quizzical pussy

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.

(image source)

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. [↩]

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Ever wondered why the woman on the left is so unattractive?

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. [↩]

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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.

(image source)

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. [↩]

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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.

(image source)

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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.

You know you wish you'd thought of it first.

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 "Stepper"

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!

(image source)

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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.

(image source)

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When I think of things I’ve wanted my entire life, the word “adventure” seems to come up a lot. I think deep down I’ve always wanted to captain a pirate ship in a sea populated by mermaids and monsters.

I used to define the perfect partner as someone who wanted to have adventures with me, and who made them better just being a part of them.

Now, generally, having a small fraction of the energy a healthy person has, it’s hard for me to get too ambitious and exotic. I have to carefully ration energy for everything I do. But trying something new is pretty much always, always worth the drain.

It does not hurt if there are orgasms involved.

I spent last night making out with and tickle-fighting my gay best friend and a mutual female friend (who, like me, IDs as straight). It was my first threeway play and my first time kissing another woman, and it was awesome! Not horny or romantic, just all friendsy and fun and biting and tickling and kissing. His housemates had to have heard us shrieking.

This is exactly how I imagine mermaids behaving. Yar.

My boyfriend loves my ass. I’ve never delved much into anal play before him, but I’m enjoying it… or maybe it’s the multiple orgasms he gives me before the anal play, which certainly eliminate any chance of tensing up.

Sometimes, while he’s got me bent over, he’ll reach into the Fun Drawer for some lube and start playing while he’s fucking me.

Last night, after a session of that, he turned to me and said ”It was just there, and it looked so good….”

I of course responded with ”So, you’re saying that my ass is like Everest?”

I think I love you. Because you’re awesome.

So I am a 21-year-old, relatively good-looking, frighteningly-intelligent, incredibly boring male, to the extent that I’ve never managed to keep a girlfriend interested for more than 3 months. Nor have I managed to get laid with a girlfriend, girl at a party, etc.

(It’s not that I can’t converse for hours on end about almost any subject. I’m just quite apathetic about almost everything.)

Instead, my entire sexual history consists of 2 visits to a bordello in Berlin.

The first time was… okay. While the prostitute was really nice (and gorgeous), I had no clue what I was doing. In addition, being significantly larger than the average male, the normal-size condom was cutting off my circulation something fierce, and I just couldn’t stay hard. All in all, I exhausted myself pounding away for an hour and a half.

Yesterday, I visited again. Much better. I specifically asked for a magnum condom right off the bat–she waffled around a bit, the whole ”you’ll be fine with a normal,” at which point I mentioned that I’m 8.5”. She got one.

Also, she was REALLY horny. As in, soaking when she stripped her panties off. We started off with mutual oral, and she stopped several times because I was somehow actually getting her off! She kindly thanked me for my consideration.

We did the typical missionary, doggy, and her-on-top missionary, and during the lattermost I managed to bring her off twice more (NOTHING feels better than a woman cumming around your penis), and ended up with a lake on my stomach from her enthusiasm! Sadly, my staying power–who’s heard of a noob who doesn’t shoot off at the drop of a hat?–meant that I didn’t cum before the hour and a half was up. I played it off as ”yeah, I usually go for hours on end. No worries!”

I found that interesting. Maybe if you choose to date in future you could lead with that? On second thought, that might be more of a third date conversation…

She spontaneously put her finger in my ass, and I liked it some, despite my faint inate phobias. But it rubbed it raw. To do this again, I’m going to have to ask her to use lube or even a device or gloves. And that’s just planning out anal exploration a bit more than I think that I can openly do, and still be a straight man.

Yes, I’m completely aware of how stupid this sounds.

You don’t sound stupid. You sound scared. And with the tons of shame piled on guys if they don’t adhere to demoralizingly rigid standards, it’s not surprising.

But pretty near every man alive has a prostate. So don’t think for a second that you’re alone.

Have adventures to brag about? You know I want them.

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ConTuesday is upon us! Read on for your weekly dose of internet confessions.

You are DEFINITELY not the only girl who grew up wanting to bone Data in Star Trek. I was barely old enough to know what sex was when I decided I reckoned I could teach that android how to feel a few things.

I have a feeling that there are enough of us out there to make Brent Spiner a very happy man for the rest of his life.

I tried to comment there, but for some reason it didn’t work. *shakes fist* so here:
——————————
I hate to admit it because she’s the most popular woman in porn right now (as far as I’m concerned), but I -love- Sunny Lane. Eager, excited, loves her job, comes at the drop of a hat… and it doesn’t hurt that she looks much like more than one of my lovers (is that weird?) Did you know her parents are her managers? Strange but true. Also, her (one) anal sex scene is super hot.

I, too, love Tristan Toarmino, whether she’s in a movie or directing it.

Beyond that, I rely on Ifeelmyself.com . I even had a friend on there, once, which was pretty hot. torrent up a few, so worth it.

–Crispin

Porn stars, like indie bands, just aren’t cool anymore once other people like them. That’s why my favorite porn stars are all webcam performers I found on craigslist Rhode Island.

Yes, Crispin, I am calling you out as a porn hipster. Also agreeing that Sunny Lane is well adorable.

I’ve always been sort of … negative in my opinion of myself, often in spite of specific evidence to the contrary. I’m poly, I’m married, I have two girlfriends and some other, less well defined sex partners. I figured I was, y’know, average, and the ladies were just trying to be nice. But I guess, after years of being told I’m large and know how to use it, and having gotten several of those occasional partners by direct reference, I have to actually accept it.

I know, an anonymous confession on the internet, from a guy, about how he’s got a big cock. How believable is that? *shrug* You said you wanted to hear something good, however, and it’s the most positive thing I can think of to say about myself. :)

I’m actually inclined to believe you, a guy posting to ConTuesday about how he has a big cock, partially because ConTuesday is anonymous so where’s the endgame? But also because you didn’t give fantasy inches. “My 10-inch tool” (or whatever) seen digitally always smacks of the over-elaboration that accompanies wishful thinking.

Similarly, when you are a silly girl in Middle School writing fiction, all your heroines have violet eyes with sapphire ringing the pupils. And gold flecks.

Guy I gave my phone number to yesterday: I want you. I want to ride you until your knees buckle, your toes curl up and you temporarily lose higher motor function. I want our involuntary screams of pleasure at all hours of the morning to wake everyone else on the block. I want to tie you up and do unspeakable things to you, and I want you to tie me up too. I want to lie in a heap of quivering flesh and sweat-soaked bedsheets with you. I want to lick every sweet inch of you. I want a reason to buy condoms in bulk. I want you… but I’d settle for coffee, so call me, ok?

Holy shit, please tell me he called.

If not, every guy out there who received a number a couple months ago and never called: You will never know if this was you.

Got a secret? Tell me. Massive extra points if it turns me on.

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I’m sick and tired today, yet again, so without much jaunty preamble… ConTuesday! ConTuesday will cheer me up.

My very first dildo is supposed to get here today. I’m so excited!

Years ago I met a young mother with a daughter named Dylan. I’m not sure if she realized how odd it sounded when she called her little girl “Dyldo” (sounded exactly like you fear/hope it did), but I have to wonder how she could not. I am not making this up.

Anyway, hope you had fun!

School was sooo boring today that I spent the whole class fantasising about the guy next to me. First I wondered if it was ok just to turn to him and ask if he wanted to leave the lecture to fuck. Then I thought about not leaving the class to fuck. I thought about asking if could suck him off under the desk. Then I got lost in the multitude of dirty naked things I’d like to to with him. Next thing I knew, lecture was over, I hadn’t written a word, and he was turning to me to ask about the assignment! I somehow managed to reply that it was due friday, rather than telling him I wanted to tie him up and ride his face. I’ll have to make the effort to work on that assignment with him to see where it goes…

This sort of thing has definitely happened to me before, but I think I always recover well.

How many people out there think that it’s wrong to have sexual fantasies about unsuspecting acquaintances and friends? I don’t, obviously. I don’t really believe in thought crimes in general, but I’ve known plenty of people who will not do it.

I have comically large balls, but less than one quarter of the normal testosterone level. While folks may not be sure there’s a god, it’s hard to argue that whatever’s out there, it has a fucked up sense of humor.

There has to be a God. The world is too fucked up to be an accident.

I’m in a cynical mood today (see: sick and tired).

I have no sensation in my areolas. Never had any form of surgery or injury on my breasts, they just have always been completely numb. I’ve never told anyone about it. For some reason it makes me feel ashamed that I can’t get any form of pleasure from that part of my body.

I’ve noticed that roughly half the guys I’m played with (admittedly not an impressive sample size) get no particular pleasure from nipple stimulation. I’m sure many women don’t get much out of people touching their areolas (though my personal experience indicates they’re probably fewer). Please don’t be ashamed that you might not respond to the touches partners might first expect to give you. Part of the fun of having sex with you is learning and doing what turns you on.

Please send me an interesting sex secret in this, my time of need.

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I don’t even know where the line is between being attracted to someone because of traits they possess (which seems more or less healthy) and being attracted to someone because they belong to a certain group that either do or are perceived to possess one or more traits.

Basically, at what point does it become creepy and objectifying?

You know how some guys seem to regress to preverbal panting when confronted by a naturally redheaded woman? I wonder what it’s like to be that redhead. Is there a rush of power, knowing that she’s the brass ring for plenty of people? Is it annoying because while they’re fixating on her titian hair no one seems to be noticing her beautifully sculpted shoulders? Is it just exhausting because it’s so seldom just red hair they want, but things they associate with red hair, be it sexual dynamism, temperament, whatever the hell people tend to think they know about her before they know it. I imagine it has to be demoralizing on some level to realize that you can be someone’s perfect woman before he knows a second thing about you.

And red hair is just one example. I’ve known Asian women who’ve had a similar problem, carefully wading through fantasists to find sincere dating prospects. I’ve met people who will only fuck musicians, or rich people, or skinny people. And well-endowed women must get tired of all that eye contact their boobs get.

Where exactly does it stop being creepy and start being the normal way attraction works? I do not know. It’s hard for me to feel actual attraction for someone I haven’t gotten to know yet. Maybe if I was experienced in feeling instantaneous sexual interest I’d have a sense of that line. Or if I felt constantly fetishized I’m sure I’d have some opinions on where it is.

I suppose the one fetish/preconception trigger I sometimes feel like I’m brushing up against is the bright hair. It isn’t really the same thing, maybe, but it give me some insight. See, I like to dye my hair crazy colors most commonly seen on the heads of high schoolers and cartoon characters. I’ve been through most of the colors of the rainbow and some change. Immature, unprofessional, attention-seeking, or whatever you want to call it, it’s honestly just the way I like my hair. It looks right to me when it’s ridiculous. And maybe that does say something about me on a deeper level, but I don’t think it says much. I’m very much the same person no matter what my hair looks like.

But occasionally I’ll run into a guy who looks at me and sees a Manic Pixie Dream Girl*. He will ask me about my hair, why it’s purple or whatever, and expect an interesting response. A movie dialogue response. “It’s my natural color. I decided.” will not entirely satisfy. “I like it.” would not be valid at all because it isn’t going to blow his mind and kick off our amazing adventure that will culminate in him growing as a person.

Even getting to know me a bit, when he finds I’m silly and quirky and whimsical and creative, the illusion won’t be shattered just yet. It will take a little while to realize that instead of teaching “broodingly soulful young [him] to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures” I’m kind of just going through life as normal and trying to have a relationship (or possibly just a fling). Knowing me isn’t really opening the world up like a wacky, technicolor flower.

And then he feels resentful because I’ve lied. Not with my tongue and lips, but with my hair and playful attitude, now belied to hell by my being a real fucking person who is too busy being a protagonist in my own stuff to bother being a plot device.

I’ve just gotten tastes of that. Of course most people over four don’t really think my hair makes me magical. If they did, though, I’d have an even longer history of disappointing them.

(image source)

* I realize the link describes this stock character as “stunningly attractive”, but naturally real-life MPDGs would be held to a lower standard. These characters are usually romantic interests for main characters, and played by Hollywood actresses, so…

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