quizzical pussy

I feel guilty a lot, mostly because I do stupid things a lot. Not malicious things, not even selfish things… literally I-did-not-think-about-this-at-all-before-I-went-ahead-and-did-it-my-bad things. Or sometimes, alternately, I’ll have thought quite a bit about something before implementing, but prioritized the exact wrong thing. Guilt is not useful or helpful in any way, but it’s familiar.

It’s not exactly foreign to some of you guys, either.

…I shouldn’t be pointing it out like that, should I? I’m such a douche.

Had a hot, sweaty, sexy, awesome summer threesome with two lovely ladies once. Everyone was into it, everyone was into each other, and a half-dozen condoms later we fell asleep in each others arms. It was the perfect threesome.

All of us were poly, kinky, sex-positive, and dating others at the time. All three of us agreed to keep it to ourselves (and my housemate, who couldn’t help but notice). Despite this being one of the hottest things I’d ever done, I still feel a little guilty that we didn’t tell our respective other lovers. I felt even more guilty knowing that I’d have done it again.

With all the poly and sex-positivity in play, I’m curious as to why you kept it a secret. But no matter. I’m not here to judge. Say fifteen “Oh, God”s while masturbating to the memory, and thou shalt be shriven.

I don’t really get along with most of my co-workers, and I spend most of my time there yearning to be elsewhere.

However.

My supervisor is eleven years my senior, is tall and bulky, has piercings and a deliciously deep voice, and is an obnoxious, puffed-up braggart. I’m not normally attracted to men, and I can’t stand him, but I keep having these horribly vivid fantasies about him. Fantasies like locking up the training room, slapping him in the face, shoving him to the ground and forcing him to suck whichever cock I was packing that day, and then doing awful, degrading things to him until he cries. And then bending him over the desk and spanking him while I fuck him, and making him cry some more while I use him to get off.

I feel kind of guilty for thinking like that about someone I work in such close proximity with (apparently, I have a thing for humiliating and objectifying people who are much bigger and stronger than I am, physically speaking), but it certainly makes the work day go by more quickly…

Okay, I’m worried about saying this because then everyone I know will have to wonder whether I’m perving over them, but you have a right to have sexual and/or kinky fantasies about pretty much anyone and everyone you know. Very often, acting on it or even telling them about it would be crossing the line, but thought crime does not exist.

Unless it does. In which case I’m a monster and so are 98% of the people reading this, minimum.

I’m young, broke (but come from money), sexually rapacious and forced to live with a mother I can’t stand (we came within an ace of killing each other when I was 14), a father who could care less and a little brother I’ll miss when I finally leave this hell-hole. Now, onto the actual confession.

About a month or so ago, I was out with a few friends, ducking my mother’s return from a business trip in Boston, when I noticed that I was getting the once-over from a guy across the dance floor. I looked him over right back, he grinned and made a beeline for me. In a little under a half hour, I had danced with him, made out with him in one of the bathrooms, and gotten him nice and buzzed. Then I let him tag along with me and my girls (who also had a few guys of there own by the end of the night, so I wasn’t the only one).

We all crashed at my homegirl’s place, where the party continued … downstairs. Upstairs, in one of the spare bedrooms, my new friend and I were having our own party. I fucked his brains out until he fell into a deep sleep.

So deep he didn’t notice when I got curious and started rifling through his wallet. He had a lot of cash (mostly in 20 and 50 dollar bills.) I took three twenties and got the hell of there before my conscience could get the best of me.

Since then, I’ve been doing the same thing off and on: Pick up random dude, fuck him senseless, then go through his shit while he’s out cold (and I always leave ’em good and tired). If I find money, sweet. If I don’t, well … at the least the sex was good.

I’ve tried to feel guilty about this, but I need only to hear my mother’s ”you-have-shamed-me-merely-by-existing” tone to remind me why I feel the need to pick a lover’s pocket, why I can’t afford something as basic as underwear, and why I’ll never ask that sadist for a fucking dime.

I think this is generally referred to as a “sin tax”.

On a more serious note, I keep getting reminded lately that I should really and seriously never have a one-night stand. And why I should deposit the Christmas money that’s still sitting in my wallet.

Sometimes I kind of hate my boyfriend’s face. At proper angles/when he makes cute facial expressions/when his beard is trimmed, he can be the cutest fucking boy in the world, and once in awhile I do think he is just straight-up for realsies hot. But a lot of times I look at him and recognize that, objectively, he’s pretty fucking weird looking. Maybe even a little gross.

I would never tell him this, and sometimes it even works to his advantage – if we’re doing a rape scene, or if he’s just generally in Creepy Dom Mode, it really fucking turns me on to look up at his face and think, you know, ”oh, this ugly, weird-looking guy can do whatever he wants with me, and I’m completely helpless even if it disgusts me.” But sometimes, when we’re cuddling, I look at him and I feel like a fucking monster for thinking these things about such an amazing, sweet, perfect guy. I know I’m not perfect either, and I know it’s really shallow. But none of that stops me from thinking it.

Feel not guilty, my child. You should just hear the shit he thinks about you!

Totally kidding. I am such a dick.

Confess your sins and wins here!

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I hope everyone out there is having far too much holiday fun. Here are some fun and lovely confessional curios to brighten up your winter (unless you’re in the Southern hemisphere, in which case I hope it brightens up your day in between trips to the beach.) Chins up; only four months or so to go!

Please link this to your awesome and sexy readers
http://marriedfreaks.com/?p=166

Done! They really are quite sexy and awesome, aren’t they?

Just before Christmas break is my favorite kind of year, because my professors always give out candy canes and I can watch and see who I think would be the best at oral sex.

(P.S. There’s this boy in my stats class- not terribly attractive, but ohh boy, if he’d do to my clitoris what he does to that candy cane…)

I love the way your mind works.

I woke up this morning soo wet. I wish I could remember what I was dreaming!

Not to assume I know your business or anything, but it was pretty much definitely a sex dream about Data from Star Trek: TNG.

Goddamit, Cupie, you’re so fucking hot.

Best confession ever. Okay, I’m lying. The actual best confession ever can be found here, but I do like this one. It has a certain something…

Not a sex confession but…

I am so in love with my boyfriend that all I want to do is wrap myself around him at night and fall asleep against his chest.

And that is scarier to me than any sex confession I could possibly make.

This is more adorable than a baby in a manger. By way a lot.

I’ve always been a cock-loving lass, but there’s this girl at my coffeeshop… when she smiles all I can think about is how the inside of her thighs would feel against my lips.

Raise your hand if you suddenly wish you worked in a coffee shop.

Give the gift of a juicy secret.

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Here we have a wild ConTuesday in its natural habitat, with a resplendent display of sex confessions from anonymous donors. I have literally never been on a safari with this many dildos, have you?

I love my partner massively (oh dear, does any confession that starts that way end well?), but I’ve gotten into a vicious cycle with him that I don’t know how to fix. We went through a rough patch in terms of his sex drive, so that on the rare occasions he did want it, he’d want it at the most comfortable situation for him (late at night, when we’re both about half asleep) which is the total opposite of most comfortable for me (i am a morning person who really, really likes to talk before/during/after sex). Now, when our sex life is normal, this is no problem–we’ll have that sleepy sex sometimes, and wild, crazy early sex some other times, no problem. But when the former was all I was getting, I found I wasn’t really able to come very much (highly unusual for me), which dwindled to ”not at all” and then to ”it feels tickly and uncomfortable when you touch me sexually.” which I guess is some sort of half-burie d resentment about our sex life no longer being even a little bit about me. And so, to make matters worse, when I try to initiate sex and he goes for it, I only feel turned on for a minute or two before feeling all resentful and…tickly again. I can masturbate no problem, and we’re nonmonogamous, and I don’t have these feelings with other partners, so it’s definitely psychological rather than physical. I’m usually so good at talking out my feelings, but this one has gotten so tangled up (and has gone on so long–months!) that I don’t even know where to begin that might have some small chance of not being incredibly hurtful and unproductive. Any ideas, O Sex Guru of the Anonymous Internet?

Someone mature and experienced in positive relationship communication is going to come along and read this any minute now, I just know it, and they’re going to give some really killer advice.

Until then, I will take a stab. First, if you’ve neglected to tell your boyfriend any of what you described above, you should get cracking on that. He might think the status is quo, when for you it is, in fact, not. More specifically, you need some fully-awake energetic sex that is sometimes about you to be okay with your sex life; this cannot remain ambiguous. Those needs are healthy and okay, I swear.

Secondly, once he knows this you could benefit from a sex reset. Since I just now made up that term, I should probably explain: a weekend or even a day where you guys can make it a point to have a metric ton of amazing sex. Maybe there can be romantic shit too. Just rediscover each other and specifically try to stop taking sex for granted, and see if that helps you feel less resentful and maybe helps him take you less for granted.

Thirdly, you sent this in months ago and I just now got to it and I’m truly sincerely hoping things are better now and all this advice is completely redundant.

Last night I finally got to fuck the guy I’ve been crushing on for the last 8 months. He was hotter with his clothes off than I had imagined. It wasn’t quite up to what I had been fantasising, but man did he give good head.

Internet high five for you!

i keep a glass bottle on my desk. my boyfriend thinks it’s meant to be a bud vase, but i use it as a dildo nigh every night. even though i love with the man, i still need my ”me” time regularly.

See what I mean about dildos?

I have no basis for saying this whatsoever and am in fact just making shit up here, but what are the odds your boyfriend hasn’t looked at that bottle and had absolutely valid and realistic thoughts about what you’re doing with it? The coolest part is if he thought he was being impossibly lewd.

Again, no basis. None.

I’m the person who confessed about the husband and brother in law fantasy, and you’re dead right: my husband would be shattered if I ever told him. He and his brother are *very* competitive, and their relationship, like most siblings (I guess! I don’t have any) is pretty complicated. However, there are a lot of fantasies that are better left in your head, so it’s no biggie to have this lurking around back in my id, where I can safely let it out for a trot now and then, and then safely shut it back up. :)

You are a wise one.

The other day Laramy and I were talking about the “call me daddy” phenomenon (which has never been my thing, but I’m not knocking it) and he suggested I call him my father’s actual full name during sex, just to be really authentic. And while he was almost certainly kidding (I fervently hope, and need to believe), I can’t help but think that little gem would have been better off left in his head.

I recently purchased my first dildo. I’ve always had plenty of toys, I just never thought a dildo would be worthwhile because they seem so single-function… boy was I wrong! Me and Chakotay (as I have affectionately named it) are having a grand ol’ time.

Let me get this straight: you named your dildo after a Star Trek character? That is like a magical sex unicorn playing Holy Diver on an enchanted electric guitar made out of dildos and true love! Or, in layman’s terms, it’s awesome. And it brings us back to dildos.

Want to share a secret? Become the creature.

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Hey, there! It being Tuesday and all, what do you say we take a look at some internet confessions? That seems like it could be pretty sweet.

There’s this guy. We work together. He’s a nice guy but because I’m very shy and socially awkward, we never talk. A couple of weeks ago I noticed his body. I have known him for several months and yet it was one of those moments I never believed in. When you look at someone and suddenly realise… ”sweet!”.
He’s not my type. He’s the opposite of every guy I’ve ever (wanted to) shag(ged). And I don’t notice him the same way. I don’t want to jump him. It’s not the same feeling.
Instead, I want to kiss. I want to lie somewhere and kiss. Him. And talk. Nothing else. The thought of having sex with him doesn’t do it for me. And believe me, I’ve tried, just to make it a little less weird.
Just thinking these things, of how I want to kiss him, of how I definitely want there to be strawberries and cream involved (random, huh?), it feels dirty. Far more dirty than thinking about shagging that really hot guy who works a couple of desks down. And more intense. I want to kiss this guy more than I want to shag that really hot guy. Even if there are no orgasm involved.
Strange.

I have a theory that sexual orientation is much, much more complicated and gloriously varied than most people have the time or inclination to think about. This would be an example.

I hope you get a chance to make out. I hear that office holiday parties are good for hook-ups, so if that’s not just TV and movies making shit up like they do, you have a little time to screw your courage to the snogging place.

I like to play with myself after good p in v sex. Because really, what’s better than orgasms than more orgasms? There’s something awesome about getting another while he’s in the kitchen pouring our next drink, and I’m in the living room continuing the fun.

I can find absolutely no flaw in your logic here.

My wife asked me to fuck her.
In our pool.
In the backyard.
Outdoors.
At 4 p.m.
In full view of the neighbors.
Neither of us came, but it was enthralling nonetheless. She did, however, follow it up with jerking me off in the shower. Then later that night she jerked me off while massaging my asshole. The next morning I made her scream like a pot star while licking her clit. It was a GREAT weekend.

This sounds hot. I’m clean distracted, though, trying to decide whether I should assumptively correct “pot star” to “porn star”, or if it’s possible that the former is a real thing and I should get with the times. Best to just leave it.

I have a drama I want to figure out on my sex blog, only I can’t, because the guy involved reads it. AIIIIIEEEEEE!

I never realized how dependent I was on the blog for my processing until I suddenly couldn’t have it.

Sometimes I wish I could just write exactly what’s going on with my love/sex life, and be completely honest, and more vulnerable, and a hell of a lot dirtier on my sex blog. But at this point way too many people I know read it, and there’s just no way. So I really feel you on this.

ConTuesday to the rescue? I hope?

I’m the girl who’s having an affair with the guy who’s 8 years younger. I guess I should say ’had’ since I haven’t seen him in 3 months. I’ve still had more sex this year with him than with my husband. Is it bad that I’m counting?

You know, there was a time when women weren’t allowed to learn math at all! So no, it’s never bad to count. But I hope that either you and your husband have caught up by now or that you don’t mind the disparity. I hate to see people feeling stuck in sexually frustrating relationships, and I hope that’s not you right now.

Now go here, everyone, and spill your sexy secrets!

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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. [↩]

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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!

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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. [↩]

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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