Whenever I get even the faintest whiff of myself trying to be sexy I get that feeling you get when you introduce your most embarrassing relative to the coolest people you know. Just. No.

Oh god, no.

This…

…is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

I’m so sorry, guys. I cannot take her anywhere.

This feeling informs very little of my behavior during actual sex (I have convinced myself, and dearly hope is true), but it dramatically influences–nay, dominates–the way I flirt, or even interact with my friends and the people I fuck. A great example of this is that fact that I do not, will not, can not send anyone sexy/risque/flirty/myspace profile/whatever pictures.

No part of me projects these self-judgments onto other people who take, send, and share sexy pics of themselves. Oh, not by any means. Please feel free to test me on this.

Over the weekend I went to a party at the local goth club. Objectively speaking, I can get pretty tarted up as long as I’m convincing myself that this is “just for fun” and not anything remotely close to trying to be sexy. I do tend to give myself the benefit of a doubt when it comes to dressing. It’s similar to my completely sense-making habit of enjoying wearing cute underwear but being terribly embarrassed whenever I’m found out. This particular night I put on a short skirt, high (as I can manage with my walking issues) heels, a t-shirt I assaulted with a pair of scissors, and these adorable striped thigh highs. And a good time was had by all.

Laramy wasn’t able to come out, having had kind of a shitty day. So as I got home and started to strip off my sweaty clothes, he was on my mind and I had a dramatically uncharacteristic thought process:

1. These thigh highs are kind of cute…
2. Laramy’s mentioned a couple times that he likes my legs…
3. He’s had a super bad day…
4. I never send him pics of me…
5. Ergo… maybe it would cheer him up if I emailed him a picture of my legs in aforementioned thigh highs!
6. I’d better hurry up and do it before I think this through any further.

And I wasn’t even drunk or anything! I’m not going to say that what I produced in the following moments using a camera phone, specialty hosiery, and an inexplicable lapse of inhibition was a “sexy pic”. It really wasn’t. The whole thing was supposed to be a silly “thinking of you” gesture, I guess. But after I sent it, I realized that it was hazardously close to a “sexy pic” attempt. The more I thought about it the more I started neurotically wondering if it was going to come across as entirely pathetic or just mostly pathetic, and by the time I got up the next morning I was grimly expecting the worst.

To his great credit as a gentleman, Laramy’s reaction via instant message was a lot more “I like the thigh highs” than “You preposterous creature, what’s with the flailing abortion of a jpg in my inbox?” But it was a bit of a struggle to resist asking, “So like, that picture is pretty much an embarrassment to everyone involved, right?” I felt kind as if I was watching myself in horror as I proudly brought roadkill pie to the cool kids’ sushi and sake party. My stoicism through all this was an inspiration to both of me.

Mere minutes later, I kid you not, a friend sent me a genuinely super-sexy pic of her amazing bare breasts, asking me to forward it on to Laramy. Which I did, gladly, content that I had actually found a way to at least help brighten up his morning in a much more productive way than my previous attempt.

When you’re disabled you learn to live with limitations. That’s really the definition. No, I can’t drive that far. Sorry, I won’t be able to make it. I can’t keep up unless you slow down. Today I can’t get out of bed…even to shower. Fuck. These are sometimes the brutal facts.

In our culture, it’s seen as a virtue to scoff at personal limitations. We’re supposed to face our fears, defy the odds, and pull up our bootstraps. We look to the limitless, the boundless. We dream big damn dreams. We wait, breath abate, for the singularity.

Where does disability fit into this mindset? Disabled people are viewed in one of a few ways, generally: There’s the disabled person with some hope of a cure, a return to normalcy. There’s the disabled person who maneuvers around her obstacles to do something truly astonishing, like painting photorealistic landscapes with just her eyelashes. Then there’s the dreary, non-transcendent disabled person, whom you pity.

So basically, you can inspire hope or inspire pity. And you’d better have a phenomenal talent or something curable if you want to be in the hope club.

Of course there’s also the disabled person whose disability is less visible to the casual observer, but they don’t get the “disabled” tag at a glance. This last group doesn’t have it easy by a long shot, because it’s harder to get a break. The human attention span tends to gloss over the fact that you need special considerations or extra time. You have to remind people. They might even wonder if you’re not kind of sort of milking the issue. And like it or not, when you’re disabled sometimes it really sucks to have people expect you to function at the level of able-bodied people. Sometimes you might want special treatment because you goddamn need it.

I never thought that much about physical limitations until I got sick five years ago. Before that point, physical limitations meant worrying whether I’d fit into my skinny jeans. Needless to say I took my body and my health for granted. If I felt like dancing all night, we’re dancing! If I wanted to wake up at 5 A.M. to run a few miles, that’s what happened. I was the boss, and my body more or less did my bidding.

But losing control over your very motions is an extremely convincing way to learn that you’re not the boss of shit. Losing your balance teaches you that you’ll have to be a little more democratic about your “what me and my body are doing today” decisions. Chronic pain and exhaustion pin you to the mattress and make you give them your lunch money after screaming uncle uncle uncle. And you learn about physical limits in a way you never conceived of before. Sure, acute illness is a decent exercise in understanding this. There’s a point in a particularly horrible flu when you might wonder if you’ll ever feel normal again. You’re weak and suffering and you can’t imagine going to kickboxing class or walking your dog. In those moments, you probably kind of get it. But if you’re anything like I was, you forget those feelings within hours of beating the bugs back and emerging from the virulent mist.

The fact is, physical limitations are something we all live with even if we don’t pay much attention to them. You’re not going to jump 19 feet in the air. Ever. You’re probably never going to win an Olympic Medal. Sorry. You can’t sing G above high C. Unless, you know, you can. My limitations are just a little more depressing. For instance, I can’t walk to the bathroom right now without clinging to walls all the way there.

I’m committed to pushing my body as far as I can, when it’s wise to do so. I guess I still view myself as a disabled person who has hope, as ridiculous as that system of perception is. I want to burst through my limits and achieve the (currently) impossible (for me). But for now, I have these limits, see.

And one of them has exactly nothing to do with my illness or disability, and it’s this: WHY can’t I have my ass fucked in any other position than on my side, spoons style? What the hell is going on with my ass? Is it some kind of crooked freak or something? Seriously, anal is intolerably painful for me in every other position, but in that one magical set-up it’s amazing. I think I’ll say it again: What the hell is going on with my ass?

(image source)

Don’t you dare tell your little girl there’s no monster lurking in the closet. Because I just read the abstract of his paper on Nerve-Sparing Ventral Clitoroplasty. And actually, I think he’s not so much in a closet as practicing pediatric urology in New York. Either way, he’s out there and he’s the stuff of nightmares.

I don’t know how parents determine their daughter’s clitoris is “too big”. I don’t even know what that means. I was under the impression that big clitorises were sexy anyway, but no one should be evaluating a child’s genitals in such a way unless they’re presenting an actual medical problem. “Being bigger than average” isn’t a medical problem. But somehow, a bunch of parents decided their daughters’ clitorises were too big, and turned to Dr. Dix P. Poppas for help (you probably think I made that name up, but I didn’t even!).

Dr. Dix P. Poppas is nothing if not helpful. According to this and this and this he’ll helpfully hack into your child’s healthy clitoris (as young as 4 months) and pare it down to some arbitrary acceptable size. Then he’ll stimulate her clitoris with a vibrating device and ask her how it feels… not just once, no! Every year. He’ll keep a chart. A chart of your daughter’s mutilated clitoris’s sexual response. Across years.

There’s no way to convey this in normal-sized font, so…

Creepy. Evil. Creepy.

Why this is guy allowed perform experimental surgery on children and then systematically molest them is anyone’s guess.

I posted about this on twitter the other night, and comparisons were naturally made to male circumcision, which I’m also entirely against (concerning male circ, Holly Pervocracy wrote about it recently, and made some excellent points, as she tends to do). I’m not sure if we’re talking equal atrocities considering the potentially-scarring, prolonged aftercare involved, but to me these seem like obvious civil rights issues. We’re talking about the physical integrity of a person. You don’t fuck with that, even if you’re that person’s legal guardian. What am I missing here?

Maybe it’s down to the fact that I don’t want kids and can’t realistically put myself in the position of a parent, so maybe there are complexities to this I can’t grasp, but when we’re talking circumcision I’m appalled when otherwise-intelligent people whose opinions I respect trot out tired, unsound reasons for cutting off pieces of their hypothetical babies’ genitals. I’m not going to fight all the stupid pro-circ. myths right now because Intact America does a thorough job here. But really, the bottom line is that I just feel that cutting a child’s genitals for arbitrary reasons is never justified. Trust me, when they’re adults they’ll have plenty of time to decide if they want to mutilate their own genitals.

Why would anyone force a child to submit to any surgery that’s medically unnecessary? Or does that just go back to the “Why is there evil in the world?” question.

(image source)

Tuesday brings anonymous confessions as surely as June showers bring tornadoes. But anonymous confessions are way better unless I end up in Oz.

I keep a list of everyone I’ve ever fucked. Multi-year partners and one-night stands. It’s just their names, no details, no contact information. So far there are 18 entries. 5 have no last names. 1 has no first or last name. I’m not sure why I keep this list, or if it’s creepy.

I’m going with “not creepy”. If you had a spreadsheet with full names, current addresses, and mothers’ maiden names, that would be creepy. Come to think of it, though, I kind of keep a list myself, so my opinion might not count.

my boyfriend claims to have low sex drive and hardly ever has sex with me. Hmm. He spends an awful lot of time looking at nekkid women on the internet when I’m not around, though. Am I crazy to feel jealous? Clearly I’m inadequate. I’ve never had a man make me doubt my attractiveness before.

You’re not crazy to feel jealous. I think it’s usually silly when women feel threatened by chicks in porn, but when you’re not getting any sex it’s really easy to resent the fact that your guy is essentially being more sexual with strangers than he is with you. I don’t have any advice, and I wish I did, but I would feel exactly the same.

My first real life sexual experience was a full blown BDSM scene with a guy 20 years older then me I met on the internet. I was tied, gagged, blindfolded, beat to shit, fucked in the ass, beat some more then finally lost my “real” virginity before he pulled out and came in my mouth (which made me gag). It was awesome.

As a feminist, lesbian etc… I would have never watched the aforementioned “anal golf ball” porn, but found it super arousing…So much for studying for finals.

Have a confession that you’re dying to tell someone? Pick me! I’ll post it anonymously for you.

The day I had committed to shave my head for charity I was so nervous I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t figure out where the nausea was coming from, because deep down I believe that I’m fearless. Deeper down– like in my stomach, I guess I know I’m not.

Outwardly, I was blasé about losing all my hair. It would grow back, I told people, myself. It didn’t matter. But really I was quite attached to my hair. For years I’d been bleaching it out and dying it outrageous colors: orange, pink, purple, blue. It was the first thing people noticed, and most people loved it. Little kids thought I was a muppet; old women thought I was brave. For me, crazy hair took no courage. I can honestly say, even looking back and in the searing light of day, that I was never rebelling against anything, and I wasn’t after attention. I just wanted to dye my hair crayola colors: it felt comfortable, oddly natural. It was me.

There were several reasons I decided to shave it off, but the main one was that I knew the only reason not to do it was fear. Fear wrapped up in vanity, which is perhaps the most repulsive kind. My philosophy supports doing anything that you’re afraid to do when there are no good, logical reasons to back up that fear. A dread of being unattractive just doesn’t count, especially up against raising money for charity. But I couldn’t help being scared that losing my hair meant losing a huge part of my identity. Maybe without awesome hair I wouldn’t be me anymore. Even worse, I might be really fucking ugly.

So my stomach was a mess underneath my cool “What is hair anyway, in the grand scheme of things?” exterior. But I didn’t back out. I sat through the dull-clipper-tearing-my-hair-out-instead-of-cutting-it stage, the these-replacement-clippers-hurt-much-less stage, the oh-dear-I-have-a-mohawk stage, each of these taking roughly five minutes. And then, after all that, I had a really short crew cut, more a faint suggestion of hair than an actual hairstyle.

I’ve been in a mood lately. It’s hard to explain. Maybe if you have a chronic illness it’ll resonate. Maybe it’ll resonate anyway. Sometimes your body just says, “fuck you” for a few days, a few weeks, maybe months at a time. Every string of every muscle, each thicket of cartilage thrums with pain and hums with an unwholesome exhaustion. This isn’t the tiredness that comes after a toe-curling orgasm, or that bludgeons you after a rough workout, or even a battle of a day. It’s a crackling defiance against life itself. No part of your body wants to move the slightest bit, but deep within the pain lies a restlessness. You get no respite from this. A revitalizing sleep feels like the promise of heaven, and you’ve realized you’re nothing but worm food.

It feels sometimes like the anger and frustration and anxiety– hell, even the self-loathing– aren’t reactions to what’s happening physically, but actually originate inside this pulsing, livid, struggle of the flesh.

And that’s been my emotional state for the past couple weeks: pain/anger, tension/frustration, constriction/anxiety, exhaustion/self-hatred, they come in these binaries: they stay, they press, they fill me. And somehow I can’t force the emotional ills out of me any better than I can will away the physical issues. They’re wrapped up in each other, not always, but inevitably in the worst times.

So I’m feeling sick, I’m feeling down. Obviously, that makes me feel like a sex goddess. Yeah… not so much. Clearly I still want to fuck (I’m me, aren’t I?) but I feel about as sexy as a windshield wiper, which makes the self-loathing worse, which makes me feel even less sexy, which… you get the point. Of course, getting sucked into cycles like that is probably the worst choice I could make at this point. I need to focus on staying positive, dammit. SO!

This is the part of today’s entry where I stop bitching about my maladies and malaise and make a random, abbreviated list of some things that I find Super Sexy™. Let’s begin!

I love the whole world…

1. You know what’s sexy? Getting wet with someone: swimming, shower, rainstorm, ooh hot tub! As long as it’s not uncomfortably cold I’m into it.
2. Girls in boys’ underwear. Yum.
3. When someone gets wicked excited and geeks out about sex toys, that’s sexy.
4. Playful little nips in the middle of long, deep kisses.
5. Hidden, surprising tattoos are sexy as long as they aren’t the embarrassing, ill-advised sort. Okay, good visible ones are hot too.
6. It’s Super Sexy™ when someone has better MTG decks than I do.
7. When a guy is really getting into a blowjob and starts thrusting without really realizing it, I am overcome with the sexiness.
8. Adonis belts (a.k.a. “hip thingies” or “Apollo’s belts”) on guys and butch/gender queer girls. Likewise nice lats.
9. Play wrassling.
10. Freckles on a girl’s shoulders. And nose.
11. A twisted imagination. Not mean twisted. Nice twisted.
12. Watching two people kiss while one of them looks straight at me makes me swoon a little. You know, as long as it’s not in a creepy/cheaty way, obviously.
13. Infectious enthusiasm tends to make me wet. Even if it’s for something I’m not really all that into.
14. A good singing voice.
15. Knee socks, preferably striped, on cute girls.
16. Feeling an erection through a nicely fitting pair of jeans feels like… I dunno, like your character in NetHack just ascended. It feels awesome.
17. Doing something to a sex partner’s body that s/he never knew s/he liked before…getting that “Whoa! Do that again!” face flashed at you… that is fucking marvelous.
18. Large vocabularies are, um, you know, good.
19. Drag kings!
20. People with sex drives that match (or, hell, exceed) mine are bona fide Super Sexy™. Call me.

Okay. That actually sort of cheered me up. Boomdeyada boomdeyada boomdeyada boomdeyada…

(image source)

It’s Tuesday, which means that here at Quizzical Pussy, it’s also ConTuesday. While I have your attention as you await anonymous internet dirt, I’d like to remind you that Buy A Sex Toy Day is coming up on June 4th. If you’re like me, you’ll want to start planning what to buy now. While you ruminate on that, have some confessions!

Got back together with an old girlfriend of mine. We both have other partners, she’s married, and everything’s cool, except that we fuck unprotected, just not to (my) orgasm. We both know it’s bad, but we really get off on being bad, and it’s some of the hottest sex I’ve had in at least a year and I don’t even feel guilty about it.

My girlfriend is into calling me “Daddy” in bed and even brings it into every day situations every so often. It makes her happy but I can’t stand it and sometimes it’s even hard to keep my boner it’s so silly and gross. I try to humor her though because she does stuff just for me too.

Years ago I blackmailed my friend’s girlfriend into giving me a blowjob. I had caught her cheating on him and told her I’d tell him if she didn’t service me. I wish I could say that I felt so bad that I didn’t really enjoy it, but it was the best one I’ve ever had to this day. I did feel so bad that I stopped blackmailing her after that and never told my friend anything.

I’m attracted to chubby guys, but I’m a really fit and sporty girl, and not willing to change that. Whenever I start dating a deliciously chubby boy, after a few months he goes on a health kick trying to keep up with me, even though I always worship his round, soft body. I make them feel self-conscious by contrast, I guess. It sucks. I can get my physically perfect guy, but I can never keep him. :(

If you have anything on your chest, take it from that chest and deposit it into my online form! Tell your deepest, darkest sex secrets anonymously here.

My friend Crispin Hijanx selected three women to stand up with him at his wedding. He also selected a woman to marry, cause that’s just what our state is like these days! His best friendships really are with women, and he tends to loathe rigid gender boundaries, so it makes perfect sense for him to have groomschicks. Of course, in terms of the bachelor party I’m not sure if his selection was unfortunate or ingenious.

We groomschicks are determined to throw one hell of a party, but we’re a little handicapped by the fact that none of us has ever been invited to a bachelor party before, so while we know the movie-style ideas of what bachelor parties are “supposed” to be, we don’t have vast libraries of experience to draw from. And Crispin isn’t even interested in “hired strippers”, he says, so we have to get creative from scratch: no strip clubs, no boozing, nothing stereotypical. Did I mention that Crispin hates being stereotypical?

So I’ve been running around like an energy-impaired chicken with its head cut off lately trying to help plan this shindig. It threatens to be pretty fun, too. We’ve had lots of good ideas that reek of Crispin, but there’s one that makes me especially nervous. See, not too long ago, one of Crispin’s friends was getting married and he, along with a few other male friends, agreed to strip for her bachelorette party. I don’t think it’s mere happenstance that Crispin has mentioned this factoid about three thousand and six times since his engagement.

When you get to the point where you realize that one of your oldest close friends is asking you to take your clothes off in honor of his impending nuptials, what do you do, punk? In light of the fact that I’m terribly naked shy, my solution is to start with many clothes and end up with significantly fewer, but still some.

In stripping, is it still the thought that counts?

I wonder if other chicks are as splendidly neurotic as I am sometimes. Am I the only one who feels mortified when I feel like I might have crossed that nebulous line from “self-lubricated and ready to go!” into “superfluity of cuntjuice”? I’m not talking squirting here. That’s another neurosis altogether. This is more like when bodies are curling and undulating against each other and tongue is pressing tongue and hands go down to explore my nethers and mouth breathes “you’re so wet“.

And for some reason I want to apologize.

I’m not making puddles or anything. There’s still plenty of friction. I just have this feeling that if my pussy were dispensing the normal amount no one would mention anything about it. So I worry about it. I worry that my glands are belying my “I’m not desperate for this sex I’m dying for us to have, I swear!” act. And it’s not like I’m always wet. No, I just get very wet when I’m turned on. So I can’t say “Oh, it’s been like that for years. Just ignore it.” I’d be lying! It’s really a highly sensitive feedback system saying, “Put something in me, you lovely creature you!” There’s something embarrassing about being completely unable to hide the fact that your body’s clearly expecting something.

Keep in mind that I feel terribly rude expressing sexual interest. But I can’t get around it sometimes. It took me years to train myself to keep from humping a partner’s leg when I was aroused. I’m not even sure I can train this away! I am such a horny, horny girl, and not at all discrete about it. Maybe it should take lots of foreplay before I’m ready to go. Maybe I should require a ladylike dab of lube. But that really isn’t me.

In that way, sometimes I feel like my pussy’s the most honest part of me. I can be very shy and timid in the moment, but once the panties are breached the truth comes out that I’m really into it. It’s not easy to play your erotic cards close to your chest when your knickers are dripping. But damn, sometimes I’d like to have the option of coming off a bit more demure on occasion.

On the other hand, I don’t spend much money on lube.

I’m about to set the record straight for good and all, people. The record on penis size.

The official record on penis size is, understandably, a source of contention and much gnashing of teeth. The blue whale’s mighty member can measure up to 8 feet long, but that’s not very impressive in proportion to his massive body. It’d be like an average-sized man having a 10 cm penis– which happens, of course, but it’s not getting into any record books.

Barnacles have the biggest penes proportionally (about 40 times the length of their bodies or something insane like that), and since most species of barnacles are hermaphrodites, they mostly all get them. Of course, if each of us had been born with a forty-million-dollar trust fund, none of us would feel all that rich, now would we?

If you care only about vertebrates, look no further than the Argentine Blue-bill duck, who curls all 17 inches of his pendulous prick up inside his cloaca until it’s business time. And most birds don’t even have pricks, so in birdland, this one-eyed snake is king.

If you are so terribly anthropocentric that you care only about human vertebrates, then the largest verified penis measured in at 13.5 inches in length and 6.25 inches around (I’m assuming that’s erect), documented in the early 1900s. This guy matches that length, and is 9 inches flaccid.

This entire italic section is a huge digression, by the way.

Here’s the interesting thing about what women like when it comes to penis size, and what I’m about to share is absolutely true…

• Some women like a lot of length.
• Some women prefer more girth.
• Some women want exceptional length and girth.
• Some women prefer average or smaller measurements in length and/or girth.
• Some women don’t really care, they just like cock.
• Some women are revolted by cock and would like you to put yours away now.
• I’m going out on a limb to say that men fall into similar categories regarding penises that aren’t theirs.

Did I miss anything? My point, of course, is that I can’t say that penis size is or isn’t a big deal. It all depends on whom we’re asking. Some size queens are going to be disappointed with certain guys that are still statistically above average, and some women who aren’t into deep-dicking don’t understand what all the fuss is about.

Then, there are those guys who don’t seem to trust what their partners think and feel inadequate no matter what. Penile dysmorphic disorder must be a sober road to travel, and I can relate to it in a sense. Clearly there’s some societal pressure in play: guys feel like they need to measure up to be virile and alpha and all that, and it must be hard. Kind of like, say, having photoshopped fashion models with B.M.I.s of 16 shoved in your face all the time and being told they’re the non-negotiable physical ideal. Or something.

It becomes obvious why this penis extension sleeve and other such products start to seem like a logical option.

Personally, I’ve never had sex with a cock that felt “too small”, but maybe I’ve just been lucky. It’s hard to really compare them to the average cock (roughly 6 inches long, 4.75 inches in circumference erect, if you’re curious) without my trusty tape measure. And of course every guy I’ve been with claimed to be above average. I can say, however, that the first one I experienced was also the smallest, and going back to that size might be a trifle disappointing. Just being honest.

If a penis works and is attached to someone I’m partial to, size isn’t a primary consideration. And there’s such a thing as uncomfortably big for me, especially since I hate getting my cervix pummeled and I tend not to use lube for vaginal sex. But again, this is just me.

So far I’ve been reveling in the subjectivity of it all (which is what I often do, because I think pretty near everything is subjective, being the godless harlot that I am), but do you think human beings with our tinkering monkey minds have really been content to leave it at that? Of course you don’t. Deep down you knew that people like Ed were working hard on the problem.

Most guys have used rulers and tape measures and eased their cocks into empty toilet paper rolls to figure out length and circumference. They likely even compared numbers and roll snugness with their friends or strangers on the internet. But Ed has taken it to a whole different level. Ed wrote an ebook! And, of course, Ed made a graph.

Based on Ed’s extensive non-medical research, which I’m not sure but I think probably involves the super-empirical “asking women on the internet how they feel about their partners’ self-reported sizes” method, the perfect penis is… it kind of looks like anywhere between 7.125 and 8.375 long and between 6.125 and 6.375 inches in circumference. Anyway, the red blob. If your penis is longer, shorter, girthier, or skinnier than that, it’s relegated to “very satisfying but not ideal”, “satisfying”, or “enjoyable”. Or, heaven forbid, “not satisfying” and “freaky”.

Ed’s pretty fucking harsh. There. I said it. Also, am I the only one who thinks these circumference measurements are just a smidge unrealistic? My huge mitt is 8″ around at the widest point when in a silent duck posture, so you’d better believe that 7″ is firmly in fisting territory when we’re talking smallish female hands. For me, that amount of pain wouldn’t be very “satisfying”.

It’s too bad penises aren’t jointed or prehensile or something, because I’ve had all sorts of orgasms with just one finger in my pussy. Or with nothing at all in there, for that matter! Has anyone told Ed about my clitoris yet?

So of course all this left me wondering about my cock. A reported 7″ insertable and 5.5″ around (although my measurements place it at closer to 5″), my Feeldoe is solidly above average. It can fit partway into a toilet paper roll but then it gets stuck. Ed’s chart asserts that it would need another good inch of circumference to be “ideal”, and as it is it’s only “satisfying”.

I have fucked myself with that cock, and yes, it is satisfying. It’s “satisfying” like there’s “a bit of a problem between Shias and Sunnis”. Accurate, sure, but not exactly astute. Can you imagine coming up for air after fucking someone, searching her eyes dreamily, hoping she found it as glorious as you did, and then she remarks blandly, “Well, that was enjoyable.”

Bish please! Maybe you forgot that it vibrates.