quizzical pussy

It is a fact both fundamental and under-appreciated: men’s bodies are sexy. The male body is a beautiful, astounding thing, and keeping it healthy is fucking important.

So, because most men (as well as some women) happen to have prostates, before September ends I want to mention that it’s prostate cancer awareness month. Check out Ambulance Driver’s blog to learn about Kilted to Kick Cancer. He’s been promoting it all month by wearing a kilt around town, spotlighting other bloggers doing the same, and raising money for cancer research.

So check that out. And enjoy today’s ConTuesday devoted to penises, prostates, and health!

Did I mention that kilts are sexy too? That’s not even a confession. It’s a fact.

On to the confessions:

Not too far out I guess, but for ME it was…

Told my GF she could fuck me in the ass with a strap-on if she could find one with a small enough dick (had part of my rectum removed due to cancer and just can’t fit much up there). Let her (actually, begged her…) to finger me deep in the ass while she blew me. It was pretty good.

There are smaller dildos specifically for anal play that you can use with strap-on harnesses. For instance, the small version of this Silk dildo is 4 1/2 inches long. Might that work?

I’m a guy of average size (or at least what the internet calls average), and it has never really mattered to me.

R recently bought a realistic dildo (it squirts!) over the internet, and was quite startled by what came in the mail. The thing is -huge-.

Queue a bondage session with my blindfolded girlfriend, who has previously expressed reservations about my size, and was horrified by this thing. I got it out, and after working up to it, inserted – and within short order she had arrived at what was visibly the best orgasm of her life.

Size had always been a nonissue for me, but I do now have a deep desire to be able to do that to her without outside help; I am now insecure where I wasn’t before.

Some kinds of orgasms require props, much like some sports need specific equipment. She’s never going to give you a prostate orgasm with just her pussy, for instance, unless she has a genuinely singular anatomy.

The thing is, you gave her the best orgasm of her life while using an inanimate object. Now go tell Lance Armstrong he’s a loser because his bike’s doing all the work.

I could be happy with my sex life even if I never penetrated my wife again, as long as she still used the strap-on on me. There is nothing like a prostate orgasm. If you’re too uncomfortable with your sexuality to try it, I pity you.

Prostate orgasms are reportedly so awesome that I can really only curse my horrible luck being born a woman and try to content myself with the six or seven types of orgasms I actually get to have.

Also, I sincerely hope your wife is as into strap-on play as you are if you ever seriously consider making that your only sexual staple.

Last Friday I fucked this girl I’ve been scheming on. It wasn’t very good and afterwards I wished I hadn’t. She had a thin-lipped pussy, which I thoroughly licked (licked, not LIKED, as I like pussies with big fat flappy lips). She required that I wear a condom and then didn’t even blow me afterwards. She hadn’t fucked in 3 yrs, so now of course she is all in love and shit, even though prior to fucking she just said all she wanted was a hard cock, not a boyfriend.

In point of fact, this girl is smart to insist on a condom. Your sexual health benefits from it as does hers. But you probably already know that.

Good luck finding lusher lips, my friend.

I was just diagnosed with cancer and for the first time it truly depresses me that I may die a virgin… and soon. The closest I ever came was sending a woman(?) I “met” online a photo of my dick, and she said it was “a perfect cock”. I printed out that chat transcript and kept it folded up in my wallet for months.

I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this illness. I sincerely wish you a speedy and decisive recovery, and plenty of fucking in the immediate and distant future for you and your perfect cock!

Do you have a confession?

(image source)

There is an art to giving a handjob. You will notice here that I don’t claim to have mastered this art, simply that it exists. I’ll admit that this is one of my weaker points when it comes to sexual skills. To me, a handjob is usually an entirely pragmatic maneuver: I’m trying to get or keep a penis hard until I can put it somewhere more exciting than between my hands. Handjobs, however artistic they have the potential to be, usually end up being transitional for me. I enjoy the penis touching, of course, but I can’t help thinking about what parts of me it could be touching forthwith.

And I have to admit, that sort of bugs me about myself.

I’m not a big fan of downtime. I would prefer that every moment with me be mindblowing for my lovers. In a perfect world my lips would vibrate, my cervix would have a tongue, and my hands stroking a penis would be as Aphrodite’s hands. In a perfect world. As it is, they are regular hands, and I sometimes worry that my handjobs are boring. There. I said it.

This is not why I gave my boyfriend Laramy the Tenga Egg Babeland sent me. But it’s part of why I offered to help him try it out. Also, though, sex toys are a hobby of mine, and you’re supposed to share your hobbies with your partner, right? It’s what couples do. Astoundingly, Laramy seemed much more eager to explore this than my equally avid interests in yoga and belly dancing.

The Tenga Egg is a cute, clever disposable masturbation sleeve. You can wash and reuse it if you’re careful, but it’s not the most robust sex toy ever made. It’s made of soft, flexible silicone elastomer, and available in six different textures. The cute, clever part is really in the packaging: these sleeves come in little plastic eggs with colorful labels. You can buy a fairly adorable single egg for $8.50, or you can save money and get a set of six in a crazy adorable egg carton! I haven’t seen a men’s sex toy presented this whimsically since some wag made it suddenly seem possible to fuck Yoda Yaddle.

I was excited to see how Laramy liked the Tenga Egg, and maybe even get to feel like a handjob goddess. Why should my mouth get all the accolades? I mean, seriously!

The different textures include: what seem to be twisty vertical ribs, wavy horizontal ribs, a spider web (clearly the most erotic pattern known to man), knobby polka dots, thin spun thread patterns, and, the one Laramy ended up with, the “Stepper”, which looks– just to put this in the sexiest terms possible– like semicircular flaps arranged like scales. Or something. It seemed promising… stimulating.

We tore open the little packet of lube that comes with the Egg, applied it to both toy and tool, and took turns stroking. The sleeve is kind of like a looser, thicker, stretchier condom. Laramy said it felt good and the material was pleasant, but he didn’t seem to feel transported, as you might be if you were getting a handjob from, say, a goddess. Gradually, two problems became  apparent:

1. The lube provided was more sticky than it was at all lube-like.
2. The textured part of the Egg was concentrated around the sides, instead of the tip. All that exciting, scaly sensation was focused on the less sensitive parts of his penis. When fully stretched, the sleeve was completely untextured around the head of his cock.

The first problem is easy: inferior lube tends to get sticky. I would generally recommend someone use a lube they know they like when playing with a new toy anyway. But the second issue? Made no sense to either of us. Why would anyone design a toy with an emphasis on interesting textures and make sure those textures only touched shaft?

“Maybe it’s having to stretch too far because your cock is too big,” I suggested. Laramy did not hate that postulation. I think that might actually be what it was, though. Laramy does have a formidable dick, and otherwise we’re looking at just a glaring design flaw. Whatever the issue, the Tenga Egg didn’t work for him, although he thought it was promising in concept. He actually asked me if it was okay if he threw it away.

We ended the session with Laramy washing that horrendous lube off his cock and fucking me, which is usually exactly what I’m hoping to get out of a handjob.

Thanks, Babeland!

 

(image source)

When you work as a phone sex operator, you are often essentially being paid to pretend you believe bullshit.

Yes, of course your penis is the exact dimensions of a foot-long meatball sub.

You’re talking to me while a Victoria’s Secret model is sucking your cock? Wow, Mister. That is really something!

So let me get this straight: You have interacted with real, actual people before? In public? Unsupervised? Oh, baby, that’s so hot.

I was uniquely suited to this task because I am naturally straight-off-the-bus gullible. When I was younger I somehow didn’t grasp the concept of lying to impress people. I loved to invent stories with fictional people, and I’d lied for self-preservation before, but it had never in my life occurred to me to prop myself up with false claims, and somehow that left me blind to it when others did it.

This led me to marvel at how that nice Mormon girl I knew in eighth grade had managed to join a gang of drug dealers. It also left me wondering how Reginald Sleeth, my first boyfriend, had managed to ghostwrite so many songs for indie bands without ever getting paid for it!

I have since learned to be a bit less credulous, but it’s still embarrassingly easy to lie to me sometimes. And this serves me well when people are lying to impress me and I’m supposed to seem duly impressed.

But this one guy took the cake.

I think one customer was single-handedly keeping the struggling phone sex company I worked for afloat. He called in almost every night I worked, and the dispatch ladies told me it was far more often than that.

As far as I could tell, he really did just want to talk.

I never heard any panting, quickened breathing, or sloppy slapping sounds. He never wanted to talk through his fantasies, he never wanted to talk dirty. He just wanted to talk.

Sure, it was usually about sex. He liked it best when I was playing a naive, innocent character and he could explain things to me. He’d tell me about his countless sexual exploits, and his preferences in women, and almost shyly describe his prowess. He loved to make a woman come over and over.

And I might have believed him, too, if it weren’t for the train story.

He’d traveled extensively, he said, in the days when that was as likely to mean great trains gliding across the country as airports and flying machines. And he had found women everywhere he went. This is a potentially true thing, since women are indeed just about everywhere. I have heard that scientists recently found a woman in Antarctica.

Once he was on a train and made his way through the observation car to the very back, where he could cling to the rear railing and get some fresh air.

As he took in the scenery of the tracks unraveling behind his mount, he smelled an unknown but intoxicating ladies’ perfume, and felt someone approach behind him, close, closer, pressing lightly against his back. He felt warm breath play at his freshly barbered neck, and then a soft kiss: a flutter, really. Lips on him, and then a gloved hand covering his eyes.

He felt his meatball sub of manhood stir, as the mystery woman’s hands reached around to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants.

And then they had sex, he told me. He never saw her face.

“Wow, that must’ve been really hot for… wait, you couldn’t see her face through the whole thing?” Trying to keep my voice giggly and shrill.

“She was behind me the entire time,” he told me, wistfully.

“But you had sex? Like, penis-in-vagina intercourse?” Completely breaking character now.

“Oh, yes. It was,” my customer concluded, “the most erotic experience of my life. She was the most beautiful woman I never saw…”

Oh god. Anatomy. Mechanics. Just… impossible. Hand over mouthpiece. Cackling. Gasping for air. Deep breath. Smile. Now. Give him what he’s paying for. Give him buoyant.

“Wow. That is really, really hot. You have had such an exciting life!” Give him brainless.

(image source)

ConTuesday is upon us! Read on for your weekly dose of internet confessions.

You are DEFINITELY not the only girl who grew up wanting to bone Data in Star Trek. I was barely old enough to know what sex was when I decided I reckoned I could teach that android how to feel a few things.

I have a feeling that there are enough of us out there to make Brent Spiner a very happy man for the rest of his life.

I tried to comment there, but for some reason it didn’t work. *shakes fist* so here:
——————————
I hate to admit it because she’s the most popular woman in porn right now (as far as I’m concerned), but I -love- Sunny Lane. Eager, excited, loves her job, comes at the drop of a hat… and it doesn’t hurt that she looks much like more than one of my lovers (is that weird?) Did you know her parents are her managers? Strange but true. Also, her (one) anal sex scene is super hot.

I, too, love Tristan Toarmino, whether she’s in a movie or directing it.

Beyond that, I rely on Ifeelmyself.com . I even had a friend on there, once, which was pretty hot. torrent up a few, so worth it.

–Crispin

Porn stars, like indie bands, just aren’t cool anymore once other people like them. That’s why my favorite porn stars are all webcam performers I found on craigslist Rhode Island.

Yes, Crispin, I am calling you out as a porn hipster. Also agreeing that Sunny Lane is well adorable.

I’ve always been sort of … negative in my opinion of myself, often in spite of specific evidence to the contrary. I’m poly, I’m married, I have two girlfriends and some other, less well defined sex partners. I figured I was, y’know, average, and the ladies were just trying to be nice. But I guess, after years of being told I’m large and know how to use it, and having gotten several of those occasional partners by direct reference, I have to actually accept it.

I know, an anonymous confession on the internet, from a guy, about how he’s got a big cock. How believable is that? *shrug* You said you wanted to hear something good, however, and it’s the most positive thing I can think of to say about myself. :)

I’m actually inclined to believe you, a guy posting to ConTuesday about how he has a big cock, partially because ConTuesday is anonymous so where’s the endgame? But also because you didn’t give fantasy inches. “My 10-inch tool” (or whatever) seen digitally always smacks of the over-elaboration that accompanies wishful thinking.

Similarly, when you are a silly girl in Middle School writing fiction, all your heroines have violet eyes with sapphire ringing the pupils. And gold flecks.

Guy I gave my phone number to yesterday: I want you. I want to ride you until your knees buckle, your toes curl up and you temporarily lose higher motor function. I want our involuntary screams of pleasure at all hours of the morning to wake everyone else on the block. I want to tie you up and do unspeakable things to you, and I want you to tie me up too. I want to lie in a heap of quivering flesh and sweat-soaked bedsheets with you. I want to lick every sweet inch of you. I want a reason to buy condoms in bulk. I want you… but I’d settle for coffee, so call me, ok?

Holy shit, please tell me he called.

If not, every guy out there who received a number a couple months ago and never called: You will never know if this was you.

Got a secret? Tell me. Massive extra points if it turns me on.

It was probably ten years ago at this point, or nearly. Reginald Sleeth, the ex boyfriend by which all my other ex boyfriends come out looking pretty good, and I were sitting in a little sushi bar in Santa Monica. If we were between fights it was no more than a momentary break in the clouds, and the sun was not peeking through. The mood was heavy. Pop music played in the background. Our conversation was stuck at lull as we waited for our food to come out. I listened to the music for a minute, nothing to say.

“I kind of always knew I’d end up your ex girlfriend,” I announced calmly.

“Why would you even say that?” he demanded, angry. “That’s not fair at all. What a disgusting thing to say.”

“Ummm the No Doubt song that’s playing? Right now? Those are the lyrics.” Given, it wasn’t exactly the height of comedy to repeat the words to the song playing, but I thought it’d lighten the mood or something. Nope.

“Oh.” Icy.

To be fair, we were basically always on the verge of breaking up. It was probably in poor taste. But I guess on some level I did, kind of always know. Just like the song says. Maybe I meant it.

Here are some confessions that feature exes.

My ex boyfriend is internet famous, and rightly so because he’s talented… annoyingly so. We still get along okay, I consider him a friend. But guys my type ALWAYS turn out to be humongous fanboys of his. After we have the past relationships talk they have a million questions and want me to introduce them. So I either have to lie or live with the fact that I’m less interesting to heterosexual men than my ex boyfriend.

I figure for every fanboy you’re attracted to, there’s a similar, also-your-type guy who thinks your ex is just a little overrated. Unless your type is specifically your ex’s worshippers, which honestly would be worrisome for those of us that care about you and want you to move on.

Also, you realize you can skip over all identifying information when you have that past relationships talk, right?

I had sex with my ex (who is dating someone else) and it was fantastic. I missed fisting him!

I don’t know if this is in a sneaky or ethically open context, but either way it never ceases to amaze me that people can fit fists in their butts.

My boyfriend got drunk tonight and kicked me out of his house. I don’t even know what I did and he wouldn’t tell me — said he didn’t like me anymore — I was asleep and he sat me up roughly, sent me outside, called a cab and gave me 40 bucks to pay for it.

At least he was a gentleman enough to give me some cash for the cab. I called a dealer I used to know, bought some awesome coke, and don’t feel the least big guilty about the drugs because all I feel right now is peace and understanding — and I know that it’s over once and for all. I don’t even feel sad. It’s just over.

And here’s the sex part — I’m going to keep fucking him. Best sex I’ve ever had, and I’m not about to give that up. I’m just not going to be emotionally involved anymore. I’ve given up a lot of offers for sex while I’ve been with him — and it hasn’t been a sacrifice — but I’m going to start looking up those offers and offer him FWB. He’ll take me up on it, and I’ll have great sex with him, variety, and none of this bullshit anymore.

Yay. Thanks for the high dood. I’ll be calling you next time I’m hard up.

Every time I’ve ever had a no-strings-attached arrangement with an ex there were oh so many strings attached. But that’s just me.

Who the fuck wakes someone up just to dump them?

We only had sex once, it was bad bad bad because we didn’t know what we were doing because we were so young, and I got pregnant (miscarriage). But I think about my first love every single day. I miss him.

But I know for a fact that he wasn’t a good person, and he’d probably treat me like shit if I tried to get him back. Yet I pine.

Not to make assumptions here, but have you talked to someone about how having that miscarriage affected you? Maybe your first love, who sounds like a much better ex than a boyfriend, is more or less incidental to this story.

A couple of weeks ago I confessed that I missed my exes beautiful penis (not the size one) well I’ve found a new man who may not have the world’s most beautiful penis but uses it better than anyone I have ever met. I have had my faith in the world restored, and also think I may be the luckiest girl alive.

The original confession appears here. I’m very glad you’ve found a penis (or at least a penis user) that you can get excited about again.

Also, if this new guy would like to offer any sex tips to my penis-using readers, that would be just super.

My sophomore year at University, I took a 100-level Women’s Studies class, partly because I was holding down three jobs and I wanted an easy course held in the evening, and partly because I felt like there were things I was missing out on.

I knew I was supposed to be finding myself (it’s what all the cool kids seemed to be doing in college), but I wasn’t. I was just going to class and working and trying to keep my relationship together. There was nothing revelatory about my life. But it seemed like maybe feminists could tell me where I was.

They couldn’t, of course. No one can. But for my final project in that class I wrote and illustrated an educational pamphlet on female genital anatomy. It was created to give young women a sense of normalcy regarding masturbation and a clear idea of what’s where in the vulvular region. And I don’t know why, but I’m still rather proud of it. Probably because it makes me laugh even now.

In retrospect, I really don’t think it’s possible to find yourself where and when you’re “supposed” to. Unlike the average clitoris.

Today’s confessions are about anatomy, more or less.

I’m an adult who wets the bed, and I’m terribly afraid every time I stay over after sex that I’m going to piss on him.

Some guys would be into that. Just saying.

My partner begs me to pee on him. CONSTANTLY. This does nothing for me, to the point where I find it disgusting. I did pee on his face for the first time in our many years together, and he loved it. I wanted to puke. Ah, love.

See, first confessor? It’s probably not exactly kismet that these two confessions actually came in the same day, but it’s something. Synchronicity, maybe.

Oh, and this commenter? You are good, giving, and game without a doubt.

My roommates are in the main lounge studying, but I feel a lot more productive–while masturbating, I finally succeeded in orgasming from nipple play alone. (of course the one nipplegasm didn’t stop me from subsequently going for the clit and coming again…)

Ooh I just had a nipple orgasm myself! Isn’t it cool how all the kinds of orgasms are different? You can have a five-course meal just of different kinds of coming.

I broke up with my boyfriend about a month ago, I don’t really miss him but what I do miss is his penis which was huge. I was going to have sex with someone else the other day but actually couldn’t do it because they just had nothing compared to him. I’m scared I’ll never be as satisfied with another penis as I was with his!

Not being a real size queen myself, I find it hard to relate to this, exactly, but I can sympathize. I’m imagining being condemned to skinny, three-inch cocks and a one-finger-at-a-time limit for the rest of my life, and I’m suddenly unsatisfied.

I’m scared I will never love another penis the way I loved my ex boyfriend’s penis. It was a beauty and now every single one I see is a true disappointment. I wish I’d taken a picture when I had the chance.

Wouldn’t it be nice if you and the previous confessor could just switch exes? I wonder if your “big”s are comparable. Unless you’re the same person, and your ex is mutant, unequaled in size the world over. In which case, balls.

But I remain firm in my belief that mammoth penii are out there, more than enough for both of you, just waiting to blow your minds.

Now, kind readers, blow my mind? Tell me something good.

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.)

The strip club wasn’t what I imagined it would be. I was expecting tacky. I was expecting neon. I was expecting a lingering whisper of sweat and booze. But I was expecting all that to be married to effort: a little velvet, a tassel or two. Some varnish obscuring the grime.

This was a pit.

Actually, more than anything it was like a small community workshop theater. A single room, the club was black painted wood with two pine platforms (also painted black) where the brass poles stood, dull and worn. There was a little neon. And there were men in g-strings.

Between the makeshift stages, a shower was built into the back wall. Wednesday was shower night, but the shower was broken. Of course it was.

I hear that female strip clubs– that is, those where the strippers are women– are more velvety. They try harder. Male strip clubs– specifically gay male strip clubs, I’m told, don’t bother with pretense. I have no idea if this is true in general. To this day, I’ve only been to one, and it was true here.

In we walked, a gaggle of females. The club was dead. We didn’t care. It was Miriam’s birthday, and she wanted to visit this pit on shower night, dammit, shower or not.

There were two guys working that night. Two. A short, wiry guy with a pretty face and a tall, beefier guy with a, well, a face. He had a face.

We chicks danced a little with the newly out dean of a local university. Then we sat down directly adjacent to one of the platforms, ordered drinks, and watched the guys take turns working our pole. It wasn’t until about five minutes into Wiry Guy’s performance that we realized he was wearing an electronic tether over his tube socks.

Classy. Classy is the word for that.

Beefy Guy, not to be outdone but lacking the necessary state-mandated hardware, was at a loss for a moment. Then he wrapped his flaccid shaft clear around the brass pole and seemed to feel better about himself.

Did I mention class?

As the night wore on I got a bit bored. It is a great shortcoming, but I can really only watch people I’m not attracted to writhe around naked for so long before I want to pull out my Nintendo DS. In retrospect, this is probably why Beefy Guy approached me.

“You’re very pretty,” he began.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” said my lips. I’m not giving you money, dude, said my brain.

There was some inane small talk on his part and some noncommittal nodding on mine until he saw some bruises on my arms.

“What happened there?” Beefy Guy made his face-which-he-had-yes-indeed look concerned.

“Just some horseplay,” I answered honestly. Clifton and I were hanging out fairly often at the time, and there was a lot of wrassling.

“No one… hurt you, did they?” We were really breaking the stripper fourth wall here.

“Not at all,” I assured him. “I pity the fool.”

“Good. Because I just couldn’t stand that.” Okay, Beefy Guy… oh wait, he wasn’t done… “I could never hurt a woman,” he told me earnestly.

I nodded.

“…except that one time when my girlfriend cheated on me. But she also stole my stereo, you understand.”

“Um. I think my friends are ready to leave. Now.”

I’m very likely never going to that–or possibly any– strip club again. I don’t care if they get the shower fixed.

(image source)

Once, long ago, I said a thing to my good friend Miriam Spiralti, and she never forgot it. In fact, in a way, I think she believes it encapsulates my personality. In her mind, this is probably my catch phrase. At least she brings it up a lot and cracks up every time. And what is it? I’ll tell you.

“Sometimes you just want a dick in your ass.”

The reason Miriam finds this statement so profoundly hilarious is the simple reality that no, she does not in fact ever just want a dick in her ass. But obviously I do.

Interestingly, I divulged this information before ever having successful, non-painful anal intercourse. But there was this craving that existed long before pleasure was thoroughly invoked. I’d grasped tantalizing teasers of how great it could be, but always cut with discomfort and pain because I was too passive and ignorant to insist on lube. But my body still knew what it wanted. Bodies are weird that way.

So I’m not really sure why it took me so long to try a butt plug.

I have a hard plastic slimline vibrator that I allocated for ass duty, and it enhances my fapping considerably. But putting things like fingers and hard plastic and rose quartz up your ass isn’t quite the same as using something firm-yet-squishy like a penis* or, say, the premium silicone Tantus Little Flirt.

The Little Flirt is wee, only an inch(ish) in diameter at its thickest (not counting the base, which is rectangular and flared). It is definitely a beginner’s plug. There’s a Big Flirt, which I haven’t tried yet, for those who feel that they’ve graduated to something bigger. The Little Flirt is, well, little.

The silicone is softer than I expected, but in practice it feels right. It and the tapered tip allow for comfortable insertion with a little water-based lube (keep in mind that silicone lube and silicone toys can result in silicone mess), but the shape retains a good degree of integrity even if you’re gripping the hell out of it in the throes of an anal orgasm, although the toy can sometimes feel dangerously close to being pushed out if the orgasm is mighty.

Let’s talk shape for a moment, shall we? Its contours are modest but you can feel every flare and cinch of them because they are happening in your butt. It’s awkward that I can’t really compare it to other anal-specific toys, but here’s what I know: it feels good when I have it in while I’m masturbating. And I keep meaning to try it whilst fucking.

In the interest of journalistic rigor (or something) I decided to bring the Little Flirt grocery shopping with me. While it was inside me, if you didn’t happen to infer that all on your own. Some people like to have a butt plug in all day, and premium silicone is one of the safer materials to use for that purpose. So I decided to go for it, although prolonged butt obstruction isn’t really a turn-on for me.

I want to be very clear that I was wearing sweatpants, no makeup, and I still had bedhead at two in the afternoon when I embarked on this adventure. It just goes to show you that the person wearing the butt plug in your local grocery store will often not be the first person you’d guess. Anyway, here’s what happened:

2:00 PM (in bedroom, just after insertion): This is going to be awesome. I think I’m already getting a little wet.

2:05 PM (leaving house): It feels like it might possibly slip out at some point. Get ready to be embarrassed, me.

2:10 PM (in car): It can’t possibly fall out while I’m sitting down. I am an evil genius.

2:15 PM (in parking lot): I can sort of see how someone could wear a butt plug all day.

2:20 PM (walking around store): How in the goddamn do people wear butt plugs all day long? It’s getting wicked uncomfortable now that I’m walking around. I need to adjust the Little Flirt a bit as I pass the makeup aisle. I hope it just looks like I have a wedgie.

2:30 PM: This feeling. The one in my butt. I do not love it. Also, Christmas music alfuckingready? Is that seriously what we’re doing today?

2:40 PM: The bathroom is now on the opposite side of the store. I am trapped on the far end of the grocery store with a piece of food-grade silicone in my ass. I brought this on myself.

2:45 PM: I WANT TO GO HOME –Oooooh almond milk’s on sale– RIGHT NOW PLEASE.

I’m going to go ahead and call this experiment “not a success”. I can’t tell you whether my shopping adventure would’ve gone better with another plug. Maybe I’m just not cut out for taking anal play to the streets.

The biggest downside to the Little Flirt, though, is really that it’s more gateway drug than toy. There’s the kind of pleasure that’s whole and satisfying unto itself, and then there’s the kind that ignites a burning need for more, NOW. We’re dealing with the latter kind. The Little Flirt is a warmup, a tease, a… actually, it’s exactly what it says it is. It’s a flirt.

In short, it is a beginner’s anal toy. It might not take long for you to crave something bigger, but it’s excellent for getting over your novice timidity.

Thank you, Babeland!

(image source)

*Apologies to people with penises for insinuating that your organs are anything short of titanium-hard, but you know what I mean, right? Rest assured that I find penises  much firmer than this toy, for what it’s worth.

ConTuesday! Time of secrets, great and awesome!

I found my G-spot and fapped furiously. My mother was in the other room watching television.

You see, science? The G-spot is true!

I *really* want to get a realistic dildo – specifically the VixSkin Johnny – but I’m worried about intimidating my boyfriend. We have a long-distance relationship, and our sex life consists of camsex on Skype. I typically use vibrators when we do, and it’s amazing – so much better than when I’m by myself, because he’s watching and getting off too. Thing is, he’s got a cliche fragile male ego about them. He frequently talks about how when we’re together, I won’t need them anymore – which is absolutely not true. I enjoy masturbating on my own and I intend to continue to use them regardless of my relationships. But for some reason, it’s so much better when I know he’s watching me do it. I’m afraid it’ll bother him a lot if he sees me fucking myself with a cock that isn’t his. I don’t want him to think I’m replacing him with a hunk of plastic.

Insecurity is really to blame for 90% of sexual issues. And obviously I made that statistic up completely, but it feels true. If a guy told me I could get rid of my sex toys because I had him I’d be all “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA your sense of humor is what I cherish most about you, dude.”

Now, this is probably like suggesting you buy a Kia when you’re looking at BMWs, but have you thought about cloning his willy? Maybe he’d be more comfortable if it was his cock you were pleasuring yourself with.

So I was dating a guy that for some reason I would eventually marry (and then divorce, because I later realized that I’m a lesbian after all, but that is a totally other story! With a happy ending even so don’t worry!), and it was still very early in our relationship, and for some reason during a very late night cuddle session he decided it sounded like a really good idea to wait until I was apparently sleeping and then hump me. This was extra bizarre because he was a preacher’s son and SUPER HUNG UP about sexuality entirely, and we’d never even gone past French kissing. I had such a hard time even parsing what the fuck was happening that I just shut down and barely even tried to stop him…I just pretended to be asleep and waited for it to end. Somehow it got vaguely apologized for and years later I still wonder off and on if it was rape but you know what, why wouldn’t it be? A guy did a sexual thing to me I didn’t want him to do and it made me feel awful and totally skeeved-out and so ashamed that I couldn’t even tell anyone for so long that I only finally told one person. Except the real reason I haven’t told anyone is I dealt with it and I’m fine now, still angry but using the anger pretty productively to set and enforce boundaries and be assertive, and I don’t want people to go “oh poor thing” and freak out and think of me like a victim. ‘Cause dammit, I’m not a victim. The only reason I would tell everyone is so they can know just what a dickbag this guy has been even though he’s always such a saint in the public eye, and the only reason I’m not telling is because I don’t want to give people the power to tell me I’ve been broken when I’m not at all. (That and I can’t think of any way to actually bring it up in conversation other than “SO YEAH, ONE TIME THIS GUY ASSAULTED ME, WHAT A DOUCHE, JUST THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW, LOLOLOLOL” and somehow that just seems way too out of the blue to even bother with. Such social graces I have!)

I understand you’re not asking for my opinion or anything, but just to make this very clear to anyone who might be reading, that was absolutely, completely, 100% rape. I’m glad you have a happy ending and honestly can’t help hoping he does not.

Send your secrets here.