quizzical pussy

I’m aware that I’m posting this ConTuesday when it’s nearly Wednesday, which edges it close to being an abomination or something. The truth is, the first half of yesterday was full of staying up too late, having mad orgasms, and waking snuggled up with Viola Sharqtipus, and the rest of it was spent telling my blog I had a headache or a tired or whatever. It is now like 10:30 PM. Oops.

You know I’m not going to apologize for great sex with a beautiful woman or anything that came thereafter. You do know that, right?

I think I’m finally going to tell the girl I’ve liked for over two years that I have a crush on her. I’m terrified, but it feels right. Wish me luck!

Two freaking years of crushing? Wow. I wish so much luck for you.

P.S. Write back and tell me you’ve been fucking for months now, please!

I met a guy at an out of town event and fucked him a couple of times, both of us thinking it was totally casual. Then I met up with him for a weekend, also intended to be casual and fun, but it ended up being super intense and deep, and I practically fell in love with him right then and there. We had an amazing energy and connection during sex that I really haven’t experienced before, and I’ve had sex with a lot of people. Then shit got all weird and fucked up, and it turned out that he was a jerk, and I had to break things off. Now I can’t stop fantasizing about sex with him. I spent last weekend with a FWB, and I thought about the other guy the whole time. The sex with my FWB was boring, and now I’m terrified that sex is only going to be interesting and exciting to me if it involves a connection like I had with that guy. I’ve always enjoyed casual sex and never even considered a possibility like this before, and I’m freaking out. What if I can’t find it again??

I guess it’s possible your palate has changed and casual sex is less for you than it was before. But the world being what it is and people being what they are, there are always amazing connections to be made with non-jerks. This is a fundamental rule of the universe, nearly as comforting as gravity.

I was reading through your back posts and I stumbled on the Dec 20th Con Tuesday post. Specifically the one where the confesser said that this picture made them heteroflexible and you responded with “She really is delicious, isn’t she?”

I clicked the link and turned bright red when I saw the girl in question….
Because if her nipples were pierced she’d be my twin from at least the neck down.

Hence, you’re delicious. Deal with it.

Forget the theory about going blind. I’ve given myself wonky teeth from masturbation.
How the hell? Well, I reflexively push my tongue into one corner of my mouth when I near orgasm, a bit like some people curl their toes or arch their back, and I’ve done this so frequently that yep… there’s a gap where I stick my tongue, and definite wonk to my teeth…a wank wonk, if you like! Ahaha! WANK WONK! I’ve only just thought of that as I typed it. God it’s been a long day.A long, hard day…o.0 …

You’re not alone. Chaucer’s Wife of Bath in the Canterbury Tales was famously gap-toothed, which was a trait that was supposed to signal a lustful nature at that time. Back in the present day, I’ve always been attracted to slight “imperfections” in grills (and to an extent, Japan is with me on this one, which is always comforting). I knew there was a reason, and so did Chaucer, apparently.

Last week I had the realization:
“Hey, here I am,
high as a kite,
a beautiful naked man and a beautiful naked girl in my bed.
This is the good life I heard about somewhere.
This is what they mean when they talk about sitting under your own figtree.
This is what you get if you’re a very, very good girl.”

What’s going to happen to capitalism when people find out that they can find the good life in their own beds? I’m not really that worried, to be honest.

So…I totally have the hots for a friend of mine. She is smart, unbelievably hot, and so amazing I can’t not smile when I think about her. I fantasize about making out with her for hours, and sometimes just cuddling.

The concern is that she just went through a break up, and I don’t want to pressure her in any way while she might be vulnerable. Also, any sexy funtime would have to involve my husband, and I don’t know if she would be down with that.

While I figure out how to proceed I think about fucking her while I run in the hopes of having rungasms;)

Tell me more about these rungasms. Also, you sent this in months ago, so I think it’s fair now to hit on her a lot.

For the first time ever I just had an orgasm that made me more horny. It was an awesome orgasm, too, not a baby one. I just want more- and since I’m not a multi-orgasm kind of woman, I’m definitely frustrated. But it’s a delicious, awesome kind of frustration.

The “I am a multi-orgasm kind of woman” version of this is the exact reason I can spend hours on end masturbating. I really never feel entirely done. It’s the best of all possible curses, I think.

Attention QPians! If you send me a secret I will post it on a Tuesday. That much I can tell you.

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There are some confessions that come dressed in lemur-themed wrapping paper with matching bows and ribbons expertly curled at the ends. Some appear in grease-stained paper bags, still warm when shoved hastily into my waiting hands. Occasionally– so seldom it barely bears mentioning– they’re hurled at my window like tomatoes.

Sometimes it feels like they got splinched¹, or have ellipses dangling from them. They feel unfinished; there’s more to the story. This is not a bad thing, but add the fact that there is some not insignificant delay in posting some of these, I often wonder about them months later.

There’s this guy I work with – he’s handsome and scruffy in all the right ways, always has that twinkle of good-natured mischief in his eye, and the way he handles a guitar makes me want to rip his clothes off and throw him up against a wall. Come to find out he is 17(!) years older than me, when I wouldn’t have put him a day over 35. I can’t lie, honestly, the fact that he’s a sexy silver fox makes it even hotter. To be continued (I hope).

I don’t think it was, to be honest, and I also hope this went very, very well for both of you!

The first time I came with a partner, it was a slightly older, solid butch with beautiful eyes. I wanted to marry her. We played sexual games in the field behind our high school for months–touching, taking off, kissing here, kissing there. An hour a day every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, when we had an extra long lunch break. I remember how long it took us to think about lying down–we’d always stand up and grind against a tree, against a wall, switching dominance and submission, tying each other up with the ribbons I looped through my hair. But the lying down was even better. We didn’t have to worry about gravity, and it felt like proper sex. She’d growl, “I’m going to fuck you” or suddenly, sweetly kiss my neck till my legs buckled. So many feelings, QP. So many feelings. None of them–as far as I could tell–orgasm, but a huge portion of them better than any orgasm I’d ever had. Maybe they were actually orgasms. It’s hard for me to define them.

But then? One definitely was. Definitely. This time it was in the apartment she shared with her sister, on her mattress (no bed frame). We’d been fucking for hours. She’d lightly scratch my ass when we recovered from the strenuous bits, like she thought it was beautiful. We played a sexual hide-and-seek under the blankets. I think we took a break at some point to watch Best In Show, with much handholding and cuddling and flirting. And then we went back to bed. She knew, QP, that I adored having my waist and stomach nibbled and licked at; she knew because she was the one to find it out. She licked up the sides, pressed her tongue into my bellybutton, had me screaming. Then she nestled her mouth and very sensual nose into the softness just between my pubic bone and my navel.

QP, did you know I stutter when I come? I didn’t. But as I tried to tell her she was giving me goosebumps, all that would come out was ”G-g-goo-goose–” I remember being worried she’d be like ”what the fuck is up with this geese talk?” so I tried to start the sentence again. But–again–all that came out was ”G-g-goo-goose–”

Because I was distracted. I was distracted by the fact that my vagina seemed to be shaking. I did not know what the fuck was up; my masturbatory orgasms were all clitty. But this was different. Her weight on my legs and her tongue on my belly and all the sunlight and suddenly the blanket was velvet and there was an earthquake inside me–and what was happening? This did not feel like any come I’d had before.

QP, I was sort of raped when I was little. It’s okay now. It was with an object, and by a woman. I really don’t like being penetrated. I am not going to try it again. I know. And not ever having a g-spot orgasm seemed like a fair tradeoff for not being penetrated.

Fortunately, the universe believes I should never do anything I don’t want to, and I should get everything I want. Because several months later, reading “I…

Okay, this one makes me sad. You sent in this beautiful, vulnerable, open confession, and I’m pretty sure my Sex Confessional form cut you off. And I’m sorry for everyone involved.

I join the universe in wishing all sorts of happiness for you.

I’m going out of town to visit a friend in a couple of weeks. I’m tempted to ask if he and his girlfriend will have a threesome with me. I don’t think he’d say no.

This could be an erotic story prompt, I suppose…

i met this woman several years ago through a video game we were both playing at the time and we became good friends and continued to talk after we had both left said game, we were both married at the time but have admittedly fantasized about each other ever since, she is a high school teacher and i have always had this fantasy about being punished by the hot teacher for be a bad little student. we met in person a few months ago after my wife left me and we had the hottest most earth shattering sex every day of that week. i cant wait to see her again after i get home from the army.

In my personal experience, the first sex with someone is never the best sex I’ll ever have with them. So if you already had the hottest and most earth shattering sex with this woman, what the fuck next? Galaxy-shifting sex, I’m guessing, so enjoy that.

oh god, QP…oh god. my other half found us a playmate and she’s literally quivering with antici…pation. i’m terrified and excited and dripping and horny and oh god, what if she hates me?

i had to share this with you. i can’t share with anyone else. by the time you read/post this, our date will have happened, and hopefully i’ll be able to report back with good news. she might just be the unicorn we’ve been looking for. cross your fingers for us?

Your date has most assuredly happened, but my fingers are so incredibly crossed that you, um, got to ride the unicorn.

…I can’t believe I went with “ride the unicorn”.

 After five months of involuntary abstinence, I came home and booty called an old friend as soon as humanly possible. His response? ”I guess I might be able to find some time tonight.” Fuuuck that, mate. When he texted me again four hours later I was lying in a naked, sweaty, sated heap with a delightfully skilled, endowed gentleman with six-pack abs.

I have closed today’s ConTuesday with a confession that’s wrapped up nicely in a reportedly delightful package. I would never leave you people hanging. Unless I would…

Confess things to me!

1. Yep, totally rereading Harry Potter. [↩]

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This past weekend I was at a geeky convention¹. I could tell you stories about what happened there: about flirtations both new and continuing, about glances both electric and slimy, about my butt cheeks both covered and substantially less covered.

But instead I’m going to tell you about what I will charitably call an idea for an art project, and why it made me need to leave the room.

On Friday evening there was a chance to present ideas for projects and activities to improve the con, and get funding for them. I was watching the proceedings and trying to figure out how to convince the board that it wanted to buy me a life-size, working replica of the 1989 Batman film’s Batmobile. Another con attendee– middle aged, bearded, paunchy, and probably wearing a kilt² or something– was pitching his plan. He wanted to make a human-shaped PC kiosk, essentially. Quoth he: “The monitor would be the head, and we could make the body male or female, depending on how kinky we wanted to get…”

You know, because a male body’s normal and a female body is kinky. Yeah.

I think I may have been the only person in the room who flinched, or even minded, but Sigyn’s bowl, did that irritate me. I wasn’t even sure why, but I had to leave immediately to go run my hands up and down my intrisically-kinky-because-female body. Wait, no, I left to wander around the convention.

It took me a little while to suss out exactly why I was so bothered that a random nerdy stranger was othering and eroticizing female bodies, especially considering the fact that I live on Earth and we get this all the time. But I finally figured it out the main reason I wanted to Feminist Hulksmash things: in short, I was irritated because he was right. His casual, unaware sexism not only reflected how things worked, it was so self-evident to everyone present that things work that way that no one else even seemed to notice.

The female body is kinky. It is inherently sexual in our culture. Not only that, but even just the words “the female body” are usually code for a young, attractive, very likely white, able, cisgendered, female body. An older female body, a larger female body, etc. may still be seen as kinky, but now it’s a fetish. If you’re a woman and it’s difficult for whatever reason to sexualize your body, your womanhood is questioned, and you become invisible.

Now, these are realities that seem completely obvious to some of us, but there remain people who have never had any compelling reason to think about them. And I guess it bothered me to hear– not these facts, but their fruit, so casually uttered and so casually accepted.

My body is kinky. My body’s worth is measured in erections. Today I may live up to some basic, generic standards of attractiveness (and I’m not even going to pretend that within the current system that can’t be used to one’s advantage like possibly even more than the Batmobile), but tomorrow I may not, and on that tomorrow I’ll be a cipher or an ever more deviant kink. However I feel about myself or my body personally, these things aren’t really my choice. If I am very lucky, then for a relatively short time I can be lust-shaped; person-shaped is a rather lot to ask.

Some people wonder why feminists are still talking about privilege, about the male gaze, why we’re not shutting up now that we can vote and stuff. To these people I answer: It recently occurred to me that a kiosk may have more of a chance of just being person-shaped than I do, as long as you build it male.

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1. Which, as you read this, I may or may not still be in bed recovering from. [↩]
2. I don’t remember what he was wearing, but trust me, if there’s anything my years of con-going experience have taught me, it’s that there’s a 43% chance it involved a kilt. [↩]

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Of all the rottenly rotten positions I’ve experienced in my life, stagnation is among my least favorite. Maybe because I have a low tolerance for boredom, or maybe because I resent being in a situation where I’m not learning anything. Not that change is always for the better, but so often it at least holds the opportunity of better. We all deserve at least the opportunity of better.

Especially when we’re not getting nearly laid enough.

Boyfriend says he’s attracted to me but hardly touches me below the waist. I don’t believe him. Do you?

There are different kinds of attraction. It’s possible to be romantically attracted to someone but not sexually attracted. But on an emotional level? If I were in your position I probably wouldn’t believe him for a second. In fact, I’ve been in a similar position a few times, and it’s damnably hard to see past the pain of continuous sexual rejection.

And I’m only going to say this because I wish I had heard and accepted this myself: Maybe you’re just not compatible.

My partner is on psych meds. Sometimes he takes them; sometimes he doesn’t.

I don’t know a polite, kind, non-ableist way of saying ”when you don’t take your pills you’re impossible to be around.”

But he really is. I love my partner when he’s medicated. He’s a different person when he’s not. (He’s not violent or hostile, but he’s hyper, incoherent, and has terrible judgment.) Sometimes I fret about whether that means I don’t love “the real him” but mostly I fret about how I can get him to take his goddamn pills.

I don’t believe that preferring him unmedicated and struggling would amount to loving “the real him”. If he feels like the medication is somehow crossing his own purposes and wishes to stop taking it, that’s a different conversation. If you both agree he is better off taking it regularly, I, stranger who writes shit on the internet, think you’re in your rights as an interested party to communicate your concern when he skips.

I find it rather difficult to have an orgasm – I have almost never had one with my partner present (maybe once or twice with a lot of concentrated self-touching) and even with my own fingers (or a VIBRATOR for godssake) it takes a very long time to get off.

You didn’t ask for advice, which is good because I really don’t have any advice on this topic. I dearly wish I did. I would love to read more experiences and perhaps tips from people who don’t orgasm easily.

So I’m married – happily, monogamously, for two years. My husband rocks.
I am also attracted to other people because, y’know, ain’t dead. One of them has become my cuddle buddy some time ago: this is known and consented to by all involved parties, including cuddle buddy’s girlfriend.
I am kinda high-libido, and my husband can’t keep up with me. I don’t think anyone could, really, given that I need to have a job and shit and occasionally leave the bed, but something in addition would be awesome.
I’d never cheat on my husband, but I daydream in hope that we might form an Arrangement with my cuddle buddy and his GF – possibly a swinging-ish thing.
I think it’s plausible GF is attracted to my husband, I know cuddle buddy is attracted to me and he knows I am to him. I’d also gladly make out with the GF, with or without my husband or the cuddle buddy watching. Discussion with cuddle buddy has revealed that his GF might not be averse to some less-than-monogamous forays.
Have no idea if husband is attracted to GF, though, and terrified of asking because I tend to spend long hours with cuddle buddy while my husband waits for me at home; I know he trusts me, but I’m worried it might upset him to know I’m interested in such a thing even if I’d never do it without his consent.
(Husband is fine with me having sex with other women, but men are upsetting to him.)

You may identify as monogamous, which is awesome, but I feel like if your husband is okay with you having sex with other women there’s some non-monogamy thrown into the mix here. If it were me I’d probably talk about the details of that openness as a conceptual, hypothetical thing (e.g. “Would you ever want to try swinging with a couple we were both attracted to?”), provided I hadn’t already gotten around to that, before bringing up specific people.

The only thing that has convinced me to go back on my anxiety medication is that my panic attacks are interfering with my sex life.

Hope things are going better for you in much more than just your sex life.

Today at noon, my best friend/the girl I love told me that she isn’t comfortable with hanging out with me after 4 years of friendship/occasional dating, because two weeks ago I told her I loved her (did a whole “John-Cusack-boombox thing”).
She told me right before I had to go to lecture, during which I felt sick. She was so far the only one I had true feelings for (and the only one who got me the closest to ejaculation).

But now I’m ready to hit the town again, after having stupid, teenager-y woes for a year with and about this girl. I’m ready to end my involuntary 7-month celibacy. So yay for me.

Although I did tell her I still wanted to be her friend, which is true, but I forgot to add that I would need about a year of not thinking nor talking to her just to get myself ready to be just her friend. So that’s that.
Sorry about not really having a sexual confession.

This confession totally counts! I hope you’ve ended your celibacy in the hottest, most joyful way possible. And I hope you can eventually find a way to rebuild the friendship you lost, or at least find that your life is better without it.

I have no trouble getting laid. I know that men find me sexy and I have great sexual relationships with some. But no matter how hard I try I never meet anyone who wants to commit to me. I always get the ”I just don’t want a girlfriend right now” speech.
Some of my friends think I need to stop having sex right away and wait it out to see if they really like me or whatever but then what do I do about sex?!?!? I love sex! And I love casual sex! The excitement of experiencing someone new for the first time, discovering their body and in so many cases learning new things about sex and about your own body! It just gets really lonely sometimes.

I feel like the whole idea that having sex quickly after meeting automatically nixes the potential for a relationship is fairly busted. I know that some people have that mentality, but not everyone does. My question is, would you be happy with someone who was willing to write you off just because you didn’t want to wait until the third date or whatever to have orgasms?

You’re not just asking to be loved; you’re also offering to give love as your amazing, unique, and irreplaceable self. You deserve to be picky too.

Sex Confessional

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Porn rockstar Drew Deveaux recently linked this disturbing, uh, thing, on twitter. It presents an email conversation between a lesbian activist and a trans activist. In summary, the lesbian activist asked the trans activist what the “cotton ceiling” was. The term, which was entirely new to me, deals with the concept that trans women are welcomed into feminist/lesbian spaces, but they are largely ignored as potential sexual partners in these spaces. Think the feminist concept of a workplace “glass ceiling”, but with panties. I’ll admit that I’m biased against any glimmer of transphobia, but to my eye, the conversation quickly descended to the lesbian activist more or less asking the trans activist “Why are you trying to force me to acknowledge you as a woman and touch your penis!? Eeeeww!” Of course, this is just my interpretation, but here’s a direct quote:

Lesbians are sexually attracted to females. This does not include trans women with penises.

Hold the fuck up there.

First off, hasn’t feminism– especially queer feminism– been dealing for over a century with how fucked up it is that other people try to define “correct” womanhood for us? Distinguishing between “female” and “woman” here may seem deceptively okay because “female” refers to sex and “woman” refers to gender. But sex is so much more than genitals, and I cannot imagine feeling comfortable telling anyone else what their sex or gender is. If you feel comfortable doing that, please spend the next month speaking as little as possible and concentrating hard on listening to the people around you. You are not the boss of the planet: you can certainly say that women with penises aren’t female, but your simplistic view of bodies and selfhood and reality is not fooling the rest of us.

Second of all, and I can’t believe there’s even a remote possibility that this is going to blow anyone’s mind: Some lesbians want to have sex with women who have penises. Yes, really. Accept it now. I’m a queer woman. I love women. I am absolutely open to dating and fucking trans* people, including trans women. You don’t get to dictate to me whom I am attracted to. You don’t get to tell me what girl love means. I realize that my bisexuality might cloud this issue, but let me assure you that there exist full-blooded lesbians who feel the same way. Let’s put it this way: I can also have completely male-free lady sex involving a penis at any time with a cis woman. It’s called a strap-on. A penis doesn’t make someone male; I speak from a place of experience here.

I don’t think the trans activist or anyone else was saying that all lesbians are transphobic meanies unless they go out immediately and find trans women to have sex with. Obviously, each of us has the inalienable right to be attracted to the people we end up being attracted to. At the same time, there’s a big difference between saying “You’re not the type of woman I’m into” and saying “I’m into women and you don’t count.” I suspect that the plea here is to fully acknowledge trans women in the queer community as women, as lesbians (if applicable), to acknowledge their partners as female-loving people, and to open up to the idea that female-on-female sexuality is more diverse than all vaginas all the time.

In short, stop trying to make goddamn rules about other people’s sex lives. Maybe even consider reevaluating some of the assumptions that led you to create rules for your own.

Feminism doesn’t get to be an exclusive club. Feminism is the anti-exclusive club. We will joyfully include everyone in our goal of equality– including men with penises, women with penises, marginalized groups of all kinds, and even people we don’t particularly agree with, or we’ve already failed. We’re either dismantling hierarchy or we’re just rearranging it.

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There’s apparently some kind of old school tradition that women can propose marriage to men on Leap Day without everyone involved melting in a Raiders of the Lost Ark type scenario. One has to wonder if anyone back in days of yore ever took advantage of this single, once-every-four-years loophole in a culture of crushing sexism, and if they did, what the neighbors said. I have my suspicions that people don’t stop being dicks just because the calendar tells them to, which would explain why I’ve never gotten a pony for my birthday.

Now that women are technically allowed to ask questions nearly every day of the year, and we queers are ruining marriage for everyone anyway, isn’t it time we let Leap Day mean something else?

I vote that Leap Day is the day people of all genders can magically tell their crushes they want to bone them without things being weird afterward. That would be cool.

Although if you develop a crush next week, waiting nearly four years to talk about it sounds like torture. It also sounds like a longer time period than most crushes last. Maybe eventually we’ll have to make this a “Wednesday” thing rather than a “Leap Day” thing.

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Have you ever had one of those moments where you’re sleepy and horny and cold all at the same time? You want an orgasm, possibly even more than you want to not move anything and just sleep, but getting out from under the covers to reach for a toy, or phone, or body, is another matter entirely.

Just then, your stomach growls. Motherfucker.

Also, internet confessions.

There’s a woman who… I kind of feel… Well, I, um, produce vaginal mucous whenever I think about her. Which is almost constantly. And I produce mucous in such copious amounts that it seeps through my clothes and I get really anxious about other people being able to smell it. So, I started wearing pantiliners, but it was spilling out the sides, so I started wearing sanitary napkins with wings every day of the month, and now my sexual frustration is compounded with more general frustration. JUST QUIT IT, VAGINA. SHE’LL NEVER TOUCH YOU. I ALREADY ASKED AND SHE SAID NO. AND WHY WOULD SHE SAY OTHERWISE? YOU’RE GROSS YOU EMBARRASS EVERYBODY WHO COMES NEAR YOU.

Hey, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you being so hostile to yourself and your vagina?

I wonder how messed up it is that I zone out on some clients and just start doing Kegels and fantasizing about their skills (or lack of them) in bed?

Sounds to me pretty much like it’s zero units of messed up. You know what’s truly messed up? Neglecting your kegels.

This is my most secret of secrets: I am terrified of passing gas during sex. I know that nothing bad would happen if I did, my lovers would laugh it off, but I’m still so scared of ruining something special.

So I clench. Which somehow tightens EVERYTHING in the process. Which makes the sex even hotter. Win/win?

Maybe I should just let go…what do you think?

If clenching makes you happier with your sexual experience, more power to you. But “happier” implies a comparison, so I have to ask: have you tried not clenching? Because I find that sex is an amazing interplay of relaxation and tension, and having a full range of both ends of the spectrum is where intensity really comes from.

Also, sex is not a neat activity. Fluid gets on things, air comes out of places, and all manner of sounds emerge from the beast with two backs. If your partner freaks out because you fart during sex on occasion, this would be a pretty strong indicator that said partner is not very experienced or realistic vis-a-vis fucking.

I’m not trying to tell you where your priorities should lie, but I feel like you’ll be missing out on a lot if this thing that really isn’t a big deal is your main focus every time you have sex.

I think I may have accidentally taken a 29-year-old’s virginity. I was lonely and horny, he was there, you know how these things go. It was awkward and absolutely terrible and went on forever (strange, right?). If I’d known, I could’ve at least bolstered his ego, done a bit of training, and not kicked him out of bed at the end of the romp. Ugh. Now I feel like a terrible person and I still didn’t get a decent lay.

Your guilt seems unnecessary. If a virgin wants The Virgin Intercourse Package, said virgin must declare virginity. That is really just sense. Unless you introduced yourself as a virgin-sniffing psychic or something, in which case shame on you. You’re better than that.

I hope you have been able to procure a decent lay.

I have a raging crush on a guy I sort-of work with. He has some of the most gorgeous, intense blue eyes I have ever seen, and long-fingered, sexy hands that I always find myself staring at because they’re safer to stare at than his eyes. And he’s a mechanic, and I always have a thing for blue-eyed, dark-haired guys who are good with their hands…

I have fantasies in which he is a sort of earnest, almost sweetly-dominant top, murmuring praise in my ear while I’m helpless under those strong hands… And I also have fantasies in which he kneels in front of me, smiling at me with those incredible eyes, and tells me that he wants ME to be the top– these were a surprise to submissive little me, yet I enjoy them just as much as the others ;-)

Unfortunately nothing will come of it… I’m in a very committed relationship already; and it would get both of us in trouble at work. Plus, I am the sort of socially awkward person who would die of embarrassment before I managed to finish communicating my interest to him. Or fail utterly to get my point across. Or just be mortified when he turned me down.

But I guess the real confession is that I wish I had him instead of my boyfriend of the past nine years. I feel like it might be time to move on. Not many girls have stuck with the same guy since they were 18, and this latest crush is making me wonder (again) what else I’m missing…

Fantasizing about other people aside, if you feel like it might be time to move on, it seems like in generally is. Relationships are hard enough even when you’re all in, you know?

Or I’m too idealistic. That also seems legit.

My roommate is showering with his girlfriend and making sex noises. I’m happy for him. But mostly I wish he’d finish up because I really need to pee.

The true horror intrinsic in this confession is the fact that it was submitted last October. You guys, what if this person is still waiting to pee? Besides the fact that nobody has a) that much stamina or b) that much hot water.

Confess things! To me! Do it!

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I joined OKCupid recently, as one is supposed to after getting dumped. They actually have a recruiter come to your house, pound on your door, tell you to stop watching Dawson’s Creek, and ask you what you want your username to be.

True story.

It feels too early to jump into another serious relationship. It feels like a good time to develop a crush or six, though, or to start the vetting process that will eventually, possibly lead to making out and orgasms and stuff. I’m ignoring the fact that those things are how serious relationships usually start; I’ll cross those legs when I come to them.

I like OKC so far, I do. Mostly. I like taking the wacky tests. I like answering match questions. It feels like placing an order for the perfect lover, even though you know it could turn out more like a botched pizza delivery and you may end up trying to choke down a pie topped with legos and felt. I love the fact that it tells you your match percentage with people. I’m in the 90%s with many of my friends who happen to be on the site, and I find myself idly wondering about all the others. And various exes. And my dog, but not in a weird way.

All this before I have any actual experience proving that a high match percentage means anything, really. The very savvy Viola Sharqtipus once told me, however, that she really does get along better with exceptionally high OKC matches. So because of that and the clinical comfort of numbers, I’m paying attention to my percentages with people.

But on the other hand, the whole dating site thing is proving kind of annoying. I could spend stupid amounts of time just answering messages, which are mostly inane. I want to understand how I’m supposed to respond to a message that says “You seem interesting,” which is more or less what half of them say¹. I’m assuming here that people are not actually intending to have a conversation about how interesting I am, but rather saying “You’re interesting; I, not so much. Say something interesting to me now so we can talk about that!” This comes off as lazy and impolite, contacting me first only to put the burden of starting any actual conversation on me.

I realize it’s not always easy to start a conversation, and maybe it’s not worth the effort if you’re opting to use the shotgun approach to contacting broads on the internet, but do you know what kind of people I want to talk to online and date and be interesting with? People who are a) interesting themselves and actually interested in me, and b) can have conversations.

I had no idea I’d feel so strongly about this, but it seems I do. In fairness, I’m more misanthropic than usual lately. It took me very little time to earn OKC’s “replies very selectively” warning label, and it doesn’t look like it’s going away any time soon.

But I have found a few gripping new people to talk to, and perhaps someday meet. I even met one already, and we got along so well we’ll likely get really wacky and out there and do it again. Of course, because one of my rules for myself on the site is not to initiate contact with anyone over 25 miles away because right now I’m a little burned out on the “driving hours every week to see my paramour” relationship model, all these people live over an hour away so far. But they messaged me first and actually said stuff and asked questions and shit, and you can’t put a number on that².

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1. Along with an astonishingly not-infrequent “I didn’t understand half of ur profile lol.” [↩]
2. Although technically I think they all happen to be high percentage matches. Score one for Viola. [↩]

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I get a lot of sex secrets. Sometimes if I’m not ready to use them yet I stick them in my laundry basket, hoping they’ll stay put, that they won’t wiggle away through the holes. But never, never have I met a fully domesticated secret.

They bleed onto the wooden floor of my closet. They flit around, nipping off shreds of my 2012 Baby Animals wall calendar. February’s infant orangutan? Almost unrecognizable.

I almost always eventually find them camped out under the bed. I think the masturbation sounds help them sleep.

I think I’ve got an insemination fetish.

My wife and I want kids in a few years. She’s infertile, so I’d be carrying, and we’ll probably be using frozen anonymous donor sperm, or asking a friend to be a known donor. Not a lover or ex-lover or potential lover. Most of the guys on the short list to ask are gay or monogamous or both. We’ll be conceiving our kids with careful deliberation, genetic tests and charts tracking my fertility and speculums and needle-less syringes. It makes sense. Bringing kids into the world is a big thing, and we want to do it carefully, thoughtfully, deliberately.

My pussy disagrees.

Ever since we started seriously talking about this, since it became a question of when and how not if, I’ve been having these fantasies. I want to feel a man come inside me, feel his semen in my cunt. (Can you actually feel that? I have literally used a condom every time a man’s penis has been in my vagina. I will probably never find out first hand. Roads untaken and all that.) Lately, when I’m alone and jilling off, nothing gets me so wet as thinking about hot little sperm making their way past my cervix.

I’m not pining for the heterosexual marriage I didn’t wind up in. It’s nothing like that. I don’t want to conceive while making love to hypothetical husband I’ll never have.

No, what I want is for a stranger to press me against the wall, shove aside my panties and enter me bare. I want my womb to take that man’s come and make life out of it. I want to be bent over a table, as one man after another, men I can’t even see the faces of, let alone know the names of, fuck me one after another, semen dripping out of my pussy. Every time another man adds his genes to the lottery I come again, cunt spasming around his cock, drawing his semen in. He withdraws, stands aside to watch the next man fuck me hard, his cock sliding sloppily through what the five-ten-fifty men before him left, panting and thrusting and trying to just enjoy the feel of cock in cunt while hoping against hope that he’ll be the lucky one.

Stop. Scene changes, I’m alone with just one man again. ”It doesn’t matter,” he says, all self-assurance and possessiveness, as he holds me close, one hand around my neck, as he thrusts into me slowly. ”It doesn’t matter how many other men you fuck, because you are mine, and you will carry my heir.” He could be many people, those men I keep in the deep of my subconscious, nothing like any of the men I might have married but didn’t, nobody I’d want to share my life with out in the real world. He’s dangerous, he’s powerful, he owns me. Sometimes he’s a medieval king, or a cliched evil overlord*, or a demon, sometimes generic and sometimes from a book or movie or game or something, but usually his identity slips and slides until he’s just an archetype, a platonic Master holding me, fucking me down, taking me, marking me as his, and I want nothing more but to conceive his child, and when he finally comes I feel it happening, feel his sperm invading me, and I orgasm so hard my vision goes black.

Sometimes I wonder what the hell this means, whether I’m sublimating my feelings about donor insemination and pregnancy in general and blah blah blah. Not today, though. Today I’m just going to appreciate the mind-blowing orgasms.

Even the ones that happen while I’m fantasizing about getting knocked up by Bowser from the Super Mario games.

Oh yes. Yes, you can feel it. Absolutely. It feels, I imagine, not unlike Sushie’s “squirt” move from Paper Mario.

i like to take sexy photos of myself. It makes me feel pretty and seductive and ok, maybe a little bad (in a good way). Sometimes I send these photos to a friend a few states away. Hey, he likes porn, I like validation, everyone’s happy. Until my exboyfriend hacked my email and forwarded the photos to himself. Bummer! I’m worried what he’ll do with them, but mostly I’m just angry because they’re MY BOOBIES and I’ll show them to who I want, when I want. So there.

You have every right to be angry. I would characterize this as going beyond “bummer” and going straight to “massively creepy stalker behavior” with a side of “egregious privacy violation”, for what it’s worth.

This past year, I got fed up of trying to be sexually satisfied with my workaholic partner alone, and decided to devote some time to pleasing myself. I joined a porn site, I started writing smut, and I have taken my self-pleasuring to a new level.

It has been fantastic. I feel those same feelings you get when you are newly in love- the constant drive, can’t-take-my-hands-off-you, stay up all night making-out sort of feelings, except by myself. As a result, my sex life with my partner has increased dramatically. Even though he is often still too tired to have sex as much as I want, I am perfectly happy if he lets me go down on him and then I can make myself come.

Not having my sexual satisfaction depend on anyone else has changed my life.

I feel inspired by this, to always use my computer for smut and never for hacking.

Also to develop a giggly, gropy crush on myself. Both good ideas, really.

I think that fucking someone in front of a bunch of other people would be really hot. Man or woman, but I’d want the people watching to be older men in suits, sexy sexy suits. Maybe they’d all take turns using me. Pretty basic fantasy I guess, but damn does it get me wet.

Also, the only person I’ve really had sexual relations with was this nice Jewish boy last semester. I’d suck his dick, he’d go down on me, call me names, hit me with various kitchen implements, all those nice things that nice Jewish boys are good at. But we never had penis-vagina sex, which makes me feel like other people think I should still call myself a virgin. But after having a binder clip stuck to my nipple, been spanked with a spatula, been fingered up the ass, etc and so forth, I just feel a lot less virginal. No idea why.

Also…I really really really really want to see what he’s up to this year. Damn you, sexy Jewish boy. Damn you. My own hand can only do so much.

I’d like to teach the world that virginity is a weird, made-up concept. It’s not even spatula-solid, really.

I do not understand why someone would be monogamous when there’s a chance of orgies on the table.

…Particularly when they then proceed to steal your sex toys.

Dear monogamous person/s,

Why would you steal my sex toys? What is wrong with you?

P.S. That would put all my sex toys into multiple-partner status.

P.P.S. Orgies!

Last summer, I visited the Southwest; there was no privacy, so I couldn’t get off at all, but my hormones were raging. Thus, a state of constant horniness ensued. Then one day, as the week-long heat was at its peak, I escaped to a pool which was deserted because of an oncoming storm. It was blistering, but strong winds had started to blow, and as I dropped my frustrated, overheated body into the pool, I had a sense that the moment was special, set aside from the rest – the moment before the break. I quickly discovered the water jet, planted my arms on the side of the pool so it looked like I was casually relaxing, shifted by pelvis against the jet, and came like fireworks as the rain began to fall. Then pushed off and floated, weightless, listening to the oncoming storm.

Whoever says masturbation can’t be meaningful and significant is wrong.

Never underestimate the transformative power of orgasms or weather patterns or water pressure.

Or secrets.

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I lay no claim to being exceptionally dateable. It can’t be easy to let yourself fall for me, and maybe it’s not even smart. I realize everyone has their own personal red flags, but logically, I must live in much of their overlap.

When you read discussions about evolutionary psychology, debates about weight, or even conversations on general attractiveness, someone will always raise the point that human beings are fundamentally attracted to health. This probably seems like a diplomatic, benign way to speak about physical beauty: Can’t we all just agree that we’re programmed to read signs of health as beauty? Isn’t health really the most important factor in choosing a mate?

Every time I hear that, read that, I flinch just a little. It’s such a casual way to tell someone that no matter how she actually looks,  she doesn’t count as pretty.

I am not healthy. My body has not been healthy for several years. I am disabled; I am sick. I have debilitating fatigue, chronic pain, a compromised immune system, and a low tolerance for activity.  I wouldn’t have a breath of a prayer of surviving in the wild. Despite the fact that even I get mesmerized by my ass sometimes, in one sense I’m unattractive on the most basic level. And even ignoring bullshit theories and pseudoscience, being in a relationship with me day-to-day must be frustrating.

Want to do a fun activity together? Depending what it is, I might be able to do it if I have a week’s notice so I can rest. And a free week after, so I can rest. Want to do a fun, spontaneous activity together? Haha fuck you no.

Feel like grabbing a bite to eat together? Okay, but right now I’m off gluten, dairy, sugar, and fifteen other things just in case it helps my illness. So far it hasn’t helped much, but it means we definitely can’t order that pizza. Also, I bring my own sugar-free ketchup or wheat-free soy sauce along, which I acknowledge might be weird.

Do you want a partner who can be your workout buddy? Who’ll go dancing with you every weekend? Who lives a normal, productive, active life? Who can work a normal full-time job? I’ll say it now: you can’t rely on me. I may never be this for you no matter how much I try.

Add to this the fact that even if I were perfectly healthy I’d still have my emotional issues and my weaknesses, just like anyone else, and most people would run away, sweating from the adrenaline rush of having just dodged a bullet. Wouldn’t they?

But I know something they don’t: I’m worth it. Not to everyone, maybe, but to the few, I’m so entirely worth it. I will love them so fiercely and sweetly, we’ll laugh together so joyously, and those things I do offer will bewitch them so thoroughly that my health will be a detail, trivia, like the maze of color in my eyes. Like the ridiculous songs I make up. Like the brownies I bake that I can’t even eat myself, but I know you like them. Like my insatiable lust for the people I love.

I’m no one’s textbook ideal mate. No one describes their perfect woman as always sick. But I make up for it. I try to. I have to believe I do.

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