quizzical pussy

Yesterday was National Coming Out Day, which means that no, of course I’m not done talking about bisexuals!

But first, to everyone who came out yesterday (or ever), to anyone: you are amazing. Really and sincerely, I cannot say this enough: you’re my heroes. Also, probably hot.

Anyway, it all started, as most stories do, when I bought a new bag on clearance last week for $15. The straps were rainbows, but not regular spectral rainbows so much as those retro 1970s palette rainbows. You know how in the ’70s everything looked kind of like that Sesame Street pinball animation?¹ I think it might have something to do with macrame, or Quaaludes… or both. But I’m really not sure. All I know is my bag is working off that color scheme, and has a monkey on it.

 

After a couple minutes of owning this bag, my mind returned quite naturally to the subject of sex, and I came to a realization: “If the regular rainbow stands for gay pride, the retro rainbow should stand for bisexual pride! Because macrame! And Quaaludes! Exclamation point!”

Now, here you’re probably going to stop me to remind me that there already is a bisexual pride flag.

But watch now while I rebut the hell out of you with the following two simple points: a) I like mine better, and b) I’m not already carrying around a pink, purple, and blue bag around every day, now am I?

So that’s my modest bisexual proposal. The immodest ones are even better, but I’m trying to focus on this one for now. Bisexual pride, yo!

1. I’m assuming. I wasn’t born yet, but all primary sources insist that the Victorian era was sepia and the 1970s were Sesame Street pinball. I’m just relating the facts here. [↩]

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!

I don’t know how widely known this is in general, but it’s worth noting that people sexually attracted to more than one gender (let’s call them bisexuals for brevity) get dumped on a little bit. Not enough for me to call myself oppressed or anything, but it’s there.

A bisexual actually may run into a fair amount of derision from both the straight and gay camps, mostly because they’re not doing a good enough job fitting in and fucking all the same people the respective camps enjoy fucking. Which is weird when you think about it because if everyone wanted to fuck the exact same people we’d better all pray to get zapped with the poly spirit soon or life becomes Thunderdome.

Before we go any further I want to acknowledge the reasons it’s easy to be a swinger of many ways, mostly because no one likes a pussy-eating, penis-devouring pessimist¹ and I would cry and get laid much less often if no one liked me. So hopefully the next paragraph down will demonstrate that I know it isn’t too terribly hard to be bisexual. There may also be a mild gloating element involved; we’ll have to see how it plays out.

First off, I probably have more options for getting laid than I would if I were straight or gay. There are definitely people who will refuse to fuck someone strictly on the grounds that they’re bisexual, but I haven’t run into that problem personally. So the fact remains that I can have sex with guys who like chicks and chicks who like chicks. Secondly, my sexual preferences and enthusiasm for threesomes theoretically make me some people’s dream girl: A Magical Sex Unicorn™. The power inherent in being a nigh-mythical sex object is unsubtle, perhaps, but don’t knock it. Other perks include the flexibility to blend invisibly into a heterosexual dominant society if I choose, simply by dating men, and generally having a much comfier closet than the gay one.

But it’s not all group sex and seamless deception. No, not by half.

One of the major problems you’ll run into when you’re bisexual is that no one takes that shit seriously. You can tell someone you’re bisexual, thinking you’re disclosing something very precious and personal, and far too often the response will be “Is that really even a thing?” or “Remember when you started that culinary arts program? And when you bought that dobro? Just wake me when your latest phase is over, okay?” or “Bi now gay later. Just saying.” You may also be accused–and this is much more likely if you’re a woman– of doing it all for the attention. Someone even coined the term myspace bisexual at some point, presumably when myspace was a thing. Because why explore your sexuality if there’s not a camera around? And boys? And boys with cameras?

The disbelief thing strikes me as odd. If I say I’m attracted to something, how does it make sense to tell me I’m mistaken or too young to realize I actually only like one half of that something? Is this just a ploy to get me to eat pussy in front of you because Magical Sex Unicorn™? The chances that will work get lower every time I fall for it, so at this point it’s not looking good.

Another problem bisexuals run into is the idea that it’s fine to be attracted to everyone, but it’s understood that ultimately you have to choose when you land in your obviously-going-to-be-monogamous soulmate relationship. Bisexuals actually repeat this a lot when they insist that bisexual doesn’t mean you want one of each, but that you can be in a committed, loving relationship regardless of gender. This describes some bisexuals perfectly. But not all of us. See, call me a bad bisexual, but I would miss penis. I would miss pussy. Personally, I can be monogamous, but I’m not sure that’s optimal for me. What if I kind of do want one of each?

Is my question.

And something weird: When you’re bisexual, well, you sometimes have this aforementioned ability to blend invisibly into a heterosexual dominant society, whether you choose to or not. And maybe you want to feel like you belong in gay spaces. Maybe you don’t want to be read as straight all the time.

Or the opposite can happen. Either way, people don’t tend to assume that you’re bi, despite what Kinsey may have told us all.

(image source)

1. …which I find oppressive, but we’ll get to that. [↩]

Anyone feeling libidinous lately? I jockeyed myself through about fourteen orgasms yesterday, although to be fair I only squirted three or four times. As my victory lap, I’m posting confessions I find especially hot in some way (or at least inspire me to think dirty thoughts). I actually get a lot of arousing confessions, and they wouldn’t all fit in this ConTuesday installment without the compilation thereof cutting drastically into my masturbation time, so perhaps this will be the first of several “QP’s Choice” ConTuesdays. Who knows?

But seriously. This way lies hotness.

When I was in studying philosophy in undergrad, I would regularly be reading something so interesting that I’d somehow get aroused and have to take a masturbation break.

I feel weird defining myself as a sapiosexual because that implies that I’m such a smartypants I get to decide who and what is intelligent and then use it to satisfy my own sordid desires, but fuck it. I’m pretty much a sapiosexual and this makes me feel funny in my smartypants.

This is Confessor #4 from June 7th: I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he never called. Ah well.

I have this funny feeling it was his loss entirely. Thanks for the update.

This is very very simple. From an early age, I had a terrible crush on a totally amazing older ”father figure” man. He was well-off, well-educated, well-traveled, well-read, well-everything. Tall, slender but strong, blue eyes, darkblonde hair, wonderful voice. He had lost his first wife years ago, married again, had two children with his second wife and I had never met his children because we didn’t live in my hometown anymore. (Actually, we lived in the country, all of us. He had homes in several places.

Years go by, I run into this man, about ten years older than I…and he seemed so familiar and so nice and handsome and sexy and elegant and classy. Ta-da! My preteen crush’s son…over that summer I attended several family functions and parties…the two of them were there. OMG! His father, my serious first crush, had only gotten more handsome, more charming, and he and his second wife were still very much in love. I was considered too young to date this man’s son by my strict father…but I was allowed to go on many family trips and visits.

As if my little mind had a mind of its own, soon, very detailed dreams began of being, uhmm, sexually and romantically involved with one or the other of these two men. And wait. There’s more. Sometimes, the dream revolved around being with the Father…and he and his son ”share” me. Then, it switched, in this dream, the son and I are very very involved and somehow, the son and father began to share me. In incredible and erotic and intense ways. I never really lost my crush on the Father…and I may have seriously fell in love with his son…only our age difference got in the way and then I met my beloved husband.

To this day, we occasionally see this family socially and in and around town. The father’s lovely wife recently passed away, tragically. The son…oh my. He’s very much a chip off the ol’ block. Two more handsome elegant charming and truly kind men, are hard to find.

And I still have vivid dreams and yes, fantasies of belonging to both of these men, and of course, now include in various ways…my beloved husband.

I. Am. So. Bad!

Just for the record, I think it’s really sweet and romantic that your husband now figures into your fantasies. It has to be true love when you share with your lover in even your most hidden fantasies.

I have a cute friend. A cute friend, recently available, whom I would kind of like to fool around with. I think it could be a lot of fun for both of us, probably not too serious, good times all around. Sadly, the cute friend has an extraordinarily crazy ex, and, alas! I am having serious reservations about involving myself in any of it.

Clearly you’re wise beyond your years, ignoring the fact that I have no idea how old you actually are. Too many of us would grasp the shiny and ignore the giant warning signs that we would have to file a restraining order before the whole thing was through.

I feel bad for cute friend, though. One (possibly sustained for quite some time) bad decision could potentially hobble cute friend’s fooling around prospects for years, depending on how scary the ex is. This is why we need to start training and distributing Hell’s-going-to-have-no-fury sniffing dogs (who should all be Papillons because awwwww). Prevention is the best cure here.

But failing adorable toy dogs and time machines, sneaking around can be really hot if you want to start fucking not wisely but too well.

My girlfriend posted on twitter tonight that I had left a pair of my panties at her house after spending the weekend there. A few moments later, she texted my to say she’d just masturbated while wearing them. It’s one of the hottest texts I’ve ever gotten and I just had to share it with someone.

That is insanely hot. I don’t know which of you I want to be more in this scenario, but I’m willing to try either. Or both. Yes. Both. In a “trading off” sense; not in a “both parties are me” sense, because frankly I already masturbate wearing my own panties and while it’s not half bad I think we can do a hell of a lot better if one of us starts being someone else.

Tell me a secret.

Henrietta Tansy is this girl I know. Young, healthy and comfortable, whip smart. Also the kind of girl who will actually say, out loud: “I’m worried my eyes are just too big for me to ever really be pretty,” knowing perfectly well that they’re “too big” just like they’re “too blue”, or the lashes that ring them “too long”. Then of course she’ll lament for hours how difficult it is to have so many ardent admirers, and confide how deeply she wishes people wouldn’t judge her based only on her (admittedly extraordinary) looks.

In short, hers are Mary Sue problems, and the story never ends. I want it on record that I have never slapped her. I’m not going to insult your intelligence by suggesting that I have never wanted to.

She’s currently in her first serious relationship, with a guy she pursued, something she’d never had to do before. “It’s so empowering!” She made a fist and pummeled the air as she told me this. “I wanted him, and I went after him, and now he’s mine!” To be honest, it doesn’t appear she had to work very hard. As she reminded me, she’s so much better looking than her new boyfriend she’s surprised they don’t get strange looks walking down the street. When he seemed uninterested at first she was indignant. But with a little persistence she seduced him, and she couldn’t be prouder if he were every bit as attractive as she is!

And yet again I was reminded that being the pursuer is something I’ve never experienced. My relationship with seduction has been mostly avoiding mocking laughter by eschewing it. So if it were empowering I wouldn’t exactly know, but it wouldn’t exactly surprise me.

I have this sense that there was once a time, long ago, when people were meticulously taught social graces as part of a well-rounded education, much like children are theoretically supposed to be taught geometry now. They learned how to be charming, how to have presence, how to hold a conversation, even how to tell a story that captivates one’s audience. Of course, this could well be a romanticized version of the past that’s a side effect from getting my working knowledge of old timey social interactions from novels. Dialogue is usually a little snappier when an author’s had the chance to mull it over for months and then edit it a few times. Perhaps these social graces have always been things we pick up only if we’re lucky, with one in a million of us seeming magically born with them like Henrietta was born freakishly adorable.

The one thing I know is that they are skills, and as such can be learned. And pretty much the only group who seem focused on systematically improving theirs are Pickup Artists.

As a community, Pickup Artists are at times awe-inspiring in their pursuit of self-improvement. When I make it a point to observe their process without judging their motives, it becomes clear that what they call “inner game” is largely an effort to build self-esteem. And while beginners learn scripted gambits to start conversations, the ultimate goal seems to be attaining true, engaging conversational skills. It’s only mildly off-putting that having legitimate discourse is often referred to as “improvising” rather than “talking”. The problem (if there is one, and that depends on your perspective) is that for some reason this is all done in the service of getting laid. All that effort to become a better¹ person gets cast in a manipulative light when it’s so single-mindedly libidinous, and frankly dehumanizing for anyone else in the sexual equation. But at least it’s honest.

I’m not honest.

I want what Pickup Artists want. I know what it’s like to feel like a social loser, and deep down, I don’t expect people to overlook that and see that I have a good heart and throw me a great big party with balloons. To be fair, my heart isn’t really all that spectacular. What I really want is to be charming and witty and poised and ever so magnetic. And my motives aren’t just to be well liked and make people smile, although those things are certain wonderful and welcome. I also want to be desired. I want to infect your mind like a melody and stab through you like hunger. It may be weakness telling me this, but I think it would feel empowering.

Even if I never took advantage of it, I’d want to know I had that power to seduce if I chose. It bothers me that the thing stopping me has never been nobler ideas about reciprocity and ethics and all that. Maybe those things factor in somehow, but it’s mostly fear I’d fail and look like a loser.

What makes this even worse is that I’m fairly sure that “Hey, wanna do it?” would work often enough that the question of seduction as art is barely worth thinking about.

(image source)

1. …or at least more socially pleasing [↩]

It is, objectively speaking, what dead wigs hope they’ll become every time a bell rings. It’s long and layered, wavy, two different shades of blue, and just vampy as fuck. Worth every penny I paid. I’ve never worn it out of the house, but I’ve taken crappy webcam pictures with it on, and when I look at them there’s something strange and unsettling about them.

The girl in the pictures isn’t me. To be perfectly honest, she’s sexy.

It isn’t just her long, blue tresses, although she has mindbogglingly fabulous hair. There’s more to her allure. Framed by that tide, the landscape of her face is no detestable nation. Her waist nips in and her curves bloom out in ways I appreciate. Her skin looks soft and her lips sweet and kissable. At the risk of sounding horribly narcissistic here, she’s actually kind of my type as long as I forget she’s me.

I’ve been clean through a rainbow and yards of hair over the years, and I’ve had a lot of different looks, but somehow I’ve never looked quite like I do in that wig. I guess the biggest difference is that when I wear it I don’t feel like me at all. I’m someone different. Different enough, at least, to stop maniacally tallying the dark circles under my eyes and stretch marks and 15 lbs I wouldn’t mind losing instead of looking. Really looking.

And I don’t hate what I see again until the wig comes off. How fucked up is that? How perfectly normal.

(image source)

 

I identify as bisexual, and sometimes I don’t really know why.

I’m still very much attracted to men and women. That hasn’t stopped. But the problem is, my lust isn’t necessarily confined to just those options. What about the people– people I’m certainly interested in possibly fucking– who don’t identify strictly as either, or who have a more complicated interpretation of gender? Am I ignoring them by calling myself bi?

Um, pretty much. Yes. I feel like I am. And that bugs me.

I could argue that I’m defining bisexuality as attraction to males, females, and everything in between, but I think that’s the cop-out. The term feels like it’s opting into a binary system: two options where manifold flavors exist. Plus, that would take care of between, but not outside those two genders, so mightn’t it still be ignoring people? Sexy, sexy people?

If I’m getting technical, I’m simply not bisexual.

I’m reluctant to go with pansexual, though. It makes sense, pan meaning “all” instead of bi’s “two”. But most people don’t know or care what the term means, opting instead to make the obvious joke about kitchen wares or the Greek god of nature and being a goat.

I have similar problems with queer, which feels the most authentic and accurate, but seems to generally come off as meaning “gay” to the majority of people who hear it. My partner is a man, so that would get confusing.

I know who I want to have sex with¹ so isn’t any label really and truly for other people? If all it does is obfuscate and befuddle, what’s the point? Why have one at all? It’s not a label, it’s my cue for a monologue. And I don’t like to hear my own voice that much. This is in no way a criticism of people who identify as pansexual or queer. I truly like both terms. I personally don’t know if I have the patience to explain them over and over, is my problem.

But it’s not like people outside the gender binary don’t get tired of explaining themselves all the time, is it? Maybe I should suck it up and stop ignoring them. I need to give this more thought, I suppose.

So I’m still bisexual. I guess. For now.

Really, my sexual orientation is “I’ll be attracted to whomever I damn well please,” but apparently for some reason that’s not a valid option.

1. Usually. Eventually. [↩]

There is an ancient prophecy. It’s been passed down from crippled harlot to slutty gimp through the generations¹. Though originally recorded in ancient Sumerian, the English translation somehow manages to be a perfect Petrarchan sonnet. Disabled trollops must have been quite magical at one point.

The tablet upon which it was carved so long ago is kept in a secret underground vault at the base of a wheelchair accessible ramp, and is guarded by vicious Gila panthers. I’ve seen all this with my own eyes. Once.

Of course, I didn’t memorize it. Even if I did I couldn’t share it on the internet, not verbatim, on pain of Hitachi Magic Wand torture. But trust me, the rhymes are ingenious coming from people who couldn’t have possibly known the English language would even be a thing.

I can tell you the gist of the prophecy, though, and it’s this: Someday thou, Quizzical Pussy, shalt stoppeth being so damn insecure. Verily.

It’s actually a little surprising that this ancient, precious prophecy ended up being about me, when I stop and think about it. Was that nice of those Sumerians or what? Anyway, knowing the future like that is a great comfort to me in times like this.

Because really, I am ridiculous.

I told Laramy a few days ago that I’m kind of waiting for him to get sick of me and leave². Which, as it turns out, is not a charming thing to say to one’s sweetheart. In retrospect, it was hurtful. It brushes up against ignoring what we have together, telling him I don’t really think he loves me even though I absolutely know he does. The problem is really that I don’t understand why, so I keep waiting to fuck it up by accident.

This is all mostly-to-entirely because I’m insecure. This is the same reason I lose touch with friends while I’m trying not to bother them. This is the same reason I feel like a creepasaurus creep whenever I try to flirt. It’s even why I’m afraid to say no to people I don’t want to have sex with. Insecurity has gotten me into so much more trouble than cockiness that I wonder why I’m still careful not to brag or build myself up. It should really be the other way around by now. But! Here we are.

Laramy never seems insecure about our relationship. We have a good thing going, and it doesn’t seem like I want to end it, so he doesn’t worry about it. This is pretty much just sense, but it feels like alien logic. I can’t imagine feeling that way. I’m glad he does, but it’s so counter-intuitive to me that part of me insists he’s not worried about losing me because it really wouldn’t matter much. But that isn’t fair. He’s probably just doing what emotionally healthy people do.

Why should anyone assume they’re on borrowed time in their relationship? What good does it do? And it’s not even that being single scares me as a general rule; I just specifically don’t like the idea of not being with him. We really do have a good thing going. And I think my insecurities have the potential ruin it more thoroughly and efficiently than anything else.

Does anyone ever really know why they’re loved, anyway? Is it necessary? Is it possible?

1. Did you not realize we have a sacred fraternal order? Cause we do. [↩]
2. This is not because of something he’s done or anything in particular about us. I’ve tended to feel this way even while in shitty, ill-advised relationships. [↩]

Sometimes I’ll get a confession and think “This doesn’t need to be a secret! It would be pure double rainbows and gumdrop teddy bears if the confessor shared this with their partner. It would bring them closer as a couple and probably even help usher in a new era of collective debauchery and love!

But then there are the times when I’ll read one and think “Anonymity is indeed a beautiful thing.” To wit, “Here we have a secret that’s a secret for a damn good reason.” Not that I’m judging, mind. I obviously have secrets myself; I’m not an anonymous blogger just because I’m afraid of getting too much fan mail. For all you know, one of the following confessions is mine…

I have a very, very small crush on my brother in law, but ever since I watched a thing of polyandry in Tibet, I’m kind of obsessed with the idea of being in a relationship with my husband and his brother both. I’ve been fantasising about it all day, like who snuggles with who when someone gets up first in the morning, and how absolutely freaking awesome it would be to fuck them at the same time.

This one hits fairly close to home for me. My sisters and I fall into the same general physical type, except they’re all much prettier than I am. I’m not being modest by saying this; it is very simply true. Since before anyone even thought about wanting to date me I have lived in terror of learning that a partner wants to fuck my sisters in addition to/instead of me. I can’t even say exactly why, and I will not even pretend it’s rational.  Coming up short in comparisons over the years has made me a little too neurotic, I guess.

I doubt I’m alone on this one. This is why fantasies about siblings, though probably incredibly common, usually belong firmly in the “Excellent anonymous confession, potentially devastating personal admission” category.

Of course, I’m sure there are also people that would love to share a partner with their sibling. Some people didn’t grow up indulging the petty jealousies that I did.

When my ex and I broke up a year and a half ago, he had gotten another girl pregnant in a weird poly experiment gone wrong (where they did not have my consent to be fucking without birth control), he immediately moved in with her, and she had the baby. Then I ended up becoming friends with her, and we would hang out and talk all the time. He and I would secretly dirty txt each other, and he begged me to fuck him again many times, but I always resisted, because I felt I owed it to her to refrain due to our friendship. Then about a month ago, she found a dirty video I sent him and got very upset, and we decided not to be friends anymore. It only took a couple of weeks for me to cave to his pleas, and yesterday we finally got together. He beat the crap out of me with a belt (consensually), and we spent the afternoon fucking. It was awesome. What pushed me over the edge was him telling me about his secret girlfriend that his baby momma doesn’t know about and me getting competitive with her. The bad thing is that I really don’t feel guilty at all. The other bad thing is that I realized that I am still in love with him. To top things off, he wants me to have a threesome with him and his secret GF, and I probably will. What a mess!

The more complicated a sexual situation is, the fewer people you can tell about it without compounding the drama. I just now decided to call this The Circus Tent Rule, because once you invite an audience inside the big top, every act suddenly gets more dangerous: animals are less predictable, nets and safety mechanics that were used in practice may be removed, and jangling nerves come into play. As long as you keep your mess a secret you’re still in dress rehearsal mode, and that can save lives.

Not that helping someone cheat on their partner is okay, but does talking about it ever suddenly make it more okay? One (unsolicited) suggestion, though: When you’re a party to cheating, being extra-vigilant about getting tested for STIs and practicing safer sex is really the least you can do.

It’s probably a bad idea to choose people to stay with while couchsurfing based on how much I want to fuck them…right?

I’m going to be conservative here and guess that 15% of people do exactly that. It’s probably a bad idea to tell people you’re choosing to stay with them while couchsurfing because you want to fuck them, and it’s definitely a bad idea to expect to fuck them. But I don’t think people necessarily do much damage just by wanting to fuck someone. Unless, naturally, that someone is my sister. In which case HOW DARE YOU?

Sadly, my much younger lover has left town and (maybe happily?) my husband has returned. I’m scared to death to have sex with my husband because I want him to do all the things my much younger lover did that turned me on so much but I don’t want him to wonder why I want those things suddenly. QP, do you have any advice on how to ask for new things without arousing suspicion?

Oh, so totally blame the internet. That’s what we’re here for. “I’ve been reading about this and can’t stop thinking about it. Can we try it?”

Do you, my lusty readers, have anything you yearn to tell but need kept secret? There’s a very simple solution!

 

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. [↩]