quizzical pussy

Growing up I had a game I liked to play. If I was stuck somewhere with a lot of other people and not much to do, I’d look at them one by one and figure out why each of them was beautiful.

Sometimes it wasn’t immediately apparent, especially if I knew and disliked someone. But if I looked long enough I’d find it. Sometimes it was shallow and obvious, and sometimes I had to work a little: a nose no one else would be born with for another 500 years, eyes hugged pleasantly by smile lines, a perfect cupid’s bow. I just had to find it beautiful, and as long as I found something in everyone I won the game.

I guess one could argue that the nature of this game was offensive and presumptuous on any number of levels, but what did I know? I was a kid and it never occurred to me that I was being rude by staring or shallow by focusing too much on people’s looks.

The interesting thing? I literally never lost. How could I? When you look for something like that it’s always there.

No one is born ugly. When you’re born you just look like whatever you look like; you aren’t yet equipped with all the tools required to make judgments about your face, your body type, your body fat percentage, whatever “flaws” you’re going to discover later.

And while there may be as many ways to be ugly as there are ways to be beautiful, everyone arrives at physical ugliness in the exact same way. You learn that there are good and bad ways of looking, you realize that you don’t necessarily look the way people want you to look; that they might think your appearance qualifies as bad. And then, the final and necessary step: You agree with them.

Because you’re not ugly if you don’t believe you are. There’s this amazing protective magic that happens when you don’t believe it, and that makes it impossible. If you feel like you look the way you’re supposed to look, every dirty look and snide comment dissolves in the power of you not giving a shit.

But if you buy into ugly, the naysayers you’re agreeing with don’t even have to be real. They can be completely imaginary, and all the real people in the world can think you’re exquisite, and that’s going to make not one lick of difference. You’re ugly, and no one is telling you any different.

The magic trick of not giving a shit is admittedly harder for some of us to master than others. Sometimes because the looks police bastards are very real, and intent to grind some of us down particularly. Sometimes because many of us refuse to realize the truth: we are never, not even ever, objectively ugly. Because there is no such thing.

When I think about how terribly hard I’ve worked to become ugly, it angers me. It could be so easy to find beauty in ourselves instead. Fuck, a six year old can do it.

(image source)

Wishes are sometimes confessions. Often, really. For instance, the main reasons I want bigger boobs are so I’ll (a) look better naked and (b) be able to get more attention when I want it. This is not something I’m comfortable going around saying to people, so I just say I want bigger boobs to even out my generous butt. That reason is valid, but it is not entirely truthful.

These ConTuesday confessions are pretty much all less frivolous than that.

9 months after the break up of our short romance, I still sometimes have dreams that he takes me back and everything is right with the world again.

But then you wake up and realize your life is awesome and you’re awesome and anyone willing to let you go is someone you’re better without? I’m hoping.

I think there is something seriously wrong with me!!!! I have only orgasimed with a man once. I can masterbate and hit it on the spot just like that, but you let a man come into the picture and it ain’t happening. Oh sure the sex is great but no orgasim. I have changed positions, added toys, and even told the guys how to do it. I don’t know what else to do, so I enjoy the sex, I come home, masturbate, and have the most intense orgasims. What is wrong with me???

Nothing is wrong with you. This is a very common situation, as I understand it. Maybe it’s the mental distraction of having someone else there. Perhaps the pressure of feeling like you need to have an orgasm to satisfy your partner’s expectations is bogging you down. Perchance it’s the fact that even if you tell someone just what to do with a toy, their technique won’t be exactly the same as yours. Have you tried just masturbating in front of a partner? If you haven’t, that might be a good start. If you’ve tried that and it hasn’t worked out the way you want, maychance try masturbating while having phone sex with your partner as an introduction to sharing your orgasms with him.

Keep in mind that you’re capable of giving yourself orgasms, so that’s great in and of itself, seeing as you’re a person interested in having them.

I want a hysterectomy more than anything. There is no medical reason to get one. I hate my uterus though – it is an organ with entirely oppositional goals to mine, and I do not identify as female and having it makes me feel alienated from my body. But I am terrified of losing my uterine orgasms – this must the joke of the cruelest gods, to make one organ both responsible for my greatest joy and greatest fear.

You didn’t ask for advice, and I am in no way qualified to give you any, but I want to say I cannot imagine how difficult this dilemma must be, and I’m sorry you’re facing it.

I want my lover to be poly-compatible more than I want just about anything else. I love her deeply and she’s practically perfect, but so matter how happy we are together, no, she’s NOT enough. It isn’t that anything is wrong with her, it’s the fact that she’s just one person. I can never make her understand that if she can’t understand open relationships. It’s hopeless. I can either lose the love of my life or stay with her unfulfilled. How does one choose?

Monogamy vs. polyamory is a relationship/sexual orientation (and yes, there are people who swing both ways as well). More and more I’m convinced that it has more to do with how one is wired than what one is able to understand, or how evolved one is, or how badly one wants to be the other orientation. If your orientation is definitely poly and hers is definitely mono (and demanding of monogamy, because some people stay monogamous and very happily let their partners practice polyamory, and that’s one solution), it seems to me that neither of you has a great deal of choice in the matter.

That being said, maybe buying her a book wouldn’t hurt. No pressure, mind, just a free book and the polite request that she do you a favor by reading it and discussing it with you.

Good luck!

Want to confess something? Preferably something related to sex, relationships, or how you have a giant crush on me? Please go here and spill it!

 

ConTuesday has arrived! Prepare yourself to read some confessions because they’re coming at you in 3…2…1…

My darkest fantasy: My girlfriend dumps me for another guy, or I walk in on her having sex with another guy (or really any other variant on that theme)

Then through some twist of circumstances, I am at her mercy, and she forces me to give him oral sex or clean up after he finishes on her after making me watch (or really any other variant on that theme)

I have never really felt betrayed, and I wonder whether I fantasize that way because it’s such a reversal of the way my life actually goes, or whether I’ve never felt betrayed in my life because it couldn’t possibly live up to my wildest expectations of betrayal.

This kind of cuckold fantasy is pretty common. I tend to think the human mind and human sexuality are too complex to necessarily be able to explain the things that turn us on, but when has that ever stopped anyone? And seriously, why should it?

I just engaged in a solo session out of literally nowhere in which I suddenly discovered that vaginal walls are really sensitive if you press them from the outside kinda through the outer labia, damn near fisted myself somehow, and finished by jacking off with a Nexus and imagining it was my own dick.It was so awesome I have to tell someone. I am bursting with weird excitement, here. But my girlfriend’s at work and nobody else I know wants to hear about that. So I’m just telling EVERYONE indiscriminately through the power of ConTuesday.(I kinda needed it too…as-yet undiagnosed chronic pain conditions and holidays and periods and back spasms really don’t mix. But damn, if I don’t feel fucking amazing for just right now.)

Indiscriminate relation of mindblowing fapping sessions: one of the many purposes gladly, giddily served by ConTuesday.

I hope your health issues are better now, or at least diagnosed and getting treatment.

Also, I’m trying that pressure-through-the-labia thing, so help me.

When I masturbate I pretty much always swallow my own semen. Sometimes the whole lot, sometimes just a little. I equate it with biting my nails…

This totally reminds me of something that should probably be a confession itself because it’s sort of weird and I don’t want everyone to judge me. But whatever.

I once (years ago) formulated a plan to induce lactation on myself and see how long I could just live off my own breastmilk. I probably would’ve tried to go through with it, too, if it weren’t for the fact that I’d have had to wake myself up in the middle of the night to pump in order to get the milk flowing, if it even worked at all. I must’ve been so super bored back then.

This has next to nothing to do with the semen eating thing, which strikes me as a much nicer habit than nail-biting, really.

There’s a woman I really like. She has an amazing heart. And she’s the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. But she also has saggy folds of flesh that I’ve never encountered in a date before. Not fatter than I’ve seen, but droopier. And it bothers me. I can sort of see past it, but looking at her doesn’t have the effect on me that either of us would prefer.

There’s another woman I’m dating. She has a great body. In my heart it seems like she’s much too pretty to be interested in me. Objectively, I can tell that’s not true, I’m a handsome man and she’s not the prettiest woman to have hit on me by a long way. But I’m so insecure that deep down I can’t accept her interest at face value, and I have trouble getting close to her.

BTW, both girlfriends know that there are other women but not anything about them

I guarantee you that there are people out there who will be attracted to Woman #1′s body just as it is, as well as her heart, all while appreciating her amazing kissing prowess. Offhand I’d say she probably deserves exactly that. I think everyone deserves someone who’s genuinely attracted to them rather than someone who’s just overlooking their appearance. Maybe that’s naive. I also don’t care.

The thing that strikes me most about this confession, however, is that I have no idea if Woman #2 has a damn thing to offer besides a hot body. I think everyone deserves someone who’s genuinely attracted to them rather than someone who’s just interested in their conventionally hot appearance.

Hopefully you’re one of the good someones for one (or both, if you’re poly) of them. If not, don’t beat yourself up. You don’t owe anyone your attraction. In that case, I hope you move on and find the right person/s for you.

Have a sexy confession? Submit to me!

From time to time, when I’m dressing for an evening out, I’ll take them out of their drawer and look at them. My chicken cutlets: silicone flesh-colored slices of tit I don’t have, with pert little knobs that suggest the nipples of those not-really-my tits are vaguely intrigued by something or other. And always will be.

And I’ll wonder to myself, Is this it? Is today the day I’m finally going to wear fake boobies in my bra? So far, it never is.

Sometimes I would like to have bigger tits. If the reason were any simpler I’d have to grunt it. Women with big boobs get a lot of sexual attention when they show them off, leading me to imagine it’s pretty easy for them to get sex any time they like. This is a lifestyle that appeals to me.

To be fair, at other times I wish I had smaller boobs and 12% body fat. Basically I want to be Princess Mombi, but with modular bodies in addition to all the heads. I don’t think that’s asking too much.

Anyway I was blessed with boobs I’d call just about average-sized. (Though, in a Serling-esque twist, I think my tits have grown a little since I went off birth control pills, despite my actual weight staying stable. If anyone can figure that one out, let me know. ***Spoiler: Also no, I’m not knocked up***) They’re not tiny, but they’re not formidable either. So at one point I bought those weird silicone inserts in a fit of “why the fuck not?”.

But I haven’t ever worn them, and the reason is not an ethical issue with deception, nor the fear that someone will get a disappointing handful of plastic if a spontaneous hookup should happen. And sadly, perhaps, it’s not because I looked inside myself and found that I like me just the way I am. The major reason is that I don’t really understand how to use them.

They didn’t come with instructions. Do they go at the bottom of the bra, to boost the flesh boobs up higher? Do they go on the sides to push the cleavage together? Somewhere else altogether? I don’t know. Wherever I put them they look weird. It always just looks like I stuck a big brick of plastic down my shirt. Which I guess I sort of did.

Really, it’s just too damn much trouble to play titty tetris every time I want to look hot.

Tonight is the finale of RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 3. Who cares, you ask? I do. My latest brush with acute illness has left me with a lot of time on my hands. Did you know you can watch every single scintillating episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race ever produced right on logo’s website, tiny and pixelated beyond your wildest dreams? Well, you can.

To say that I lay in bed watching every episode would be a gross understatement. I also watched the extra catty web exclusives where you get to see the drag queen contestants bitch about each other backstage.

All in all, I’m excited to see who wins. I actually, really, almost and maybe even truly unashamedly am.

Part of this, of course, is research. Or maybe reverse research, because I’m actually a drag king. That’s right: I have exactly one performance to my masculine alter ego’s name (which I can’t share because I just know he’s destined to become a famous playboy and I still have a secret identity to play fast and loose with here). And I’m just a handful of days from another, if I can decide what song we’re lip-synching to.

It was once explained to me that to do your makeup as a king, you just reverse everything that queens are supposed to do. So while a man will put a white stripe down the center of his nose to make it appear narrower and create the illusion of feminine features, a woman has to draw a dark stripe instead to make the nose appear wider. I have no idea whatsoever if this is valid or not. I know exactly enough about makeup to have never bothered to learn anything and I own a book by Kevyn Aucoin that I don’t entirely understand. That’s pretty much all I can say for myself when it comes to makeup.

Really, the assumption in drag is that the genders are opposites, and have minimal overlap. If I walk like a woman I obviously can’t be walking like a man. In a recent episode of Drag Race, a queen advised a straight jock on his first flight dressed as a woman that “girls don’t point”. Like, at things, with our fingers. Which, I have to admit as a girl, I do. But what we’re dealing with in drag isn’t gender; it’s fantasy gender.

Which is why it’s so powerful and challenging and fun, really.

But this is also why there probably won’t be a reality show all about drag kings. It’s the same reason handsomeness pageants aren’t neck-and-neck with beauty pageants for popularity and scholarship opportunities. Same reason both men’s and women’s magazines have hot chicks on their covers. This is gender 101 shit. We more or less all fetishize the image and the fantasy of femininity, regardless of which gender/s we’re actually attracted to. In performing the opposite gender, women lose that double-sided edge we come to expect. We’re no longer universal visual shorthand for “sex object”.

It took drag to make me stop and wonder if guys don’t sometimes feel bad that they’re largely excluded from pretty.

Of course, I kind of also love this about being a drag king. Performing maleness I don’t feel any pressure to look sexy in the ways I’m used to failing at (big boobs, long hair, perfect figure et al.), and I think that’s why I suddenly almost feel sexy. Or something.

Or maybe I’m drunk with power because I have a big fucking packing penis.

Sometimes… okay, often, I get this nagging feeling that I’m most likely Not Awesome. I’ll tally my list of accomplishments and it’s just so damn short, with this dearth of recent entries. I’ll look in the mirror and I won’t even see myself, just an unqualified failure to be a Victoria’s Secret Angel. Or, easiest of all, I’ll just listen to the people who tell me I’m a walking suckgasm and deserve nothing good out of life.

But then I look around me and see all these amazing people I have in my life. I have friends who are more interesting, brilliant, accepting, and tolerant of my flakiness than I ever dreamed possible. Some of these friends, shockingly, even find me attractive and want to play together: an outcome far beyond my loftiest fantasies. And my boyfriend? He challenges everything I used to believe about relationships, after years of making stupid, harmful-to-everyone-involved decisions in my love life, just by being himself. I didn’t know what it felt like to be loved and respected by a partner until Laramy showed me. Did I mention he’s awesome? And he picks me.

Even on the most superficial level possible: I, Quizzical Pussy, mere mortal, have gotten to have sex with some of the most exquisite, intriguing, and frankly hottest people I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. Not bad for a cripple who sucks at flirting and can’t tell whether people are into her or not.

So with all this evidence in front of me I have good reason to wonder if maybe I’m just a little awesome after all. Otherwise wouldn’t these seriously cool people shun me? I mean, even allowing for the fact that they’re also kind, wouldn’t they at least try to keep some distance?

Of course it doesn’t do to base my entire self-worth on the fact that people of excellence want to know and possibly even fuck me. But it’s good to remember that maybe I have some good points I’m not seeing, that they might. And I love these people; I trust them. Maybe they have a point.

And even if I’m seriously Not Awesome in any way, shape, or form, which I accept as a distinct possibility, life is making up for that by being boundlessly awesome in some of the ways that matter most.

(image source)

The Sovereign Nations of the World by Penis Size

(click to engorge)

How patriotic do you feel looking at this map? Of course, part of me is wondering if the data is all self-reported. If so, we may simply be looking at a map charting the size of insecurities, sorted by country.

Either way, where’s the girth map? Do cartographers know nothing about the mechanics of sexual intercourse?

(Via geekologie, through a confidential source.)

I swear vulvas have to be every bit as unique as fingerprints.

There are so many variables to them: What do the labia look like? How do they fold together? How big is the clit? Its hood? Where is everything positioned relative to its neighbors? And damned if nearly every variation I’ve seen isn’t mesmerizing.

I’ve never paid all that much attention to the actual vaginal opening before, though. Obviously I’ve paid attention to the way mine feels when something enters me, or how another woman’s feels when I slip my finger inside, but I’ve never spread the labia wide and studied the way a vaginal opening looks before. Turns out it’s absolutely fascinating.

In the past I’ve noticed by feel that there’s this little dangly bit at the bottom of my vulva. It flirts just behind the base of my labia minora, not quite peeking out. It’s almost like another little clit that mirrors the real one at the top. Feels almost like one when I play with it, too.

I finally got around to looking at it last night. I suppose I just assumed that it was a sort of diacritic to my inner labia. Not so. Not so at all.

I never noticed before how, well, ruffly my vaginal opening is. Its architecture is positively Boroque. It has its own folds and pearls; it has its own whorls and fingers. And I see exactly, precisely what it’s doing, the brilliant little cunt: It’s embellishing itself in every possible way to maximize surface area.

A simple ring of flesh would suffice, of course, but my pussy is having none of that. When a penis, a toy, a finger enters me, every knob and ruffle of my entryway strokes it, and all those extra nerves hungrily drink in the sensation.

No wonder that moment of penetration steals my breath and stops time.

Of course, this is another place where there’s tons of variety depending on whose anatomy we’re talking about. Some openings are neater than mine, and others even more embellished, no doubt. I’m not saying mine is anything special.

Except wait: it is special. That’s my whole point. My vulva is amazing. And so is yours, if you happen to have one. They all are, and every time I notice something new in one, that moment unfolds a universe. It’s almost, almost enough to make me believe that there’s a creator, and that s/he considers physical pleasure a profound virtue.

(image source)

Last year I did a whole list of sexual resolutions. In a textbook QP move, I pretty much forgot about them as soon as I typed them. I did, however, accidentally adhere to a few of them. Let’s check them out one by one, because there’s no possible way that could be demoralizing for me!

1. Flirt with strangers: This one still sounds like fun, and I still don’t do it, except sometimes by accident. I barely even make eye contact with people on my bad days. So FAIL.
2. Initiate sex with my boyfriend: Not. Really. I think I did that all of once, then we got interrupted in the middle of fucking and I felt like a loser. FAIL.
3. Admit when I’m attracted to someone: I’m getting much better at this, though I’m still not at the point where I admit to that person. DEMIWIN.
4. Fulfill three new sexual fantasies: I’ve had a fuck-ton of fucking fun this year. I had a lot of great sex. I discovered that Laramy is awesome at spanking. I got to have a foursome and a FMF threesome (both featuring the earth-shatteringly hot Rowan and Viola Sharqtipus, with my sexy Laramy in the former), but I’d have liked to have been more proactive and adventurous in general. Still, WIN. And you would totally agree if you saw the pretties I got to play with.
5. Perform in a drag show: I did this. I need to remember to tell you about it. It was amazing. WIN. So much win.
6. Try out new sex toys! With an emphasis on sharing toys with others. While naked: I tried a few new toys. I still suck at bringing them into partner play. DEMIWIN? I guess?
7. Feel okay wearing the sexy stuff in front of partners: FAIL. Just fail. I’ve realized, though, that Laramy couldn’t care less if I wear sexy underwear (he seems to think that lingerie is a superfluous middleman between clothed and naked), though he does appreciate when I wear clothes that prove I have boobies.

So, considering that I didn’t really maintain the eye of the tiger on these, at all, not a super bad showing.

Upon rereading these, I realized that most of 2010′s resolutions dealt with insecurities, which is pretty fair. So this year I’m going to keep it very, very simple and just work on confidence. In I’m going to start thinking I’m awesome or die faking it.

Damn, this is going to be hard.

Do you have any New Year’s Resolutions that involve orgasms in some way, shape or form? Or even if they don’t, I’m always curious. You can even tell me anonymously if you like.

Happy New Year! I hope this year is far better than the last for each and every one of you.

A Fuquerton family acquaintance recently gushed to Laramy’s mum about what a very very good person he must be to be with a handicapped girl.*

Behold the lowly cripple: a creature who can only experience human love through the selflessness of others! See her hobble pathetically around, tragically seeking connection, all for naught, until a benevolent man finds it in his heart to condescend to touch her. The saint! The philanthropist! He must be a really, really good person.

Make no mistake, Laramy really is an amazingly good person. He’s sweet and generous and affectionate (to those on his good side). Watching him with his pets would melt you. It’s indisputable that I’m lucky to have him in my life, but anyone would be. Not just cripples.

It’s not surprising, though. Truth is, there are times when I think and sound a lot like that batty broad. I wonder what an able-bodied person is doing with me. I feel guilty that I’m spending yet another hour in bed, flaking on another commitment. How kind of him to keep me around even though I’m not functioning at his level, when we all know he could do so much better.

But isn’t there even the slightest possibility that it’s not all about health, despite what armchair evolutionary psychologists would have us believe? Isn’t it possible that someone might be with me because of my internal encyclopedia of useless knowledge? Because he likes the silly pictures I draw? Because my eyes look like sunflowers? Because I’m a huge dork, or because I once played Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night’s Dream? Hell, because I carry the coolest cane ever, when I need it. Plus, I get the absolute best parking spaces.

I don’t know. I’m just throwing things against the wall here. But I have to be open to the idea that maybe I have actual, non good-deeds-deductible selling points. There are a lot of details about me, and the fact that I probably won’t be trying out for a roller derby team any time soon is just one of them. It really doesn’t need to be the most important one all the time.

(image source)

*This, to my knowledge, isn’t the opinion of any of the Fuquertons: just one batty broad they happen to know, and don’t particularly like.