quizzical pussy

Better late than never.

QP, this isn’t a confession, but please, PLEASE tell us how you met all your awesomekinky friends. I so want to live this life. I feel like I’m wasting mine – live with my parents, never had a long-term relationship, masturbating so much my clit is officially pushing up the daisies… I’m fucked-up and kinky and interested in all sorts of cool things and I want to meet other fucked-up kinky interesting people! With blue hair!

Tips? Should I get into theater or something? Should I move to Seattle? I heard Seattle has a great poly/kink scene. I dunno, probably I’m just stereotyping people and I need to be more open-minded. But I still can’t help thinking I want to find a cute butch girl and fall in love and use a feeldoe. How does one find other people who might be interested in such things?

My greatest talent may be recruiting amazing people onto my team. Okay, I actually can’t take a lot of credit for this because most of the time I don’t know how it happens or how I could have possibly deserved it. I can tell you, though, some of the major things I changed in my life between having a lot of the problems you have and now.

So, you’re trying to build a ridiculously awesome phalanx of glorious freaks. Here are my tips for you.

1. Become the kind of person you want to hang out with. Ideally, this will have the primary benefit of making sure you’re always in marvelous company, even if you’re alone. As a side benefit, the kind of people you want in your life will sense that you’re their kind of people. Interested in cool things? Do as many of those cool things as you can. Like people with killer style and flamboyant hair? Maybe you’d like yourself with those things. And if you don’t already, figure out how to love yourself.
2. Find the others. The internet will help you immeasurably here. I have friends and loved ones that I met at events I found on Fetlife (sign up if you haven’t, and don’t look for people as hard as you look for local events), through OkCupid (sign up if you haven’t, answer lots and lots of match questions, and pay attention to match/friend/enemy percentages. They aren’t perfect, but they’re indicative of like-mindedness and compatibility), and through mutual friends. If you’re a fan of something (particularly gaming or science fiction) try to find a convention you can go to; geeks are very often deviants. Some of my kinky friends I’ve known over a decade; some are recent additions. Some grew up a few miles away from me; some were born a continent away. They’re everywhere, people like you. We’re hiding everywhere in plain sight.
3. When you find people like you, be open. Share yourself with them, be interested in them. Care about them. Help them and accept help. Be an awesome friend to them because you’re lucky to have found each other.
4. Live life as much on your own terms as possible. If you feel that your current living situation is restricting you and it’s in your power to change it, do so. If you’ve explored what counterculture your current area offers and found it lacking, go elsewhere if you can. Go to Seattle if that idea speaks to you. Try new things. Take chances. Experiment a great deal. Look like an idiot sometimes.

Anxious-type confession.

Today was a day I was pretty damn bad at the sexy. Messed about in the shower this morning and couldn’t manage to please the penis of the penis-owner with whom I was messing about. Hands didn’t work (I pulled. Like accidentally HAULED on that sucker.), mouth didn’t work (I am ashamed to admit that I unintentionally bit), slippery soapy grinding, nope (kept staggering, having various limbs in uncomfortable positions etcetera). It made me sad.

And on top of that I’ve taken my first-ever birth-control pill in preparation for my first round of PIV sex so I will not be making of the babies, and I’m freaking the fuck out about all the horrible things that the hormones might do to my body… or worse, my libido.

Insert kinda sad face.

I hope your body likes the hormones and the penis pleasing is coming along nicely and happy face.

So, not terribly juicy, but I have had a crush on a certain someone since I was too young to know what a crush even was. First person I’d ever thought about kissing, and even throughout a very happy marriage to somebody else, extremely attracted and all weird with blushiness whenever we spoke.
FINALLY, after 26 years of waiting, in a position to maybe start a relationship, and he took up smoking.

What a colossal WASTE of TWENTY-SIX years of anticipation, because all that attraction gone.

Dear smokers: I’m starting to suspect you’d have more fun if you quit.

Love,

Quizzical Pussy

I’ve recently discovered that nothing turns me on faster than having my partner pin me down while he fucks me. During sex, oral, even masturbating by myself, it’s just… damn. I’m not a very muscly person, and generally speaking, having concrete evidence of how much stronger than me somebody is kind of freaks me out. But for some reason, with him it just makes me feel completely safe and loved. Also short-of-breath and tingly in the nether regions, but that almost feels like a side benefit.

Sweet Horus, I love being pinned down (by the right person). I’m not sure “safe” and “loved” are my key words on that one so much as “aroused”, but this is adorable.

I love it when I drag the ridge on the corona of my cock against her G spot as I’m on the upstroke. When I first started sex, I thought that the upstroke was a lost stroke, only good for getting some negative space to fill, and grind that clit with my pubis.

Now? I know that the Out stroke is as good as the In stroke, near enough.

I feel like I just learned something about having a non-silicone penis.

So I’ve recently figured out this whole squirting thing, and am pretty sure I could adequately direct a partner to get me to squirt. Problem is, I don’t want to. Know that whole “ladies you feel like you’re going to pee but that’s just your orgasm building up” business? Welp, for me, it’s not just the orgasm. Sometimes a dribble of urine comes out on the first orgasm. I have no way of telling when it will happen. And I really don’t want to gross out any of my primary partners.

Squirting is novel at first, and the orgasm is really good, yeah, but–urine or not– some of us still prefer not to make that huge of a wet spot. I mean, I get that it’s not a choice for a lot of people, but for me it mostly is, and I don’t try for it very often. My body my choice, dagnabbit.

While my boyfriend and I were getting ready to go to bed, like we do every night, he started crying because he was half-afraid I was a dream and he would wake up. I grabbed a box of tissues and held him until he stopped shaking.

And I realized neither of us give a fuck about gender norms.

I have this theory that giving a fuck about gender norms really limits the amount of soul-crushingly cute one can be. This is my impression of you and your boyfriend:

Hey. Confess stuff.

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Have you ever gotten a message from a guy on OkCupid and your immediate gut reaction was to send him the urban dictionary link for Nice Guy Syndrome?

One of these days I might do it, so help me.

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ConTuesday is happening. Look out.

Jesus fuck. I bought my first vibrator and all I can think now is WHY THE HELL DID I WAIT SO LONG? Seriously.

I cried, man. I literally cried when I came. It was bloody awesome. I’ve never done that before.

Life is so damn awesome right now.

I want everyone to have so many moments like this. Whether it’s down to staring up at the cosmic dance of the stars or skimming flesh against flesh or diving into fractals or pressing a little motorized beast against your nethers, I want it for you. I crave it for you. Life needs to show us its awesome, and we need to let it.

Hi QP,
Giant fan here (in spirit not size). I have a lame confession that also plays the odds. I’ll phrase it like a letter:

Dear girl in my Modern Physics class,

You are supremely attractive. I hardly listen to the lectures some days because you’re in my head gettin’ weird. I would do, truthfully, anything you wanted me to do, so if you’re in a class where a weirdly silent guy showed up sporting a bad mohawk, green sunglasses, a shirt that reads “#1 Dad,” and the tail end of a two day hangover, you should check me out. Give me a thumbs-up and we can get a coffee.

P.S. You straightened your hair. Fantasies have been updated. Some guys notice the little things.

P.P.S. Other girls (and guys) in that class: You guys are great too, don’t worry.

It’s not often that I think “Man, I wish more people read my blog” because I’m actually not as megalomaniacal as the liberal media would have you believe, but now is one of those times. Please, blogging gods, let’s get some supremely attractive, be-mohawked people laid, can we?

The sexual tension is back. A dirty note here, a lingering hug there, a veiled reference at any possible time. I want it, he wants it, and we both know we shouldn’t do it. I’m turned on all the time and I’m fairly certain it’s only a matter of time. If it happens I will enjoy it thoroughly for what it is. He and I both know it can’t be more. I still hope it happens.

Where does sexual tension go away to before it comes back? It is a mystery.

This article claims that the moving tentacle that plugs into your hard drive “doesn’t actually serve any useful purpose.”

But we know better, don’t we, QP?

Are you by any chance referring to this thing? Thinkgeek, that is straight up a sex toy and we all goddamn know it. Will you let me have an affiliate link now?

I’m 23 and work at a newspaper. I have this weird crush on a kid at a middle school… he’s kinda cute and always in the paper for writing and orchestra and dressing up in historical costumes. Basically all the nerdy hobbies I love. He looks older than he is, glasses and long hair, and I’ve met him once.

I officially have no judgments about whom anyone has crushes on, but whatever you do, mate, don’t “he’s very mature for his age” yourself into child molestation. Promise me you will never do that.

I’m coming to terms with the fact that my ex was coercive and abusive. Sure, he didn’t know he was doing it, he got anxious and he came from a dysfunctional family–all excuses I keep giving myself–but he made me constantly afraid to say no, and I had panic attacks at the thought of seeing him.

My girlfriend, on the other hand, is great. I’m slowly getting comfortable with her touching me–yesterday she tickled me for hours, and she ended up straddling me, and it was great. I didn’t feel afraid, just attracted and with only the mildest remnants of discomfort. I felt like I made real progress.

Today she came over and held me while I cried for ages. I guess I didn’t make as much progress as I thought. I’m so tired of feeling this way. I just want to hold her, and not feel uncomfortable and sick about it. My first relationship fucked me up big time! I know it won’t fuck up this one, but it’s so depressing to think of all that time designated “recovery” stretching out ahead of me, all of this effort to detox the shit he put me through. I really do love her though.

You are doing everything right, and your ex deserves to be nothing more than a distant, foul-scented memory. Love her hard, and accept every ounce of respect and devotion that she gives you because you deserve it.

My spouse and I have plenty of (ok) sex. It’s the kissing and cuddling that is missing. Sometimes I want to cheat – with my best friend – and have some amazing cuddles, fully clothed. Why is this so hard????

Okay, monogamous people. I’m not mad. I’m not. But why is cuddling cheating? Don’t we have to draw the line somewhere with all this dyadic hysteria? I’m sorry, but someone had to say it.

Tell me many things!

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I wouldn’t say I’m proud of this, but for a short time in my feckless youth I used to use a Ramune bottle as a dildo. I know I just got finished telling you I seldom introduce penetration into my masturbation routine, but seldom isn’t never, and yes, I put a soda bottle in my holy of holies.

Note: It was an old one I’d kept from my even earlier youth when they’d had a slightly slimmer-at-the-top bottle design, but even that was still uncomfortably large for vaginal insertion¹. I’m telling you this in case you’re curious because you should NEVER, EVER try it yourself. And I will tell you exactly why not anon.

I would usually use it while on the phone with Reginald Sleeth, my long-distance boyfriend. The little marble inside the bottle would clatter around while I fucked myself with it and he purred in my ear. Masturbation sounded very distinctive in those days. This is exactly what was happening when it broke inside me while I was on the phone with him.

I heard the shatter, dropped the sturdy dorm room phone, and gave a little shriek. You know that hiss cringe that issues from your face when you collect shards of glass and drops of blood from your pussy? I do.

Reginald Sleeth doesn’t always appear in a great light on this blog. I’m aware of that, and I’d like to be more charitable. I’d like to inform you that when I picked up the phone and alerted him to the situation he was a comforting and concerned, and tried to help the situation from miles away even though he felt helpless. Instead, I’m stuck telling you that he yelled at me and told me I was being overdramatic and I ended up apologizing to him for injuring myself.

It is very often stupid to fuck yourself with things that aren’t supposed to be sex toys. It is always stupid to date abusive douchebags. My stories don’t always have aesops, but yeah. Pretty clear here.

Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the dildomaker would actually be smarter than either thing as long as you used it on material less dangerous than asbestos, or that glowing piece or radioactive matter that Homer Simpson throws from his car in the opening credits.

Apologies to (image source). You didn’t sign up for this shit.

1. Disclaimer: Vaginas may vary. [↩]

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There was a day this week during which every moment I wasn’t directly focused on other people I was fantasizing about killing myself or having my head bashed in with a cudgel. The good news is that the day is not today.

It was rather frightening, though. And so unaccountably weird.

Why am I even mentioning this? It’s the simple reality of the situation, but that doesn’t mean that it’s appropriate or useful to share. I don’t think I’m writing about these increasing mental health issues because I want people to pity me or make much of me. It’s okay to need attention when you’re in crisis, but I’m not asking for any. The thought of alarming anyone with this upsets me. Even worse is the thought of eliciting an awkward “Ummm why are you telling me this?” response. Honestly, I have been dealing with this almost entirely on my own so far, and successfully¹. But now that it seems to be getting so much worse, I’m forcing myself to write about it rather than keeping my head down and making jokes about dildos. Reasons:

1. This is as much of a diary as I have. While I realize other people read it, and I do try to limit myself in certain ways because of that, if I think about that too much I won’t write anything here. This is where I tend to go to be honest about my feelings. Even and especially the unpleasant ones.
2. When I get too secretive about my inner life– good, bad, or neutral– I always, always withdraw from the people in my life and feel isolated, which is not a productive way to manage self-destructive thoughts. I don’t expect anyone specific to read my blog, nor for anyone to react in any specific way. But at least I’m being honest at all, anywhere.
3. What’s going on is very weird for me. I don’t understand it, or why it’s suddenly gotten so bad. I am almost certain it’s related to a bombardier-beetle-like combination of chronic illness and hormonal weirdness. It’s also gotten worse as the days have gotten shorter in my part of the world, which could a coincidence or not. Anyway, I don’t hear much about people having out-of-the-blue suicidal ideations for a huge chunk out of the month because their lady hormones are acting up. People don’t walk around saying “Hey, so I’m on my period and I suddenly want to kill myself. You know how that goes!” And that makes me feel like this is a fairly singular experience, but maybe it isn’t. Maybe someone will google “PMS suicide” or similar and find this and feel a little less alone.

I don’t have any use for problems I can’t fix, so I’ve been tackling this issue as a project. I found two months’ worth of birth control pills left over from before Laramy got his vasectomy, and they are miraculously not expired. This is not a long-term solution for moderating my hormonal issues, but it could potentially buy me some time. I also bought a sunlamp just in case winter SAD is a factor. Today is the second day I’ve used it.

I am going to make sure next month is not this bad or die trying. Er… bad choice of words. But yeah.

1. Because look at how I’m all still alive and stuff! [↩]

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ConTuesday initiated.

Hey there. So I have a bit of a problem. Not a relationship one thankfully, I’ve been with a great girl for a few months and I’m loving it. The problem is, I worry.

See, I’ve got some scars, emotional and physical (and not in places I can show the general public) that’s left me feeling really tense and jumpy when I’m touched, especially if it’s unexpected. Sex can just become awkward when girls think you have endurance when really your body’s tense with the desire to jump off and just run. But with this girl, I’m not feeling that way nearly as much. Hell, she even likes scars so that’s a perk. But seeing my body being better around her makes me worried that if something happened and my body really was just playing nicer specifically around her that I’d have to go back to the tension.

So really I think I just need someone to tell me to quit worrying and enjoy the awesome time we’re having. Or something around those lines.

Quit worrying and enjoy the awesome time you’re having together. You deserve it. Seriously.

I nicknamed my lover giggles because she giggles when she cums. It’s the cutest thing ever :-D

I love cute things!

I really do.

Finally broke down a mental barrier and admitted to myself that I have an intense sexual attraction towards my best friend.
Promptly began fingering myself and fantasizing. It was DIVINE. Probably also aided by the fact that I switched back to using my right hand after a long spell with lefty.
I came somewhere around the neighborhood of twenty times, and now have wrinkly raisin fingers from all the juices!

Twenty orgasms. There is only one way to respond to twenty orgasms.

::Internet high five::

I told a guy that I’d been sexually assaulted a few months ago, and that was why I couldn’t hook up with him.

I wasn’t assaulted. I just didn’t want him standing that close to me.

I’m pissed that we live in a world where certain people will only stop being creepy if someone plays the survivor card. Whether that was true or not in this case, I’m pissed off that it’s no stretch for me to believe it was.

In general, though, I think it would be great if people wouldn’t lie about being sexually assaulted. Ever. It just gives apologists traction.

I am a bi-curious guy with a nice long-term girlfriend but for a few months now have been having penis-play fantasies. I had long ago a few tepid experiences with guys and decided to explore some more. So, I decided to try a local gay bath house for some (safe) play. I was able to have a guy’s nice balls in my mouth as I brought him off with my hands. In return he gave me a great blowjob. I will certainly be returning.

Hey, bi-curious guy. I’m glad you’re having fun and exploring your fantasies. Just in case, though, I’m going to leave a sentence about hoping your girlfriend has signed off on these bath house encounters right here, and you can pick it up at your convenience.

Here to brag and feel generally awesome for being an out poly person at my university!

I was afraid to come out at first, but my school is very accepting, and not a single person has given us a hard time about it. My girlfriend, my other girlfriend, and her boyfriend, are confusing to some, but nobody has been hateful or told us that there’s something wrong with us.

If you’re worried that people will judge, you’re probably right. They will judge. But probably not that much/that negatively. Most people probably won’t care that much, and will be perfectly happy to let you be as you are, and be somewhat confuzzled about your relationship(s).

My one wish is that people would say what they mean when they ask me, “So how does that… *pause* … work?”

This is such a happy thing to read, and I hope you experience acceptance like this post-university. I hope we all do someday.

I seem to hallucinate when I have a particularly intense orgasm (I’m the one who confessed to thinking I had seven toes once)!
During a rather good session last night, I believed that it was Christmas… not like ’ooh, this is amazing, like all my Christmases come at once’, more like I would go downstairs to see all my decorations up and a turkey in the oven… then momentarily lost my fear of spiders. For those couple of minutes, I totally accepted the horrible little abominations in all their extra-legged scuttleyness and was at peace with the idea of them being in my house or even on me. Now I’ve come back to earth, I cannot stress enough how NOT okay with that concept I am, nor how not-Christmas it is.

I often have visual hallucinations when I’m climaxing, but there’s never been a narrative, I don’t think. But I’m really quite okay with spiders even in mundane reality. All I ask of them is that they eat as many earwigs as they reasonably can.

My ex and I are friends. Legitimately friends. We only broke up because of distance (about 7 hours drive time). So when we occasionally hang out we will usually hook up.
This past weekend we had rough hotel room sex in a multitude of positions for a good 2 hours before continuing in the shower. It was amazing. While my friend doesn’t have the biggest penis I have encountered he has the best technique. It was so good we had another shower “quickie” the next morning.
I was sore and tender until Tuesday.

Sore ’til Tuesday. It’s the new American dream.

Confess!

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“They say Hunter S. Thompson typed out the entire text of The Great Gatsby just to get the feel of writing a great novel. That’s why I yell your name when I masturbate.”

I can honestly say this is the best terrible pickup line I’ve thought up in like a week, and I can also honestly say that I have too much regard for myself and the rest of my human family to ever use it. But seriously, I sometimes wonder if I couldn’t have been a work-of-art level douchebag if life had gone just a little differently.

No regrets. Steady now. Breathe.

Last semester, I did the grad school application and visiting dance, and ended up visiting quite a few schools. Not surprisingly, in the small academic community, I ended up seeing quite a few of the same people visiting these schools with me. Well, one person in particular.

He was tall, dark haired, and slightly unconventional looking, but damn did I love flirting with him, and flirting my way too! Not the silly coy flirtatious eyes, or telling him that he’s attractive. No, I like to flirt in the most egregiously insulting way possible. I think I told him he was literally the worst human being I had ever met. And at the last visit, after a great party, we ended up back at the hotel, standing outside his door, and he pulled me close to him, and holy shit I have never felt such a concentrated urge to kiss/fuck/entangle myself with someone in my entire life.

But I was in the ‘breaking up’ stage with my bf at the time, and it would have felt like cheating. So I pulled away, I apologized, told him he was freakishly attractive, then went to my room. We ended up going to different schools, and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

Even though I know (I think) that I made the right decision by not cheating on my then-boyfriend, I regret that good decision ALL THE TIME. And there’s still this little part of my brain that brings up a fantasy- we’re both at the same academic conference, I attend his talk, we meet for drinks after, he invites me up to his hotel room and this time we’re both deliciously single.

I think it’s probably accurate to say that most of us are going to lie on our death beds regretting, if anything, the things we didn’t do more than the things we did do. But that could be wildly inaccurate because I guess there’s always the possibility that we’ll all die in broad daylight because of a natural disaster or a Mayan calendar¹ and not even have proper death beds.

Nevertheless, you’ll have sacrificed potentially great sex for not being a douchebag, and I think that’s entirely valid. Noble, even. I’d say you  definitely deserve to run into this guy at an academic conference soon and pick up where you nobly left off.

I wanna sex up my man, and he’s just sitting there watching Naruto. All sitcoms but Married with Children have lied to me ;___;

One thing I’m sure of is that no one is going to lie on their death bed thinking “Damn, I wish I’d watched more TV…” All you people watching TV instead of sexing each other up, I respect your choices, but please make sure those are your actual priorities and you’re not just being lazy. You’ll thank me when we’re almost dead.

I’ve just realised that I like it in the ass. Like, I feel like I’m much closer to a g spot type orgasm from anal sex than vaginal, the few times I have tried it.

Weirder, I’m a mostly dominant woman, I’d say 90% top, but once a partner made me eat brownies and toffee sauce from a pet bowl whilst he fucked me in the ass, and that was amazing.

My man now, who I sincerely hope to be with forever because I truly love him, is very submissive and I very dominant of him, so I’m not sure how I’m going to work this in but I WILL think something up. Perhaps order him to assfuck me, in a sort of ’you’re mine and I’m using you for my perverse pleasure’ sense? That might work.

I’m going to be slightly douchey and quote myself. “Are you submissive to the food you eat? Is a canteen at the mercy of the water inside it? Eclipsing, holding, consuming, overlapping, absorbing aren’t words of weakness to me. We choose to think of the partner who welcomes the other into his/her body in such passive terms, but that’s choice, that’s perspective. It’s not innate to the nature of sex; it’s a commentary on our social paradigm.”

I got my Much Younger Lover back. Things didn’t last with the girl I set him up with so we started seeing each other again. He does the most wonderful things with his mouth on my pussy. The last time he went down on me he told me I came for over a minute. I had no idea it was that long, I just knew I couldn’t breathe for ages afterwards. He’s away right now and I haven’t had sex in weeks. I’m so horny that I’m climbing the walls.

You know that “if you love something set it free” shit? You did that. Turns out if it comes back you get minute-long orgasms. Now here is a picture of a butterfly:

QP, I’m so excited, and wanted to share. I am a straight girl in a long-term monogamous relationship, but recently I’ve been having thoughts about kissing this girl I know. There’s clearly interest on her part but I found to my surprise that the interest goes both ways! I thought I’d never have the chance to pursue that but I spoke with my boyfriend about it and he gave me the green light to pursue makeouts with her! So now I get to have cuddles and makeouts with this freakin’ awesome chick AND an awesome, supportive boyfriend. How lucky am I?

You are basically living the dream. ::Internet high five::

Last night my room mate / semi girl friend gave me the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had!

Tied to the bed, clover clamps, and the most amount of fingers I’ve ever had.

I was so high after. It was so good, this morning I was questioning if I’ve ever actually had an orgasm before.

“Some orgasms are more equal than others.”

Another horrible pickup line, admittedly, but also rather true.

Confess here.

1. Okay, admittedly not the Mayan calendar one. [↩]

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Sometimes you just need to shake things up. This two-days-late ConTuesday has nothing to do with tiredness or stress or the fact that I decided not to bring my laptop avisiting. Nothing. This is about shaking things up.

My girlfriend and I named our purple dildo ‘Taylor’ because we thought it would be rude to press gender norms on her/him.

To me, sex toy courtesy used to mean boiling water, bleach solutions, and condoms. I see now how drastically I was limiting myself.

So last summer I started hanging around this chick and we became friends. The unfortunate part is she is attached. But over the summer we bonded and we start flirting, teasing each other, you know, some chemistry.

So I get a text from her one night for me to come to the pub where some friends are. I agree and meet up with them. At the end of the night, we end up at my place and start making out and have dirty hot sex for HOURS. I wasn’t at my best, I admit, but it was amazing nonetheless.

Now it was on! After that, the sexual chemistry went through the roof. We couldn’t be in the same room together without wanting to rip each other’s clothes off and let our animal instincts take over.

We even started sneaking away from our friends to have sex in my truck, she sucked my dick at school, and we even had sex in the back lawn of our friend’s house.

One day she asked me to tie her up. I couldn’t believe it. This girl was blowing my mind (among other things haha). So I did and spanked her gorgeous ass with my belt and then fucked her until she came.

She is so hot, I can’t get my mind off of her. I have sex dreams about her all the time and wake up with massive hard-ons. I’ve never experienced such sexual intensity. Plus she’s a totally awesome person to boot!

There’s so many other dirty things I want to do to her. There’s a cage and ring inside my boxing gym. I want to take her there, tie her to the cage and fuck her so hard. Then I want to straddle her on the ropes of the ring and make her scream. She would love it!

Waaaaaait a minute…

I would like to think of myself as a reasonably careful person, fairly well-versed in both contraception and STI prevention, and yet I still don’t have oral sex with a condom. Even new partners. I know I shouldn’t, but I just…don’t. I love love love giving blowjobs without latex in the way. I’m a bad person, I know. I’m smart, I should know better. And I still don’t.

…I also love going bareback, to the point where it’s almost a fetish, but I only did that when I was very meticulous with my other birthcontrol and with a fluid-bonded partner. Still. I miss it. Look at me, trying to justify my one poor decision with a more carefully thought out poor decision.

I don’t see why taking on more risk than you feel is strictly wise makes you a bad person. It’s important to be honest with yourself and your partners about what safer sex practices you choose to use, and I actually see shame as the enemy of that. A lot of people have unprotected oral sex. Condoms taste weird and flavored condoms taste weirder. It certainly makes more sense to me in my sex life to limit the cocks I suck to those of vetted, highly trusted partners.

I would like to explore prostate stimulation. I might even want to explore being pegged. But I’m too embarrassed to let my wife know that I might consider such things. I am supposed to be strong and masculine and not deviant at all. If I tell her this, she can (and probably will) say no, and then she gets to hold that over me. Worse (I don’t think that she would do this), she could tell others that I asked for it. She might not, but she might. Or she might just threaten to do so.

How did I get to the point where the woman that I’m supposed to be closest to is the one that I least want to reveal my tender hopes and desires to? I love her, but this feels like the kind of trap for which there is no key. I am more upset about the nature of the situation than the loss of anal play.

The fact that you predict she might betray a confidence troubles me to no end, whether it’s indicative of trust issues on your side or because such behavior is realistic for her. In no just world should a desire for anal play be something you can hold over someone, but considering the world we happen to live in I can understand why you wouldn’t want her to share that information (aside from general privacy and stuff). Really, can you really call someone a partner if you can’t trust them not to hurt or blackmail you like that? I mean, fuck!

I want monogamy. I can live with open relationships, but what really turns me on, is monogamy. Being with my current boyfriend is what has made me realize this. He does fill every void I need another person for. I know that I don’t need, nor do I want, anyone else. Sexually or otherwise.

He is a non-monogamist who wants monogamy in the long run but not now. I don’t tell him that I crave monogamy because I know that if I voice it he will not be happy.

If he wants monogamy some day and you want to stay with him long-term, shouldn’t he know that you’re at least on the same page with that even if you don’t start giving him ultimatums to cleave to you and forsake all others, like, tomorrow?

Anyway, your job in a relationship is not to make people happy or prevent them from being unhappy at all costs. And your job in a relationship is especially not to misrepresent yourself and what you want.

Every toppy woman I’ve slept with has had an identical reaction to finding out I can come on command (and, more to the point, hold off–with great effort–on command). They ALL get this devilish gleam and leap into testing it out. They ALL want to see me beg and whimper, and come again and again once they decide to let me.

I adore it, and the fact that my last coherent thought is usually “oh, you damn toppy asshole” really only makes it better. I love the way they love it. Even when I’m REALLY FUCKING BEGGING, C’MON, LET ME FUCKING COME ALREADY, HOLY FUCKING FUCK. PLEASE.

Switches/versatiles too, probably.

I’m really bad at saying when a partner is doing something I don’t like in bed. Even when something is painful. Ugh. I need classes (and scripts!) for how to communicate better.

Oh, I used to suck at this. So hard. And in my case it came from a place of honestly not understanding that I deserved to have a voice in a sexual dynamic. I’m not trying to project that onto you, but I hope it makes you at least eliminate that as a factor because it’s vitally important to have at least a slight sense of entitlement when it comes to your own body. As for speaking up, my friend, that is likely going to take some practice. Maybe start off communicating with non-sexual friends about backrubs or other neutral-ish touches?

Sex Confessional

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One of my exes legit thinks I’m Satan. I am not going to say that I was an amazing girlfriend when we dated, or even that I’m proud of the decisions I made with relation to him and our relationship, but I also try not to forget that Edwin Pomble thought I was a perfectly lovely person until he realized I was never going to take him back.

Then I was evil incarnate.

Really, I try to maintain two perspectives on things like this. The first is the one where I try to be honest with myself and hold myself accountable for as much as, but no more than, seems reasonable. This perspective tells me that it was a complicated, messy relationship. He was horrible (at times), I was horrible (at times), and I stayed in it past the point where I strictly wanted to be, which is frankly what I feel most horrible about (one of my greatest fears is that people I care about are suffering my presence in their lives for no good reason, not really wanting me there, and I have profound distaste for the fact that I ever put anyone else in that position). But I don’t think my actions were ever borderline demonic, or even common, kitchenly evil.

The second perspective is the one where I accept that in his reality, I am A Motherfucking Monster. It doesn’t matter what I think happened, or even what actually happened in reality. It’s his perception, and it’s completely real. Through this perspective I realize that I’m basically his Reginald Sleeth.

Both of these perspectives are true because Edwin and I both exist, both have thoughts, and therefore both inhabit universes that only ever vaguely resembled each other. I refuse to pretend that his isn’t valid just because I don’t agree with or like it. This wasn’t always the case. For a while it really bothered me that I was the villain in his narrative. “Why doesn’t he understand that the shitty things he pulled were far shittier than the shitty things I pulled?” I’d demand of my Universe, which silently agreed. Didn’t matter. Didn’t touch him. He didn’t live there, or anywhere it would make sense.

And really, it doesn’t take much to ruin someone’s life. It just takes them thinking you did. There’s no reason to take that blame on if you don’t feel it’s deserved, but it’s useless to pretend they’re not feeling that pain.

And further, it’s crossed my mind– in fact I think it’s absolutely true– that Reginald Sleeth, who certainly abused me by the book, lives in a reality where he was largely faultless, maybe even victimized. That’s perfectly natural. There may be a part of me that wants him broken and riddled with shame and regret, but it’s puny and vestigial now compared to what it was. Shame is highly combustible, and for most of us it cannot remain stable over time. We have to contain it or transmute it somehow, or we’re utterly consumed. He’s allowed to have a life without that baggage. He’s allowed to try for better, and I hope that’s exactly what he’s doing.

When I learned that Edwin saw me out in public recently, surrounded by people I care about and behaving like I think I’m people, I understood why he felt slapped, discomfited. I think I can even relate to it. I’ve gotten pretty far along in the process of accepting that to him, there may be no way to relate to me as a human being. What I’m wondering is, if it happens again, and I actually see him too this time, what is a hell fiend to do? Do I greet him as a casual acquaintance? Do I pretend not to see him? Do I nod cordially but keep my distance? Entirely other thing? I truly don’t even know, but I do wish I could make it easier on him.

For Satan, there is no etiquette. Is there?

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I used to be a shy girl. I would blush when anyone I didn’t know very, very well spoke to me unexpectedly, then agonize for months afterward over how stupid whatever I’d responded with sounded. I was even rocking that stylish “hair-over-face…always” look for a few years. I still would have picked flying over invisibility as a superpower (obviously), but the latter was what I seemed to be working toward.

I don’t even know what happened to that, but it went away. I’m still awkward, mind, but not particularly shy. I no longer dread the sound of my own voice, and I’m fairly confident that people will respond to me positively more often than not (and if they don’t, the world still spins and the internet still has kitten pictures). But, though I’m not shrinking from people like their eyes spit acid, I remain fairly reserved until I really warm to someone. My impression of the first impression I make on most people (a category of speculation that is necessarily fallible in the extreme) is that I’m friendly–maybe even bubbly– on a surface level, but emotionally inaccessible.

I am mostly okay with this because it’s largely accurate.

It took Laramy and I about six months of dating before I’d admit to being his girlfriend. And we were a good match that way; neither of us dropped the l-word until even later. This pace felt managed and comfortable, but I will concede that it may have looked like Remedial Relationships 101 from the outside. And maybe it was.

Indeed, you could argue that my dating history in general has witnessed me choosing a lot of people who were not entirely emotionally available: people who detach, people who do not understand these crazy Earth emotions you humans have, people who maintain lovely but impenetrable shells. Those relationships, for some reason, felt safer to me. Although I do have an awful lot of feelings, I don’t enjoy laying them bare. Perhaps this is true of most people with detached tendencies; maybe we’re liars who enjoy dating liars. Or maybe not. Maybe we’re just struggling.

On an impersonal level, I love everyone. Maybe not everyone everyone, but I come damn close. People are so bright and fleeting and gorgeous, it’s hard not to let your heart flutter right out of your chest at their preciousness. It’s hard not to want good things for every one of them. Platonic love is also easy, though powerful and amazing. Attached, romantic love? The kind that steals you away and owns a part of you, your thoughts trapped and starving like Persephone before the Stockholm Syndrome took over? The kind that people become junkies for? That kind that’s such a juggernaut that people call it falling? Terrifying.

“I love you” means “you have the power to hurt me”. That isn’t all it means, and that isn’t a great part of it to focus on, but there is truth in it. By “hurt me” I don’t even mean the pain that comes with loss of that love. Loss happens, you realize the world still spins, and the internet is still full of kitten pictures, and you go on. The real threat, to me, is losing oneself to the juggernaut, to the swoon, to that other person and their expectations and their importance. The threat is the constant pressure to form yourself to your beloved’s wishes, spoken or implied. To become domesticated for them. Nothing hurts more than figuring out you’ve become as much a golem as yourself, and the words on your forehead read “I love you”. That is patent fuckery. And I have done that, and my entire being recoils from the idea of ever doing it again.

But really, it was not love doing that to me. It was not the other person doing it to me. It was always my choice to stop being entirely myself to try to please people who were presumably already pleased with me enough to want to be with me. We say, when we formalize love as marriage, that two people become one. That image may be useful in many ways (although I’m not sure I know how, come to think of it), but not as a directive for those two people to each dissolve into another messed up, flawed human being. That may feel sacrificial, but that doesn’t mean it’s loving. Really love someone? You owe them your authenticity, not their desires.

I wonder if I have learned to anchor myself to my self with detachment. When I remind myself that any relationship I have could end at any time– even though that’s absolutely true– is it to keep myself from being swept away? I’m much more secure in myself than I used to be, but still, I will do a lot to avoid the blur, the splitting of my will, that degradation.

And then, and then, what I’ve never much anticipated, but suspect might be a thing: there may be romantic relationships that bring us more fully into ourselves, and set us free. Maybe. May it be.

(image source)

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