quizzical pussy

This week my confession about not being able to masturbate properly because of roller derby was posted and quizzical pussy said I was one of her fetishes. This made me insanely proud.

On a related note, if anyone happens to want to send me pics of themselves in derby gear or maybe kicking some ass on the track, I’m not going to lie… I will probably masturbate to them.

I get turned on by awful (lyrically, musically awful, that is) sexually explicit rap songs.

I have experienced this as well, so I think I get it. What I’m really trying to figure out is why Japanese rapper Ilmari’s voice makes me feel so funny in my pants whenever I hear it despite barely ever even knowing what he’s saying! It has to be a resonance thing.

That’s how the pyramids were built, you know. Resonance. (Okay, probably not really.)

I want 2 have sex with u ladies

Despite looking like Prince lyrics, this is turning no one on. Maybe it really does need to be rap.

How many retractions of secrets do you get, where someone, immediately after a secret, enters in ”OH GOD DON’T USE THAT ONE?”

It’s gotta happen.

Oh, it happens! Not often, but it happens. Far more often I write an entire, non-ConTuesday post, then think “Oh God, I’m going to let people read that!? How can I live this down?” And then I inevitably do.

I think I’m falling in love with a long-distance guy.

The guy’s going out on a date with another girl in Friday. Intellectually, I want him to be happy with or without me. Emotionally, I want him to want to be with me.

My plan? Thursday night I’m going to strip for him over webcam, then stick five fingers up my pussy while begging for his cock. BEAT THAT, actually present girl!

You’re an evil genius. (Okay, probably not evil. Mostly just hot.)

I don’t think I can get myself off just using my fingers. I always need something more, like a vibrator or a shower head. Somehow this makes me disappointed in myself.

Don’t be intimidated by the evil genius webcam fisters out there. Or anyone else. If you’re working with a vulva/vagina combo (which you didn’t specify, so please excuse me if my assumption is incorrect), needing something extra doesn’t exactly put you in the minority. If you’re getting yourself off in a safe way and having fun, I think you should be the opposite of disappointed. In fact, I think you deserve a theme song with driving base and triumphant guitar licks, but that’s just me.

My wife bragged that she’d submitted another confession. I asked her what it was and she flirtatiously said that I’d have to wait and see it and guess that it was her. I have this sneaking suspicion that when you publish it we’re going to have some freaky, nasty, wonderful sex. HURRY UP AND POST IT ALREADY DAMNIT!!!!!!

Here is the deal, people: If sex is at stake or time is of the essence for any other reason when it comes to posting your confessions, let me know. I know a guy. I can make things happen for you. If there’s one thing I don’t want to avoid doing on my blog, it’s facilitating freaky, nasty, wonderful sex.

Communication is key. Speaking of which, tell me a secret!

Many, many butts are perfect. And every perfect ever known to this world has had a but. Enjoy a few of each.

I started the SexLog as a whine to myself. She wasn’t having much sex with me, so every time she did, I would send myself an email about it, and put that email into a folder in my email. Every time I enjoined her to have a tryst with me, I logged it. At first, it was just a sad bitter little series of notes on the rare occasions that we had sex. But when the sex was great, I had to detail it, in fairness. When it was hot, I would detail the situation, how it started, and what positions we got into. I might mention what we said during sex.

Reading back over the last year, I see that we’re only averaging once a week. I wish it were more. But reading those times that we do have sex? Some of ’em are pretty damned erotic.

Once again whining is foiled by awesome sex! This happens a lot, I’m certain.

He makes me laugh until all the muscles in my torso feel sprung. He can make me laugh about anything — the crash and burn of my last relationship, the weather, my simultaneous lust for and terror of taking his clothes off, how mind-numbingly stupid bureaucracies are, what he wants to do to me with handcuffs and an order of Chinese take-out (extra sweet-and-sour sauce).

He’s outrageously, gratuitously beautiful to me, like sunrise in the Sangre de Cristos. The fact that other people seem to consider him either strange-looking or utterly gorgeous, no middle ground, only escalates that. It’s like being part of a secret club of people with good taste.

Every day I find something new to admire about him: His good humor about others’ assumptions, his damn-near epic determination, his delighted embrace of any kind of silliness that makes life a happier place to be, the core of stunningly improbable sweetness that underlies his nature, his playful and seemingly infinite patience with me.

It boils down to this: It’s harder for him to be just my friend than it would be for me to be his lover. But he’s making the effort anyway, because I am so goddamn scared to have sex with him, I damn near hyperventilate when he gets close to me.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want friendship; he’s been a good friend, including when I’ve deeply needed one. It’s that he wants to be more. When he says something or touches me in a way that leaves no doubt he wants me naked and writhing under him, it’s not news to him at all, but the bulletins are just starting to come in at my station.

It isn’t that I don’t want the sex, either. He makes my brain ache for it, never mind the standard achy naughty-bits. He makes me want to lick, bite, suck, pull hair, snuggle, see what his o-face is like, hear the sounds he makes (quiet? grunty? down-and-out nasty talk?). He knows all this, too; I’m pretty sure everyone who gets within 100 yards of us knows it. Might as well be tattooed on my forehead.

So what’s the problem? The past. Naturally. This is the sudden and unexpected beginning of the thing for me — and the end of a long process for him. He waited through my ill-advised relationship with his friend, and through my own blindered foolishness about the kind of man he is. Now he’s waiting through my absolute certainty that sex is going to ruin us, like it ruins everything else it touches in my life. It’s a good thing he’s patient; the more he’s my friend, the more we become something I don’t want to see ruined…and the longer his wait is going to be.

I hate that I feel that way; it’s not fair to him, and I’m religiously certain I’m missing out on an amazing lover, so it’s not fair to me, either. But I know that the moment the orgasms ended, I’d start counting down the days until I lost him — friend, lover, everything — just like every other time. And that thought is unbearable to me.

I hope you’ve worked through your past enough to look back on this confession and shake your head and smile, and maybe twitch a little from some muscle soreness from the mindblowing, love-affirming sex you had last night. Sex doesn’t ruin things; people do, and from how you describe it you are two people who are amazing together.

My friend and his wife really want to mess around with my wife and me.

I want to mess around with them.

My wife’s not sure. She hasn’t said ”No,” but she’s shy.

I don’t want to put pressure. The guy who puts pressure is That Guy. And we all know that That Guy sucks.

But any good partner should let his or her partner know what he or she wants.

So, it’s out there.

And I’m waiting. Tick. Tock.

Don’t be That Guy, no. But I guess you could always send her a link to this ConTuesday and tell her you thought she’d enjoy all the pics of nice asses, and oh, by the way, some guy wrote in about a foursome, so that’s interesting…

Send me a confession, won’t you please?

(image sources: 1, 2, 3, 4)

 

Because my vagina is now so snobby and fancy and very used to getting expensive things shoved up it, it has informed me that we simply do not do tampons anymore.

A tampon costs about $.20 or so, making it the crappy $10 jelly dildo of menstrual devices. According to my vagina, I can go fuck myself if I think that’s going to cut it anymore. After all, my vagina is used to Feeldoes and Pure Wands and a boyfriend with the most beautiful penis I’ve ever seen. So to a point, I understand how a wad of bleached cotton with a dangly string is just insulting at this point.

The Diva Cup, a medical grade silicone menstrual cup, is mathematically just a better thing to put in one’s vagina, according to mine. At over a hundred times more expensive than a single tampon, it’s more appropriate for a fancy vagina, is the argument. I think. Now, I’m not sure how fair it would be to say that I honor my genitals’ wishes whenever they get ideas about things, but I was out of tampons and when I actually did the math¹ I realized that this scheme would actually save me money in the long run. So I ordered one and then promptly got my period, which ended shortly before my Diva Cup arrived.

…Which was a little annoying, but the thing about periods is there’s always another one coming along eventually. Until there’s not, at which point you throw yourself the best party ever.

So on that last period I used up my remaining Instead Softcups, which I hate. They feel roughly like sticking a garbage bag duct taped to a hula hoop up your hoohah, and yet somehow manage to leak anyway. Considering that these war crimes were my first experience with menstrual cups, the leap of faith I took ordering the Diva Cup only makes sense when you realize I’m often entirely ruled by whimsy.

I waited about a month and a half, I think, before I started my very first Diva period yesterday. I have to admit I was a little excited beyond that normal “Jubilation! Not pregnant!² Not in total thyroid shutdown!” rush. I like new toys, okay?

I’ve been using this thing for less than 24 hours, so I’m not actually writing a comprehensive review, just sharing some first impressions:

1. Size-wise, the Diva Cup is much (much much) more manageable than the Instead, which always seemed to end up askew inside me and half pushed out because my body had no idea where it was meant to go. The Diva doesn’t feel nearly as obtrusive.
2. There’s going to be a bit of a learning curve. You fold up the Diva Cup to insert it, and then you’re supposed to turn it 360° while still gripping the base (not the stem) in order to get it unfolded and correctly placed. Now, I said the Diva Cup was smaller than a hula hoop-sized apparatus. Notice that I did not say it’s small enough to perform finger acrobatics with inside my nethers.
3. Overall, I’m encouraged. It seems to be working without much leaking despite the fact that I’m almost certainly not doing the turny thing right. And a good thing too, because I’m already financially committed to using it exclusively for uterine lining management for the next couple years.
4. And! It just occurred to me that I’m doing something wonderful for the environment as well! I should really treat myself and chop down a few baby Mediterranean monk seals. I’ve earned it.

Moral of the story: My vagina makes sense. We should all listen to it more often.

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1. Math being a thing that I, being a person and not a vagina, can actually make use of. [↩]
2. Yes, even though my primary partner has a vasectomy and I haven’t played with another guy in months, and always use condoms with anyone who isn’t Laramy. I am that paranoid. [↩]

It is a fact both fundamental and under-appreciated: men’s bodies are sexy. The male body is a beautiful, astounding thing, and keeping it healthy is fucking important.

So, because most men (as well as some women) happen to have prostates, before September ends I want to mention that it’s prostate cancer awareness month. Check out Ambulance Driver’s blog to learn about Kilted to Kick Cancer. He’s been promoting it all month by wearing a kilt around town, spotlighting other bloggers doing the same, and raising money for cancer research.

So check that out. And enjoy today’s ConTuesday devoted to penises, prostates, and health!

Did I mention that kilts are sexy too? That’s not even a confession. It’s a fact.

On to the confessions:

Not too far out I guess, but for ME it was…

Told my GF she could fuck me in the ass with a strap-on if she could find one with a small enough dick (had part of my rectum removed due to cancer and just can’t fit much up there). Let her (actually, begged her…) to finger me deep in the ass while she blew me. It was pretty good.

There are smaller dildos specifically for anal play that you can use with strap-on harnesses. For instance, the small version of this Silk dildo is 4 1/2 inches long. Might that work?

I’m a guy of average size (or at least what the internet calls average), and it has never really mattered to me.

R recently bought a realistic dildo (it squirts!) over the internet, and was quite startled by what came in the mail. The thing is -huge-.

Queue a bondage session with my blindfolded girlfriend, who has previously expressed reservations about my size, and was horrified by this thing. I got it out, and after working up to it, inserted – and within short order she had arrived at what was visibly the best orgasm of her life.

Size had always been a nonissue for me, but I do now have a deep desire to be able to do that to her without outside help; I am now insecure where I wasn’t before.

Some kinds of orgasms require props, much like some sports need specific equipment. She’s never going to give you a prostate orgasm with just her pussy, for instance, unless she has a genuinely singular anatomy.

The thing is, you gave her the best orgasm of her life while using an inanimate object. Now go tell Lance Armstrong he’s a loser because his bike’s doing all the work.

I could be happy with my sex life even if I never penetrated my wife again, as long as she still used the strap-on on me. There is nothing like a prostate orgasm. If you’re too uncomfortable with your sexuality to try it, I pity you.

Prostate orgasms are reportedly so awesome that I can really only curse my horrible luck being born a woman and try to content myself with the six or seven types of orgasms I actually get to have.

Also, I sincerely hope your wife is as into strap-on play as you are if you ever seriously consider making that your only sexual staple.

Last Friday I fucked this girl I’ve been scheming on. It wasn’t very good and afterwards I wished I hadn’t. She had a thin-lipped pussy, which I thoroughly licked (licked, not LIKED, as I like pussies with big fat flappy lips). She required that I wear a condom and then didn’t even blow me afterwards. She hadn’t fucked in 3 yrs, so now of course she is all in love and shit, even though prior to fucking she just said all she wanted was a hard cock, not a boyfriend.

In point of fact, this girl is smart to insist on a condom. Your sexual health benefits from it as does hers. But you probably already know that.

Good luck finding lusher lips, my friend.

I was just diagnosed with cancer and for the first time it truly depresses me that I may die a virgin… and soon. The closest I ever came was sending a woman(?) I “met” online a photo of my dick, and she said it was “a perfect cock”. I printed out that chat transcript and kept it folded up in my wallet for months.

I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this illness. I sincerely wish you a speedy and decisive recovery, and plenty of fucking in the immediate and distant future for you and your perfect cock!

Do you have a confession?

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It seems to me that virginity is one of those things that you pretty much get to define for yourself, like cheating or happiness. Other people, institutions, even laws may have their opinions, but when you break it down enough any definition of virginity seems arbitrary at best. Virginity is so confusing that some people don’t seem to know whether they’re talking about it or not.

I’m about to don my pedantry hat for a minute. Also my seldom seen, but very jaunty, theology hat. You’ve been warned. Immaculate Conception doesn’t mean what most people think it means. In common use, it’s become confused with virgin birth and used synonymously, but it’s never meant “conceiving a child while one is a virgin”. Immaculate Conception is an explanation by the Catholic Church going back to the year Way Long Ago A.D. as to why Mary (the mother of Jesus Christ) was good enough to carry and bear God’s son¹. They decided that Mary, unlike regular non-god-bearing people, had been conceived without original sin (a legacy from Adam and Eve) and was thus pure, immaculate. Later Mary conceived a baby while she was a virgin² and gave birth, but her Immaculate Conception was only a distant prelude to that virgin birth, and has very little to do with virginity whatsoever.

My personal theory is that people use the wrong term because it sounds fancier. People are suckers for fancy. Hold on for a second. Removing hats.

There. That’s better. Where was I? Oh, virginity. I don’t know what the fuck a virgin is. I don’t really know when I was one. My hymen broke twice, but neither of those were the first time I had an orgasm from someone penetrating me. And then it was still two years before I had a dick inside me. Except my mouth. Are we counting my mouth? Suffice to say I lost my virginity, if it was even a thing, but at this point I don’t really know or care when.

But when Laramy commented the other day that he’s never fucked a virgin, I’m almost positive he meant someone who’s never had penis-in-vagina intercourse. That seems to be the most common definition, although I can only imagine how gold star lesbians feel about that. Anyway, he’s mentioned it before.

“Is that one of your goals?” I asked him, curious, but smelling trouble from where I sat. Now, at our age virgins are getting a bit thin on the ground, so it wouldn’t be terribly easy to find one without actively hunting. And a casual, drama-free deflowering with one older, experienced partner who already has a girlfriend and one partner who doesn’t remember that pogs were once a thing can happen, of course. But it feels like it would be asking a lot of the universe.

“It’s not something I’m actively looking for, but it might be interesting.” One interesting thing about Laramy is that he says this about virtually all forms of heterosexual sex he’s not having at that precise moment.

“If you’re that interested, I’ll just get one of those fake hymens³,” I shrugged.

“That’s a thing!?”

Of course it’s a thing! Because sadly, some people still buy into one of the weirdest definitions of virginity: the intact hymen. And there are still places in the world where a woman’s future might depend on her ability to fake that, whether she’s a virgin by any other definition or not.

But I guess it could be a sex toy too. If you’re not too cautious with your mucous membranes.

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1. The later Protestant explanation is that she quite simply wasn’t, just like no one on Earth was good enough for a god to die for. This is probably why it took a Protestant to write “Amazing Grace”. [↩]
2. Or as a young, unmarried woman, depending on how you like to translate ancient texts. [↩]
3. Just for the record, I was in no way serious. I have no idea what’s in those things, but I can guess it’s not all medical grade silicone and hypoallergenic red lube. [↩]

 

Some people get very, very specific about what kind of people they’re physically attracted to.

There’s nothing wrong with this, of course. Feeling guilty for having a type is a bit like feeling like a heel for preferring pecan waffles to strawberry Poptarts. It’s subjective, and you’re the subject. As long as you’re treating people who fall into your type like human beings rather than fetish fuel, follow your dreams and pass the syrup. It would be irrational to expect someone to be physically attracted to everyone, and you don’t owe anyone your attraction any more than they owe it to you to conform to your ideals.

But then there are those who take having a type to a whole new level, and get skull diagrams specific about what’s attractive to them. Take Erik Holland, the man behind femininebeauty.info (Warning: May contain body shaming in flavors both typical and exotic, homophobia, transphobia, racism, and gratuitous evolutionary psychology). Erik seems preternaturally concerned about the mainstreaming of “masculinized women”¹ as attractive, and infiltration of the fashion industry by gay men, who promote (you guessed it) masculinized women as a beauty ideal!

What’s a masculinized woman? So glad you asked. Apparently, any woman (typified by high fashion models, apparently) with a strong jawline, prominent cheekbones, a waist-to-hip ratio over .65, and/or other physical properties that seem to matter a lot to precisely Erik Holland. Also, I increasingly suspect the more I read through the site, any woman who is not white is hopelessly masculinized.

You can read here about all the features that are undesirable on a female body, and view the skull diagrams that I was totally not making up. Never before had I wondered, even for only a split second until I remembered I don’t give a shit, if maybe my ribcage is too big.²

Do not ask me why these features, even if they are “masculine”, are undesirable. He can dress it up as a crusade to save women from eating disorders or something, but I’ve pretty sure this is just about what’s desirable to this one guy. What’s more, I don’t understand what he’s even seeing half the time. Heidi Klum up there? Practically a man. The woman on the right? That’s a real woman. I do not understand why, exactly, but there you have it.

Pretty sure this is just what happens when you confuse “what I’m attracted to” with “objectively attractive”. Even if you have a shrewdness of statistical studies saying that people generally agree with you, that doesn’t magically make it Truth. It just means that many, maybe even the majority, of people agree with each other. But that’s not actually what objective reality is made out of.

There’s no objective beauty standard. If everyone suddenly adhered to any one rigid ideal there would be throngs of disappointed people, mourning the loss of the most attractive (to them) bodies on the planet. If masculinity and femininity are even meaningful words, I consider them accessories rather than musculoskeletal markers. But even buying into this website’s strange paradigm, “masculinized” women look just fine to me. So do “feminized” men. In all seriousness, what on earth he even talking about most of the time?

In conclusion, one man has clearly put in an immense amount of effort to exhaustively define and glorify his ideal woman, but that’s not the extraordinary thing. The really impressive part is what a prick he is to everyone else ever in the process.

P.S. Ladies, if you’re still in doubt after studying those graphs, keep in mind you can send him your pictures and he’ll tell you if you’re feminine enough! Let me know how that goes, won’t you please?

1. Scare quotes because what the fuck? [↩]
2. Answer: No. My lungs are not rattling around inside there, and it has not as of yet broken through my skin. [↩]

I should go see my doctor, and soon. I think my thyroid levels are starting to slip. The major clue is that my indomitable sex drive seems to be, well, domitting¹ a little.

How do I know? Same way the world knows a Uew Boll movie is going to suck: Experience.

Starting about four years ago I stopped having periods for ten months. Once I stopped freaking out over whether or not I was with child, which took at least two or three months, I noticed that my orgasms– usually so delicious, volatile and true– had vanished into thin frustration, and eventually I became pretty much indifferent to having sex at all². Blood tests, when I got around to them, showed that my thyroid hormones were stupid low. It turns out that those are important for non-sexual functions as well. Like, being alive and stuff. Oops.

Recently, my periods have been, to use the technical term, wonky. And my sex drive has seemed a lot more, for lack of a better term, normal. I still want sex. I still masturbate. I’m just less fixated on getting off than I usually am.

Having a lowered sex drive is actually a good thing right now. I don’t see Laramy all that much, so we don’t get a chance to fuck more than a couple times a week. Sex outside of my primary relationship only happens occasionally. I have not yet turned down sex. I wouldn’t even say that I’m entirely satisfied with how much I’m getting, but I’m much more content with my libido this way than the gnawing, snarling sex-hunger I’m used to feeling. It’s comfortable. It’s manageable.

But it’s not healthy. I’m almost sure the cause in an actual medical problem, and I’m fairly certain of what it is. There’s every reason to believe it’s going to get worse if I don’t run the blood tests and adjust my medication as necessary. There’s the actual health stuff to consider, as well as the risk that I might stop having orgasms if I’m not careful. I also don’t feel like me unless I’m a nympho.

If mad horniness is my superpower, kryptonite is happening right now inside my glands. And being the flawed character I am, I’m conflicted about it, but I’m going to do the right thing. For great justice.

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1. Don’t bother looking it up, by the way. It’s not a word. [↩]
2. At least with my boyfriend at the time, honestly. [↩]

Growing up I had a game I liked to play. If I was stuck somewhere with a lot of other people and not much to do, I’d look at them one by one and figure out why each of them was beautiful.

Sometimes it wasn’t immediately apparent, especially if I knew and disliked someone. But if I looked long enough I’d find it. Sometimes it was shallow and obvious, and sometimes I had to work a little: a nose no one else would be born with for another 500 years, eyes hugged pleasantly by smile lines, a perfect cupid’s bow. I just had to find it beautiful, and as long as I found something in everyone I won the game.

I guess one could argue that the nature of this game was offensive and presumptuous on any number of levels, but what did I know? I was a kid and it never occurred to me that I was being rude by staring or shallow by focusing too much on people’s looks.

The interesting thing? I literally never lost. How could I? When you look for something like that it’s always there.

No one is born ugly. When you’re born you just look like whatever you look like; you aren’t yet equipped with all the tools required to make judgments about your face, your body type, your body fat percentage, whatever “flaws” you’re going to discover later.

And while there may be as many ways to be ugly as there are ways to be beautiful, everyone arrives at physical ugliness in the exact same way. You learn that there are good and bad ways of looking, you realize that you don’t necessarily look the way people want you to look; that they might think your appearance qualifies as bad. And then, the final and necessary step: You agree with them.

Because you’re not ugly if you don’t believe you are. There’s this amazing protective magic that happens when you don’t believe it, and that makes it impossible. If you feel like you look the way you’re supposed to look, every dirty look and snide comment dissolves in the power of you not giving a shit.

But if you buy into ugly, the naysayers you’re agreeing with don’t even have to be real. They can be completely imaginary, and all the real people in the world can think you’re exquisite, and that’s going to make not one lick of difference. You’re ugly, and no one is telling you any different.

The magic trick of not giving a shit is admittedly harder for some of us to master than others. Sometimes because the looks police bastards are very real, and intent to grind some of us down particularly. Sometimes because many of us refuse to realize the truth: we are never, not even ever, objectively ugly. Because there is no such thing.

When I think about how terribly hard I’ve worked to become ugly, it angers me. It could be so easy to find beauty in ourselves instead. Fuck, a six year old can do it.

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There is an art to giving a handjob. You will notice here that I don’t claim to have mastered this art, simply that it exists. I’ll admit that this is one of my weaker points when it comes to sexual skills. To me, a handjob is usually an entirely pragmatic maneuver: I’m trying to get or keep a penis hard until I can put it somewhere more exciting than between my hands. Handjobs, however artistic they have the potential to be, usually end up being transitional for me. I enjoy the penis touching, of course, but I can’t help thinking about what parts of me it could be touching forthwith.

And I have to admit, that sort of bugs me about myself.

I’m not a big fan of downtime. I would prefer that every moment with me be mindblowing for my lovers. In a perfect world my lips would vibrate, my cervix would have a tongue, and my hands stroking a penis would be as Aphrodite’s hands. In a perfect world. As it is, they are regular hands, and I sometimes worry that my handjobs are boring. There. I said it.

This is not why I gave my boyfriend Laramy the Tenga Egg Babeland sent me. But it’s part of why I offered to help him try it out. Also, though, sex toys are a hobby of mine, and you’re supposed to share your hobbies with your partner, right? It’s what couples do. Astoundingly, Laramy seemed much more eager to explore this than my equally avid interests in yoga and belly dancing.

The Tenga Egg is a cute, clever disposable masturbation sleeve. You can wash and reuse it if you’re careful, but it’s not the most robust sex toy ever made. It’s made of soft, flexible silicone elastomer, and available in six different textures. The cute, clever part is really in the packaging: these sleeves come in little plastic eggs with colorful labels. You can buy a fairly adorable single egg for $8.50, or you can save money and get a set of six in a crazy adorable egg carton! I haven’t seen a men’s sex toy presented this whimsically since some wag made it suddenly seem possible to fuck Yoda Yaddle.

I was excited to see how Laramy liked the Tenga Egg, and maybe even get to feel like a handjob goddess. Why should my mouth get all the accolades? I mean, seriously!

The different textures include: what seem to be twisty vertical ribs, wavy horizontal ribs, a spider web (clearly the most erotic pattern known to man), knobby polka dots, thin spun thread patterns, and, the one Laramy ended up with, the “Stepper”, which looks– just to put this in the sexiest terms possible– like semicircular flaps arranged like scales. Or something. It seemed promising… stimulating.

We tore open the little packet of lube that comes with the Egg, applied it to both toy and tool, and took turns stroking. The sleeve is kind of like a looser, thicker, stretchier condom. Laramy said it felt good and the material was pleasant, but he didn’t seem to feel transported, as you might be if you were getting a handjob from, say, a goddess. Gradually, two problems became  apparent:

1. The lube provided was more sticky than it was at all lube-like.
2. The textured part of the Egg was concentrated around the sides, instead of the tip. All that exciting, scaly sensation was focused on the less sensitive parts of his penis. When fully stretched, the sleeve was completely untextured around the head of his cock.

The first problem is easy: inferior lube tends to get sticky. I would generally recommend someone use a lube they know they like when playing with a new toy anyway. But the second issue? Made no sense to either of us. Why would anyone design a toy with an emphasis on interesting textures and make sure those textures only touched shaft?

“Maybe it’s having to stretch too far because your cock is too big,” I suggested. Laramy did not hate that postulation. I think that might actually be what it was, though. Laramy does have a formidable dick, and otherwise we’re looking at just a glaring design flaw. Whatever the issue, the Tenga Egg didn’t work for him, although he thought it was promising in concept. He actually asked me if it was okay if he threw it away.

We ended the session with Laramy washing that horrendous lube off his cock and fucking me, which is usually exactly what I’m hoping to get out of a handjob.

Thanks, Babeland!

 

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When you work as a phone sex operator, you are often essentially being paid to pretend you believe bullshit.

Yes, of course your penis is the exact dimensions of a foot-long meatball sub.

You’re talking to me while a Victoria’s Secret model is sucking your cock? Wow, Mister. That is really something!

So let me get this straight: You have interacted with real, actual people before? In public? Unsupervised? Oh, baby, that’s so hot.

I was uniquely suited to this task because I am naturally straight-off-the-bus gullible. When I was younger I somehow didn’t grasp the concept of lying to impress people. I loved to invent stories with fictional people, and I’d lied for self-preservation before, but it had never in my life occurred to me to prop myself up with false claims, and somehow that left me blind to it when others did it.

This led me to marvel at how that nice Mormon girl I knew in eighth grade had managed to join a gang of drug dealers. It also left me wondering how Reginald Sleeth, my first boyfriend, had managed to ghostwrite so many songs for indie bands without ever getting paid for it!

I have since learned to be a bit less credulous, but it’s still embarrassingly easy to lie to me sometimes. And this serves me well when people are lying to impress me and I’m supposed to seem duly impressed.

But this one guy took the cake.

I think one customer was single-handedly keeping the struggling phone sex company I worked for afloat. He called in almost every night I worked, and the dispatch ladies told me it was far more often than that.

As far as I could tell, he really did just want to talk.

I never heard any panting, quickened breathing, or sloppy slapping sounds. He never wanted to talk through his fantasies, he never wanted to talk dirty. He just wanted to talk.

Sure, it was usually about sex. He liked it best when I was playing a naive, innocent character and he could explain things to me. He’d tell me about his countless sexual exploits, and his preferences in women, and almost shyly describe his prowess. He loved to make a woman come over and over.

And I might have believed him, too, if it weren’t for the train story.

He’d traveled extensively, he said, in the days when that was as likely to mean great trains gliding across the country as airports and flying machines. And he had found women everywhere he went. This is a potentially true thing, since women are indeed just about everywhere. I have heard that scientists recently found a woman in Antarctica.

Once he was on a train and made his way through the observation car to the very back, where he could cling to the rear railing and get some fresh air.

As he took in the scenery of the tracks unraveling behind his mount, he smelled an unknown but intoxicating ladies’ perfume, and felt someone approach behind him, close, closer, pressing lightly against his back. He felt warm breath play at his freshly barbered neck, and then a soft kiss: a flutter, really. Lips on him, and then a gloved hand covering his eyes.

He felt his meatball sub of manhood stir, as the mystery woman’s hands reached around to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants.

And then they had sex, he told me. He never saw her face.

“Wow, that must’ve been really hot for… wait, you couldn’t see her face through the whole thing?” Trying to keep my voice giggly and shrill.

“She was behind me the entire time,” he told me, wistfully.

“But you had sex? Like, penis-in-vagina intercourse?” Completely breaking character now.

“Oh, yes. It was,” my customer concluded, “the most erotic experience of my life. She was the most beautiful woman I never saw…”

Oh god. Anatomy. Mechanics. Just… impossible. Hand over mouthpiece. Cackling. Gasping for air. Deep breath. Smile. Now. Give him what he’s paying for. Give him buoyant.

“Wow. That is really, really hot. You have had such an exciting life!” Give him brainless.

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