’d kiss me half as passionately as he fucks, I’d have no need for other men.

If only partners were modular and you could upgrade just one thing. Of course, people have been saying that since time began. Great sex and kissing are pretty great, though. I will have one of each, size large.

Have something to share? Give it to me.

A friend asked how long Laramy Fuquerton and I have been together now.

“Well, I mean…” I tilted my head thoughtfully, “It really depends what you’re counting as ‘together’…” We started fucking about a year ago, but we’d been making out for a month or two at that point. We sort of sauntered casually into “seeing each other” and lingered there a while until we finally admitted we were “boyfriend and girlfriend” about six-ish months later (our friends-in-common were all pretty amused when we finally figured that one out.) But we still didn’t say “I love you” until months after that. And we started being “in a relationship” on Facebook a while later.

It’s possible that we have commitment issues. Either that or he’s just been incredibly understanding of the ones I know I have. Which really aren’t that horrible. It’s just the swift, jarring kind of commitment that scares the shit out of me, so my tendency is to take it to the other extreme: the laughably obvious kind of commitment that gets lapped by molasses-flavored glaciers.

As a result, Laramy and I don’t really have an “anniversary”. In fact, anniversaries confuse me for the reasons stated above. They’re so arbitrary. I understand wedding anniversaries. A wedding is a finite date that you can point to and say “something started here”. But short of that, it’s murky: the kind of relationships I have don’t have inaugural ceremonies. I have never, in my life, thought I was on a “first date”. Of course, you don’t need a first date. You can use any of the following milestones as your anniversary:

• first awkward pat/hug
• first kiss
• first grope
• first manual sex
• first oral sex
• first intercourse
• first penetration with produce (not advisable, btw)
• first fight
• first time you met each other’s friends
• first time you met each other’s parents
• first time you had to apologize for asking to meet your new paramour’s parents because s/he’s an orphan

…and the list goes on and on. If a bunch of these things happened to occur on the same day, that makes it easy (note: I did not just call you easy), but otherwise it ends up being, like I said, pretty arbitrary. Then, some people have the grand idea of celebrating anniversaries for every little progression in their relationships, which for me would feel much like the:

• first time I wanted to die.

Seriously, that would suck.

Edwin Pomble, my boyfriend previous to Laramy, was more pro-commitment and pro-fanfare. To give an example, he told me he loved me the second time we had sex, when we’d known each other for a month, tops.  (I’m not saying that’s a bad idea in general, only that I sure as goddamn found it alarming.) He and I were together for four years, and I never quite got the hang of when our anniversary was (or what, precisely, it commemorated).  I was pretty sure it was in a month ending in “ber”, but I never advanced beyond that. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t very happy in that relationship and it’s possible that I actually just didn’t find it particularly worth celebrating. So my brain passive-aggressively refused to remember the date, which was a dickish move. And it bothered him that I couldn’t be arsed to keep track of which day in which “ber’. It should’ve been a clue to both of us that it was time to move on.

So I don’t know exactly how long I’ve been with Laramy. A year-ish. A really great year-ish, during which I’ve gotten to get closer and closer, at my own pace, to a person who amazes me and complements me and tolerates me and makes me happy. I’m incredibly lucky that way. And we’re worth celebrating, but I honestly think we do, constantly, in our own ways.

(image source)

Have I mentioned yet that I kind of like sex toys? Have we covered that? Yes? Oh, good.

Well, I might start reviewing toys for Babeland, one of my favorite purveyors of sex toys, soon. Notice there’s a little banner for them on my sidebar now. That’s how excited I am about this (plus the banner has a hot chick, so there’s that too).

If you like sex toy reviews, the good news is that they may be coming in a little thicker over here in the not-too-distant future. If you don’t like sex toy reviews, feel free to send me other things to review. I particularly enjoy British roadsters.

If you verbally abuse someone, I don’t trust you. If you break things in anger, especially to intimidate or otherwise send a message to your partner, I don’t trust you. You can say it a million times: “I would never raise a hand against anyone!” “I’m not the violent type.” “I know not to cross the line.” Yeah, sorry. I still don’t trust you.

When I was a kid, no one sat me down to lay out the List of Unacceptable Behaviors. I honestly didn’t know that breaking things and punching holes in walls right next to me were red flag activities. I thought that if a guy didn’t hurt me, I wasn’t really allowed to complain. I didn’t understand that when a partner takes steps to try to isolate you from your friends and family, it’s time to dump the motherfucker already. If he told me he cared about me, well, that meant he did! Why would anyone bother to lie about that?

Yes, I was naive like the cosmos is big: beyond imagining.

I can’t blame anyone for my lack of education here. My parents certainly didn’t expect their daughter to find herself in an abusive relationship as a teenager (or ever, probably). In fact, I’m sure they thought I’d meet a nice Christian boy who would agree with my dad and treat me like a treasured helpmeet, and we’d get married young (the most reliable way to prevent premarital sex) and bless them richly with WASP grandbabies approximately nine months after I finally discovered on my wedding night what a penis looked like. They may or may not have also expected me to learn to speak in tongues, but this was merely implied, never discussed.

But despite my parents’ peculiar and inaccurate prophesies concerning my romantic future, I think they were deceptively typical: few parents want to plan for the worst, and perhaps fewer see the looming specter of an asshole on the horizon. I wonder how many parents ever give the List Of Unacceptable Behaviors talk.

Do people pick the list up from pop culture, peers, mentors, or their own common sense (of which I’ve never claimed adequate amounts)? The chilling answer is that far too few of us do until we’re taught the hard way. Far too many of us learn what’s unacceptable by accepting the unacceptable until we reach a crisis point. For me, the crisis point occurred with Reginald Sleeth after he broke things, after he called me names, after he hit me, after he choked me, after he threatened to kill me, and after so many other Fucking Well Unacceptable Behaviors.

I’m not a therapist or any other kind of expert in abusive relationships, but I have spent a lot of time processing and examining my experiences and the stories of other abused partners. Often there seems to be a pattern of escalation. An abuser might test to see if he (or yes, she) can get away with throwing something across the room so it almost hits his victim. If he liked the response from that, he might smash something right next to her, seeming almost about to strike her with it, and scaring her even more. After that, he might start shoving. Just a little. And so on.

The Slippery Slope is a fallacy because it does not logically follow that circumstances will inevitably escalate. But neither does not logically follow that an argument’s automatically invalid if it notes a process of escalation. When a person self-justifies abusive actions shrewd to provoke fear and grant him control over someone, he can’t be trusted to adhere to higher frequencies on an honor code spectrum he’s already breaking. Not all verbal abusers and object-violent abusers graduate to hitting their victims. But many do, and those who don’t are still abusive and still patently Unacceptable. And if no one’s ever told you that before, I’m damn well telling you now.

(image source)