quizzical pussy

Watching a guy play with himself fascinates me. But I’m not interested in a long, lingering, self-conscious tease that acknowledges that I’m watching and attempts to give me a show. I like to see how a guy gets himself off normally, without frills. I revel in the businesslike, perfunctory action; I like noticing the parts of his penis he focuses on and the places he ignores. I want to understand what it means for him to possess his genitals, to spy on his relationship with them. And sometimes, I find myself relating to him as much as I’m turned on.

And this is why I bought my Feeldoe. I wanted a cock of my own. Specifically, I wanted to jack off. It did occur to me– casually– that I might want to fuck another person at some point. Also, that it would be hot to slide my pretty purple cock between a set of lips, provided I could find someone to agree to give me a blowjob. But I wasn’t holding my breath or my order for any such opportunities to emerge: they were like the wacky roadtrips you might envision when you get a new car, but you’re really getting it for your day-to-day driving. Basically, I got it for day-to-day wanking.

A few of my male friends have remarked that buying the ingenious strapless strap-on to jack off with is perhaps the purest and most excellent reason to get one. It’s always nice to get unique compliments. I’m pretty sure my reason is simply the most penis-envious. Of course, if I were male I’d likely consider penis envy pretty pure and excellent myself.

I adore my pussy. I love my small-but-mighty clitoris. I write poems about my G-spot. But a cock is a beautiful thing to have, as an accessory, and I picked an especially good one.

About a year ago I was looking at strap-ons online and thinking how none of them really seemed all that tempting. I could see how the act of penetrating someone could be kinky and erotic and all, but I couldn’t imagine any harness/dildo combo feeling all that good from the fucker’s end. There’d be some clit stimulation against the harness, but it probably wouldn’t be all that different from dry humping, would it? But then. Oh, then! Then I saw the Feeldoe.

Naive as I was, to me a double dildo was a long, straight, two-headed phallus used only in porn and Darren Aronofsky movies. But this was different. This was brilliant. “Surely,” I declared to myself, “a woman designed this marvel.” Turns out, yup. It has a bulb that the top puts inside her pussy so she can feel every thrust she makes with the external dildo, and ridges that press enticingly against her clit. I could imagine the Feeldoe propelling me toward real, joyous fucking, compelling me to push faster and faster into my fuckee like a man in the grip of his impending orgasm. I also immediately realized that if I had this wondrous device I could jack myself off, and that possibility made me dizzy with longing.

I tried to reason with myself: there was no point in spending all that money on a two-person toy if I was only ever going to use it by myself. I might not even enjoy wanking like a guy, maybe I just liked the idea. But the image of stroking my own cock kept creeping into my brain, eventually camping out as a persistent fantasy. I couldn’t explain it: I wanted a cock. It didn’t matter if I never penetrated a single orifice with it, I wanted it and I would make my own fun.

So I decided to stop being a jerk and to let me have my penis. And when it came, all my wildest dreams came true. Not about fucking with it, or even getting a blowjob, because none of that has happened yet. But jacking off with my Feeldoe is fabulous. The ridges that work my clit (which I consider the major tell that a woman designed it, by the way) feel amazing when I pull on the shaft, both ends of it feel great inside me, and the little bullet vibe is a mind-blowing enhancement when I want a little something extra.

The only problem is that when I come especially hard my pelvic muscles tend to contract and push out whatever’s inside me, be it warm, pulsating flesh or slick violet silicone. So I have to concentrate on keeping it in if I want it to stay put. But the beauty of a detachable penis is that you can take it out and put it back in with ease. I do so love having it all.

Quizzical Pussy: WTF????

Sometimes when I didn’t want to do the things that Clifton Overmangle wanted me to (e.g. meet him for a quick blowjob when I was tired, let him give me hickeys, send him naked photos) he’d pull out the squirting card. “Well,” he’d say, “my intention to bring you pleasure overcomes my preference to not have you pee all over my sheets. You should be more giving and generous, more like me, and do whatever I want.” I can’t remember this rhetoric ever working, but it did make me feel self-conscious, so I guess no one won. Of course my solution that I’d tell him if I felt I was in danger of ejaculating and he could back off was completely missing the point, as he saw it. We should be making sacrifices for each other or something.

Two things:

1. IT’S NOT PEE!
2. This is not a good method of getting a chick to accommodate you in bed; it’s an excellent way of making sure she becomes determined never to ejaculate around you again.

I have a friend who squirted the first time she masturbated. She also freaked out, of course, because what the fuck just happened? When you’re not prepared for it, squirting/gushing/female ejaculation can be a slight shock.

I can safely say I had thousands of orgasms not realizing that there was such a thing in the world as a Skene’s gland. I was visiting my boyfriend Reginald in Los Angeles, and one afternoon he fingered me for what felt like hours, he rode through every orgasm as I bucked and bleated. I was in such a delirium of pleasure I fell off his futon, and he followed me down to the floor, his fingers still pounding and flickering, not missing a beat. He was concentrating mostly on the strange rough patch near the front on my vaginal wall, which I knew was the G-spot, although I didn’t know what was about to happen. I don’t know how long it took, but eventually something sprayed out of me in the middle of a searing climax. And I was absolutely mortified. I hadn’t even felt like I’d had to pee, but I was sure that somehow I’d just wet myself.

Reginald, who’d been researching a thing or two, looked very proud. “Do you know what just happened?” he quizzed me. I shook my head, miserable. My skin felt hot as the blood bloomed red in my cheeks. “You just had your first complete orgasm.”

Reginald was wrong about that. Squirting orgasms are definitely intense, but they’re just another type of orgasm. They’re not any more “real” or “complete” than a clitoral, vaginal, anal, or any other type of orgasm: believe me, I’ve had enough different kinds to know this. People can and do have favorites, but that doesn’t make those favorites any better or more orgasmy than any other type.

I don’t squirt with every orgasm, every time I have sex, or even every time someone stimulates my G-spot and clitoris together, which is normally how it ends up happening, although it can certainly result from attending to one or the other location with especially dogged resolve. Are the best orgasms always like majestic geysers? Not even always.

I think Reginald’s misapprehension about this, and any feminist distrust of squirting you might run into, is due to how damn analogous it is to male ejaculation. Sometimes a woman’s orgasm (not mine, but a woman’s) is a maddeningly subtle thing. A partner– hell, even the woman herself– can be left wondering if she actually got off. Guys are easier: semen comes out. Mystery solved. If women start doing that too, illumination! She definitely just came, and the wet spot just got a whole lot fucking wetter. Enjoy.

It’s messy. It can be inconvenient. It feels awesome. I’m not sure what’s in it for the person not impersonating a fountain. I guess it’s got to be the novelty and the extra emphatic proof of a job well done that accounts for the fact that very few guys have complained about it. Clifton was the exception, and I half think he griped about it only as a bargaining chip, considering that the first time it happened he was gleeful but a bit disappointed I hadn’t warned him so he could catch it in his mouth. Most guys are fascinated by it, and feel pretty cool when they pull it off.

Of course, I’m terrible about warning them. Squirting isn’t something that I expect or plan; it just happens sometimes. Plus, it happens more often during oral/digital sex than the actual penis-in-vagina playtime, so this is probably early in the saga of sexual exploration when “foreplay” takes longer, and I’m not totally comfortable yet talking about what fluids might come out of me. But I seldom account for the enthusiasm people can have for a new toy, and too often I’ve squirted with a new partner before I gave myself a chance to bring it up. This, as you might well imagine, is embarrassing. “It’s not pee…” I usually end up saying apologetically. I swear it isn’t.

Sofia: I’m preorgasmic.

Jamie: Does that mean you’re about to have one?

-Shortbus

The word for a woman who has never gotten off used to be anorgasmic, which isn’t very optimistic. The term preorgasmic is much more hopeful, but it seems like it might be a little too much pressure: like the universe is crouched in breathless anticipation, waiting for you to climax at any minute. All the time. And if you can’t hack it, you’re disappointing yourself, the word, the universe… everyone. Maybe it’s just my imagination running away with me, but I think I’d actually prefer to have a more desolate term and just let my body surprise me if it ever got around to coming. But I’m not much of an expert on not coming.

Laramy and I watched a movie over the weekend about a female sex therapist/couples counselor who had never had an orgasm, and not for lack of trying. What followed was a journey into a debauched New York City sex-drenched subculture, much like Alice in Wonderland if the White Rabbit were a hot chick with many tattoos and the flower beds were dozens of strangers engaged in joyous orgies. This is a world I’d like to live in. At one point Laramy asked “Are there really sex clubs like this?” and I replied, “I have no idea, but we should definitely open one.”

But it was hard for me to relate to the protagonist’s problem. Sure, at one point I was preorgasmic too, but I had to be eight years old or so at the time. I know women who’ve never gotten off, or whose sexual response is tricky and elusive, but I’ve never had any good advice to give them. I’m the opposite. There is no mystery in how to make me come. Of course you need some skill to get me off just touching my arm or back, but if you’ve found my clitoris or are penetrating me with anything more comfortable than a cactus, I’m not going to walk away frustrated.

There were ten months or so a couple years ago, though, during which I lost my orgasm. I had no sex drive, no periods, and couldn’t get off no matter what. I was dating Edwin Pomble at the time. He’d told me early on in our adventures that he hadn’t really cared for sex until we started fucking, and a lot of the change was down to the fact that he never had to worry that I was enjoying myself. He could just relax and have fun.

My orgasms are hard to miss. My pelvic muscles can contract with enough force to eject any cock. I usually cease my mid-sex caterwauling and get suddenly quiet. I stop breathing for a moment (a terrible habit). I make funny, blissed-out faces. If it’s an especially crazy one, my eyes roll way back into my head, which is super sexy…I promise.

I’ve noticed that the ease of getting me off sometimes goes to people’s heads. It did Edwin’s. Although he started out ambivalent about sex and self-deprecating about his abilites, by the time we’d been together for a while he would trot out the “I know I’m really amazing at sex, but is that all I am to you? An incredible lay?” card during arguments.

But all that stopped for a while, and poor Edwin didn’t understand what was happening any better than I did. Although I think part of it was the fact I was unhappy in the relationship, it turned out that the larger factor was a medical thing. When I got on the right thyroid medication things improved and eventually went more or less back to normal. But while I had this problem, I had zero interest in sex (which just goes to show how much we owe to biology, seeing as one of my dominant personality traits shut off one day because of hormones) so I didn’t really miss my orgasms all that much. It was troubling, but not really very frustrating. For me. I’m sure it was frustrating for Edwin, poor thing.

When my thyroid levels were still iffy, but rising, I finally got off by masturbating while doing deep breathing exercises, which I still find makes my orgasms more intense (this is why holding your breath is a terrible habit, by the way). A couple weeks later I had Edwin jack off against my clitoris, kind of slapping it with his cock. I don’t know why, but I absolutely love that. Would these methods help anyone else? No idea!

So while I had this little taste of what it’s like to have an orgasm block, I’ve never had to wonder if I’ll ever be able to come. I knew from early on what I like and how my body reacts. I was always confident that my climax issues were temporary. I still don’t know what it’s like to be preorgasmic. I’m lucky.

In fact, I’m so easy I worry about it. Later in our weekend together I flashed my left nipple playfully at Laramy while we were cuddling in bed. Guys are to nipples as magpies are to shiny things, so of course he started teasing it with his fingers, tonguing it, gently sucking. I had three orgasms from this inside of five minutes.

“Does it get irritating how easy I am to get off?” I asked after a bit. I worry about this way more often than I bring it up. It’s particularly embarrassing when I’ve just had a blatant orgasm during a PG-13 second-date make-out, but it almost always makes me a little self-conscious.

“Why would that be irritating?” He seemed puzzled.

“I don’t know. Kind of like always having to play a video game on the easiest level. Like there’s no challenge to it or something.” I swear this makes sense in my head.

“That’s very silly. I never think, ‘Wow, this would be so much cooler if I had no idea how to get her off, or maybe if I had to apply the same super specific stimulation until my tongue was numb and my jaw ached and I gave up in despair and she was completely frustrated and unsatisfied.’ You don’t have to worry. I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of watching you come.”

…Which is good, because being hyperorgasmic is pretty fun for me.

When I started second grade one of our first assignments was to draw pictures of our families. I drew my parents and sisters and hamsters and even my goldfish, but I forgot to draw my brother. Maybe I “forgot” to draw him. I don’t think it was intentional, but he’d been born a year and a half before, usurping my title of “baby”, so it’s possible that I just tacitly edited him out of my picture because I secretly hated him, not even admitting it to myself. In fact, that’s probably exactly what happened.

My parents encountered my artwork at Parents Night, and my dad wrote me a little note that said “Please remember that we love your brother and do consider him part of the family, even if he isn’t as important as the hamsters.”

Whoopsies.

Likewise, I feel like kind of a jerk not having written yet about my most trusty and loyal implement of orgasm. He is the unsung hero of my toybox, and even though he isn’t quite as important as the hamsters (I just made it too weird, didn’t I?) I still adore him and owe him about five billion orgasms that I know I can never repay.

Rabbit-style, or dual action, vibrators are a cliché for a reason. They’re really, really good at doing a really, really good thing: namely, providing clitoral stimulation and penetration at the same time without any outside assistance. They’re an amazing way to masturbate if you go in for that kind of thing.

The Impulse Jack Rabbit is the only one of its caste that I’ve tried, but I think it’s more or less representative of the genre. You’ve got a dildo with an intriguing bulb of rotating beads mid-shaft. The dildo itself also rotates independently of that. And of course there’s the adorable little animal-encased bullet vibrator that stimulates your clitoris delicately (but not weakly) with its ears. Similar vibrators have hummingbirds, elephants, butterflies, dolphins, or more abstract clit buddies, but the idea remains the same as the standard rabbit. The rabbit works well because the flickering ears are almost like two tiny and talented tongues. Rabbits are also cute, and fuck a lot.

The design is meant to be ultimately non-threatening. Although the slightly more badass Impulse Jack is all chrome and red where its cousins are often pink, white, or lavender, it’s still decidedly cute. It mimics the shape of a cock while doggedly resembling one as little as possible. The dildo even has a little smiley face where the frenulum would be. See? Not a scary penis. A happy penis! The animals evoke a simpler time when we all just humped stuffed animals, I guess? I’m not really sure, but this is an approachable sex toy.

But it’s also, as I said, awesome. The first time I fucked myself with it I knew my world would never be quite the same. There was so much going on! In my pussy! Things were happening texturally, vibrationally, rotationally… it was marvelous. The variations were unreal: 6 rotation speeds, 7 vibration routines utilizing three different ear-flickering speeds, the carousel rows of beads whirling inside the spinning phallus. Bliss. We fucked and fucked and fucked like, well… you know. Bunnies. And then, just like that, the honeymoon was over.

One of the very early problems that emerged was the fact that this thing burned through batteries. The clit vibration and shaft rotation functions are controlled by different buttons, and the latter was a huge drain. Like, a four AAs in ten minutes kind of drain. I understood. Relationships are give-and-take, after all. But then, after a couple months, the rotation gave up the ghost completely: there was no more shaft movement whatsoever. It was a sad, sad day. Apparently this is a common issue with this and other rabbit-style vibes of similar design. The same thing has happened to several other chicks I know, some of them not even as insatiable as I.

That said, my jack rabbit is still my go-to toy. I use it so often I should probably be embarrassed. And the orgasms are still amazing. I’m actually not big on insertion masturbation, although I absolutely love penetration as an institution. Clit play is just easier. I tend to start masturbating before I’m turned on, just because it sounds like a good idea (dopamine? Don’t mind if I do!). Can I be bothered with lubing up? Nope. Do I necessarily want to do lots of cleanup afterward? Nope. Generally, day-to-day, I just go for the clit. And for what I like, I’ve never found any clit stimulation that compares to that little bullet in its rabbit-shaped sleeve attached to its smiling, now-inanimate dildo (which still feels good, obviously, but no longer life-changing). I actually tried buying a stand-alone toy that’s just a bullet in a sleeve, but the ears weren’t quite right: too skinny and floppy and insubstantial. Impulse Jack Rabbit, it’s still you.

My jack rabbit is getting older and even feebler. His vibration is less trustworthy as time goes on, and battery efficiency– even without the energy-draining spinner–  is laughable (probably a combination of sex toy entropy and the fact that rechargeable batteries are an imperfect system that may always work best in theory). I know it’s only a matter of time before even his trusty rabbit ears fall silent. I think I’ll end up getting the rechargeable version to replace him, and then his shaft rotation will die, and I will still love him long and well and often anyway. That’s just the circle of life.

I may never come out to my parents as bisexual.

I haven’t identified as bisexual for very long. I didn’t actually have sex with a girl until last year, and although I quietly wanted to–was terrified to–for years before that, I never did, and wasn’t comfortable calling myself bi until I had actually interfaced with a pussy that wasn’t my own. I figured that was what the term “bi-curious” was for. Also, for me, if there was such a term as “bi-terrified”, that would’ve also applied. I was fairly certain that I would never actually be able to get together the courage to eat a girl out. It seemed so daunting and advanced and, although this is counter-intuitive…alien.

Of course, that was roughly the feeling I had about sucking cock before I tried it. In fact, to my teenage mind putting a penis in my mouth seemed like a disgusting, degrading endeavor. When rumors went around my high school about any girl “needing a pair of kneepads” as we put it, I always thought, “Poor thing! Why on Earth did she do that?” Remember, blooms just don’t happen much later than mine did. Obviously, once there was finally a cock rearing in front of me all hard and enticing, it finally clicked and I swallowed it with alacrity and without a speck of doubt. Similarly, when I finally had a pussy waiting under me, pretty and beckoning, I was suddenly way less scared and way more bisexual than I had ever given myself credit for. I only ached to make her feel something amazing. I only felt humbled, elated by the way she bucked and moaned as I tried to be less inept, to faster figure out her spots and secrets.

After that experience, I started to shyly define myself as bi. I sort of looked around the couple times I said it out loud to make sure it was okay, to see if anyone objected or called shenanigans on me. No one batted an eyelash (I don’t think anyone I told was all that surprised), and I didn’t get struck by lightning either.

I’ve never had a relationship with a woman. I’ve had weird pseudo-relationships, definitely. My best friend in high school had a meltdown when she learned I was thinking of going to Homecoming with a guy; my other best friend and I used to share chewing gum the fun way. The girl who became my Sophomore year roommate in college decided to become my friend when she watched me during a courtyard session of our Freshman Comp class, my hair backlit by the afternoon sun, and determined that she thought I was pretty. We read books about sex to each other late into the night, gave casual caresses that crackled with sexual tension, and our fights were practically lovers’ quarrels. I spent a lot of time during my late teens/early twenties thinking I could well be a lesbian (I did have a boyfriend, but I wasn’t physically attracted to him so much as in some kind of occult thrall, and I knew it). I was always sure I could date a chick; that was never the question.

Now that I’m no longer afraid to fuck a chick, there is no question. I could easily have a relationship with a woman. But I’m attracted to guys too, and so I have the bisexual privilege of never having to deal with being in a same-sex relationship if I don’t choose to. This makes it really easy for me to just not mention that I lust for, desire, could love women. It makes it easy to have a boyfriend and play with girls once in a while and never have to ask people to confront any facet of my sexuality that might be uncomfortable. And for my parents, my liking women would be a problem. Probably THE irrevocable problem. Maybe even worse than getting… gasp!… an abortion.

My friend Eloise Chestlegrinn didn’t come out to her family when she identified as bi, but as she became more and more sure that she preferred innies to outies it grew into a big issue. She started feeling that not claiming her sexuality was like lying to her very close (and very religious) family. What had been an acceptable deception as a bisexual woman was suddenly intolerable as a lesbian. And that makes sense: once you eschew men you can’t “pass” anymore. The option of camouflaging as straight has disappeared, and you’re no longer hiding what may be one aspect of yourself; you’re now hiding your entire romantic life. The fact that she fell in love with an amazing woman only adds to her yearning to be out. She wants to say “This is who I am and this is who I love!” fearlessly from the rooftops. Of course, she also feels like she’s going to need to add “…and please don’t hate me.” because her parents are probably going to shit bricks and then tell her she’s going to hell.

And that’s more or less what my parents would also do. They would be very, very sad and talk a lot about “urges” and “choices” and “lifestyle”. My mother would cry that she won’t be seeing me in heaven. It would honestly suck, and I don’t want to do it. I never want to deal with the mess it would make. And in a way, they’d be right about one thing: it is a choice in my case. I don’t have to fuck girls; I want to fuck girls. I really want to fuck girls, and it bothers me that anyone is pathetic enough to have a negative reaction to that choice, but I went through over two and a half decades not fucking them, and I can obviously choose not to. I just find that choice insipid and limiting, because my attraction to women is not a choice. And if I ever really fall for one, I may very well want to holler something from the rooftops about it and not get lectured about Leviticus 18:22.

Same-sex attraction isn’t a choice. Behavior is a choice. My father has worked with churches his entire adult life (does it surprise anyone that I’m a preacher’s kid?), and has counseled many well-meaning people who were terrified of hell on how to modify their behavior and “resist homosexual urges” by becoming half-hearted heterosexual spouses. You know how that turns out? Fucking badly! When I say behavior is a choice, I’m talking about Eloise’s parents, and potentially, someday, mine. We can’t change the fact that we want to touch boobies and lick clits and make pussies quiver and their owners writhe. And we shouldn’t be the ones to adjust. It’s a lot easier to choose to react to the news that your child’s gay or bisexual with understanding and love than it is for that child to eternally resist her truth. Our parents could modify their judgmental behavior and choose to embrace the parts in the Bible (if Bible-thump they must) that deal with not condemning others, loving everyone, and leaving the tough questions about who and who is not damned for all eternity to the great big Dom in the sky rather than focusing on the couple places that say “OMG fags are evil!” right next to where it says that eating shrimp is an abomination. How about THAT lifestyle choice?

I already tweeted about this, but I couldn’t leave it alone. When I was a kid I used to chew on the inside of my cheek when I got anxious or bored. The skin would start to get ragged and then it would be even harder not to gnaw on, and it became this vicious cycle of livid pink injury. That’s pretty much exactly how I feel about My New Pink Button. And by that I mean it seems a product of anxiety and boredom, it appears completely pointless, and I just can’t leave it alone even though (or maybe because) I already touched it.

My New Pink Button™ is labia dye. Did you ever think you’d see labia dye? Because honestly, I didn’t. Sometimes, it seems, a woman’s labia change color over the course of her life. According to the product’s website, “Yes, it’s perfectly normal and there are many factors that can contribute to this. Ethnicity is a big factor, also age, hormone change, surgeries, childbirth, sickness, health, diet, and medications can all contribute to a change from “Pink” to “Brown” in a woman’s genital area.”

…So, what you’re saying is that it’s perfectly healthy and normal for women of different ethnicities, ages, and states of health and reproduction to have different colored vulvas? And there’s nothing wrong with it that at all…

…that a little cosmetic dye won’t fix?? Awesome!

I’ve never really thought about pussy colors before. I have noticed different pussy colors, but I haven’t really thought of them as having any sort of a hierarchy. I mean, if you want to dye your labia, have at it! The more things you can dye, the more fun and interesting life is. What bothers me here is that while My New Pink Button™ offers four different colors for your labia-dying needs, all four of them are pink. Does that seem right to you?

The four different shades range from a light baby pink (called Marilyn) to a rosy burgundy pink (called Audry). The other two, Bettie and Ginger, are also– you guessed it– pink! If I’m going to dye my vulva, I want more options. I want a crayola box full of labia possibilities. I want an alien pussy, is what I’m trying to say. That’s what I will pay you $30 for: an alien pussy or nothing. Got that? Also, I slightly resent that this product is suggesting that my labia are supposed to be a certain color. Why is pinker better? This is probably the one thing to hate about my body that hasn’t yet occurred to me, and My New Pink Button™ is trying to fuck that up! This is just like the discussion I had with several male friends last summer where I learned that all of them consider large clitorises (did you know “clitorides” is the other plural form of clitoris, by the way?) amazingly attractive, and I suddenly realized– without ever considering it before– that my tiny clitoris is inadequate. And now maybe my labia aren’t “Bettie” enough? Are you just fucking kidding me?

Yes, I’ve gotten out the hand mirror before. Which of us has not? But never specifically to scope out color. So I immediately brandished my trusty mirror and went to studying my naughty bits:

• I’m not familiar with the etiquette involved, so I’m not sure if it’s obnoxious to say that I think my labia minora are kind of cute. They’re not exactly symmetrical, but they fold together like two little petals of a delicate budding flower. I literally just looked at them and said “awwww” out loud. (I suspect my attraction to them has a lot to do with the fact that they’re mine and we’ve had countless orgasms together, which is very bonding.)
• My clitoris is really, terribly small. :(
• Looking at my pussy makes me horny. Is that normal? Oh well. Don’t care. (brb. fapping.)
• Oh right. Color. I guess my labia are pink. I’d say they’re just about EE9572 in hex; fairly close (though not quite so ZOMG pink!) to the My New Pink Button™’s “Ginger” shade. But my skin is so candescently pale that it doesn’t really “do” brownish.
• Are my labia pink enough? Sure. They’re labia, not my sixth birthday party.
• Would I be dismayed if they suddenly became less pink? Maybe even (doom!) browner? I’m trying to imagine this bothering me. I really am. Look, I have trouble walking most days. Kittens are born without homes. Somewhere, someone is mistaking “its” with “it’s”. I have a minuscule clitoris. Please understand, I have enough problems. I really just can’t care about the color of my labia right now.

But some women apparently care, which is why this product exists and has five whole testimonials! And if this makes them feel better about their bodies or lives in any way, that’s awesome and I’m excited for them. However, if “labia must be pink!” is the new “labia must be small, smooth, and even!” I’m about to get grumpy. Although, come to think of it, I much prefer silly pink dye to drastic elective surgery. But can’t it just be time yet to decide that pussies are sexy just the way they are, and natural variety is part of what makes them so? No? It can’t? Didn’t fucking think so.

I love going to parties with someone I’m fucking because the entire evening is foreplay: rubbing up against each other like animals in heat, teasing each other surreptitiously (more or less) while laughing with friends. It just heightens everything a little, makes it that much more fun. The best part of it all might be leaving at the precise point where we’ve had tons of fun, are both horny as hell, and have just enough energy left for spectacular sex when we get home. It makes it seem like even though the party’s ending, it’s kind of just beginning.

Laramy and I had driven to the New Year’s Eve party separately, so we each took our cars and met back at his pad afterward. The drive was what such drives always are: like in Jurassic Park when everyone’s eyes fixate on the rippling water in that little plastic cup as the T-Rex approaches. Knowing what’s about to happen but having to wait is the best possible way to heighten tension both in movies and in pants.

I like it when Laramy breathes “wanna fuck?” in my ear. It’s not dirty talk. It could be, I suppose, but it isn’t. It’s not waggish or jaded either. It’s just a straightforward question, spoken softly but holding within it something sonorous, clamoring. Oh yes. I really, really wanna fuck.

“Did you bring your toy?” he asked. He’d wanted to get me a sex toy for Christmas and I specifically asked for something that seemed suited for use with a partner. Of course I’d used it on my own, just to make sure it was… um… safe. Yeah, safe.

The Fukuoku 9000 is the best compact vibrator I’ve tried so far. Like eggs and bullets, it makes it easy to incorporate clitoral stimulation into partner sex, but I think that the finger-hugging design of the Fukuoku makes it particularly clever. I find it rather easy to drop things when I’m distracted by a violent orgasm, so slipping this on my finger instead just makes sense. It has only one vibration setting, which is moderate but actually a very good level for me. If your clit can pick up a dramatic difference between the three included textured sleeves then you’re a terribly delicate princess who must be protected from peas at all costs (although I do have a nominal favorite, and it’s the one with horizontal ridges). It comes with a little carrying case that amusingly looks like it’s meant to slide onto a belt. I can’t imagine taking advantage of that last feature, but I certainly want to meet someone walking around with this attached to his or her belt, for both comedic and personal reasons.

…And of course I’d brought it! I quickly redeemed it from my bag, set it on the bed for later use, and took off some clothes. His mouth found my nipples almost as soon as they found air. Then I dropped to my knees. It’s not that I absolutely have to put a penis in my mouth before putting it anywhere else. It isn’t policy or anything. But it’s very fun to do and generally seems like a good way to start things off. Laramy’s belt is ridiculous, frustrating. I’m used to belts that fasten in the front and come off easily. His doubles halfway around his torso, releases with a mighty velcro roar, and can allegedly be used to repel down cliffs or some shit. But finally, the pants were off and his cock was in my mouth. Somehow sliding it down my throat (though I haven’t been able to deepthroat him yet) is both soothing and exciting at the same time, like fingering a cabochon while on a roller coaster. I wasn’t sucking, flickering, lapping at his pretty penis for long when his voice, husky with arousal, stopped me. “I want to fuck you.”

This is when we always seem to get oddly polite. “How do you want to do it?” I ask. “Well how do you want to?” he echoes. Or vice versa. And then there’s this little awkward pause, like neither of us wants to be the bossy one. We tend to do the same thing picking restaurants. Next time we have sex maybe I’ll just push him around into position and have my way with him. But this time I remembered my Fukuoku, and realized that rear entry was a natural choice. “Wanna do doggy?”

The thing you have to realize about Laramy and I is that we pretty much always want to do doggy. That’s not to say that we don’t have fun with other positions, but I think doggy style is the mutual favorite. Although I’m cuckoo for clitoris, there’s nothing in the world like the feeling of a penis catching my G-spot (which exists) just right as it pounds into me. Laramy swears that the angle of doggy style just hits every spot perfectly for him and that it feels excruciatingly good.

We fucked that way for a little while and I came several times, which made me forget that there ever was such a thing as the Fukuoku 9000. Fortunately, Laramy had the presence of mind to remind me. Now, I’ve known for years that G-spot+clitoris=fuuuuuuuuuuuuck, but it honestly never gets old. The Fukuoku, which can get me off on its own in about 15 seconds flat in the privacy of my bedroom, while watching reruns of Oz, suddenly made the actual hot sex I was having almost completely unmanageable. My mighty pelvic muscles tend to force Laramy out of me during an intense vaginal orgasm if I’m not really paying attention. I think I ejected him three times within the first few minutes. I was roiling, collapsing, caterwauling. I had to take periodic breaks from the Fukuoku while we fucked to keep my brain from shutting down altogether.

Cooler still, he could feel the vibrations. And from what I understand, my pussy feels even better when it vibrates. Imagine!

I was sort of slumped over with my eyes rolled back into my head after my kegel muscles had yet again shoved his cock out. He didn’t slam it back into me this time. “I want to fuck your ass,” he told me. It seemed like a very good idea.

It was only our second time doing anal. I’ve just recently started enjoying it. For a long time I’ve liked the idea and I’ve definitely appreciated anal orgasms, but trying anal intercourse without lube is probably not the best possible introduction, and that’s the only way I’d ever tried it before Laramy. With-lube ass fucking is a revelation. We lay on our sides (which seems so far to be the most comfortable way of fitting a penis in my ass) and his finger opened me gently. “You’re so smooth and tight,” he said, his voice a little rough. His breath was hot on my neck. This is the closest Laramy actually comes to dirty talk, and it boosted me halfway into orgasm. Then he eased his lubed cock inside.

“Yes. Yes. YesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesYES!” I just wanted to make sure my point was made. It seemed about five times better than the first time. I suddenly wasn’t concerned about pain…there was no pain; there was just intensity and delirious sweetness. I wanted him harder; I wanted him deeper. I forgot my toy again. Once again, Laramy didn’t. I think he really just wanted to know what my ass feels like when it vibrates. Turns out, kind of awesome.

The fabled hitachi magic wand

This is it, people. The Hitachi Magic Wand, the Cadillac of vibrators, the oldie-but- goody, the sultan of snatch. Das Wunderwerkzeug.

I was ten or so when I looked under my parents’ bed (I don’t remember why, but when you’re ten do you really need a reason?) and found a “personal massager”. It was definitely Magic Wand-shaped, although it was brown and cream colored, a tell that it had probably been purchased in the seventies, when they married (at least it wasn’t harvest gold like their stand mixer). I’m not sure if their device was a knock-off or a previous iteration of the legend; the Hitachi Magic Wands I’m familiar with are always a crisp white and blue.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was dealing with here, but I had a vague feeling that it possibly had something to do with this sex thing I kept hearing about. (No, I had not yet connected that what I routinely did with the hand shower was in any way related. Why do you ask?) It’s possible that my mother, who to this day is a very religious and reserved woman, actually used it to massage her neck or something. But honestly, what are the odds? She used it to get off, right? And good for her!

My point here is not to think of my mother masturbating, or to invite you to think of my mother masturbating, so seriously, stop. My point here, I think, is that the Magic Wand’s reputation for being timeless is well-deserved. It seems to cross generational and ideological barriers. It seems to get the job done for an astonishing range of women, and the fact that my mother had hers well over a decade speaks to its dependability and durability if nothing else.

When I began to get serious about my sex toy collection I was impressed by its reviews and testimonials. Sure, It looked less scintillating than a lot of the other toys available, but everyone agreed that there was not a better clitoral masturbation aid anywhere. It was a perennial staff pick at every major sex toy retailer: women with access to dozens, hundreds of toys always came back to this, the Cadillac of vibrators. Also, I loved that you could plug it in. I burn through batteries like David Lynch burns through crazy.

So I ordered one. Of course I ordered one! I couldn’t wait to have the orgasm of my life, and then follow it up with another just like it. And another. And another. I was going to make it sorry it ever met me and gave me those come-hither product reviews.

It came in a long rectangular box that I appreciated for not being plastic clamshell packaging. The neutral exterior and the carefully worded booklet enclosed seemed intent on projecting a “you just bought a personal massager, not a vibrator, dammit!” attitude. This amused me, because I was all too ready to corrupt the shit out of my new toy. So I scrubbed up the “soft, flexible head” with dish soap quickly, perfunctorily. I dried it off, plugged it in, and…

It was. Sort of. Meh. It wasn’t like I couldn’t get off with it, but that’s really not saying much since I can technically get off with a smoke detector. It just wasn’t very compelling. It has two vibration settings for your pleasure: “boring” and “clitoris-searing”. On low I could have a quick orgasm, but it wasn’t any better than I could do without a toy. On the high setting I would sometimes have a great, gushing orgasm, but even if I braced it against my pubic bone and let the radiant sensations get me to that climax I would still feel sore right after. Both settings left my clit numb every time. All this is better than having zero orgasms, but for me it wasn’t the spiritual experience it seemed to be for every other woman on the planet.

I was the lonely voice of dissent with a numb pussy and a long future in front of her, full of buying batteries.

Yeah, I tried buying the attachments. Yes, I tried using it through my clothes. Honestly, it’s just not my favorite sex toy. I wanted it to be. I was ready for it to be, but it didn’t work out that way. I would still recommend it, though, because every woman I know who owns one loves hers. Then she looks shocked when I tell her it isn’t my cup of tea; it’s like I’ve just told her that her first born child looks like a lamprey.

I’ll admit that in spite of all this, I just used my Hitachi Magic Wand mere hours before writing this. My hips and lower back were feeling tense and I needed to work out some (actual muscle) tension. Yes. Alas, I’m actually using it as a personal massager, and I absolutely adore it in that capacity. I feel like the one guy who actually did read Playboy for the articles, but it seriously pummels the knots right out!

I guess I’ve finally succeeded in downgrading an intimate relationship into a highly productive platonic one. Go figure.

There’s a certain kind of orgasm that I can’t remember ever having with a partner before, but it sort of makes me get all melty and develop short-lived afterglow crushes on myself for being able to give it to me.

A regular clitoral orgasm is a kiss of a crescendo. If it were a fragrance it would be crisp, glittering, green and golden. The kind I’m talking about is an almost violent crash followed by a shock wave: byzantine and dark with undertones of spice.

It feels like it crept out of the squirting orgasm phylum a bit after my body learned the trick of ejaculating from just clitoral stimulation. But even that is brighter. This darker orgasm pulses like its predecessor, but it seems like the contractions that accompany it are deeper, more throbbing. It slaps across my clit and then sears all the way up to my cervix, and my pelvic muscles contract in waves like my pussy’s suckling a phantom cock.

Just trust me on this: it’s awesome.

They’re a little tricky to coax out, but even so I’m starting to get disappointed if I have to hobble away from a masturbation session without getting at least one. This is where greed will get you: spending most of the morning with your vibrator.