So I’m pretty sure Laramy’s penis kicked me in the balls.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking: “Silly Pussy, chicks don’t have balls.” Well, you haven’t seen me sing karaoke, then. It takes serious stones to belt out Sister Christian by Night Ranger when you haven’t had a sip of alcohol since last October.

I guess you do have a point, though. Maybe I don’t literally have balls to be kicked in, and maybe Laramy’s cock doesn’t literally have feet with which to kick. But what did happen resulted in some crazy sensations that seem roughly parallel.

For a long time I’ve likened having my cervix pounded into to getting kicked in the balls. This was based only on the fact that it hurts and cramps and makes me want to stop having sex (I’ve met very few men who want to soldier on after I’ve accidentally taken out their artillery, if you know what I mean. Boo.) But one thing I pride myself on is my ability to understand proportion. I knew all along that it wasn’t a perfect comparison. There seems to be some sort of blinding nausea that comes into play in the balls scenario. As someone mentioned on twitter, it’s “like someone dropped a load of cement on your guts.” Also, there appears to be a profound full-body weakening that skates past mere pain and into the realm of horrifying comic book vulnerabilities. My cervix has never worked this kind of alchemy.

Until, perhaps, recently.

Laramy and I were in agreement: we were damn well about to fuck any minute. First, I thought I’d put on some music to drown out my caterwauling so I was bent over my keyboard, ass presented. Laramy came up behind me, my pants collapsed to the floor, and suddenly I found it incredibly difficult to concentrate on pointing and clicking anything. His cock slid in and I gasped as it split me. I’m not sure what it was: my pussy gripping harder than usual in ever denser and more furious orgasms, or some slightly altered angle as he fucked me from behind, but the intensity was blistering. I either had roughly 300 orgasms in rapid succession or one incredibly long one. I honestly couldn’t tell.

After a while like that, I was starting to feel crampy enough that the mad orgasms weren’t dulling it anymore. It was really starting to fucking hurt, actually. But I have these priorities, see. When one position is bringing pain, you don’t throw the baby out with the sexual bathwater (…it got weird, didn’t it?), you change position. So I switched to an even lazier posture: missionary. And then we fucked some more. The pain seemed less urgent. I pretended I didn’t see it sitting there, watching us fuck. The orgasms (orgasm?) kept coming in, crashing. Laramy was pounding harder now, building. It suddenly occurred to me that when all that climaxing, analgesic of the gods, stopped I’d probably have something unpleasant to deal with. But you know how when you’re in the throes of passion you just don’t care?

But, as they ever must, the orgasms eventually came to an end. And sweet leaping Odin, a singular and absurd pain broke across my body. It was rather like the feeling one has during and just after a spinal tap: blasted with weakness and nausea and an inexorable pressure. I was shuddering and hysterically panting/giggling, though I assure you it didn’t seem funny at the time. I wanted to get to the bathroom in case I had to throw up, but I could barely move at first. Just shake. And laugh. Then I tottered semi-successfully to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I felt right again within 10 or 15 minutes.

I think I traumatized Laramy a little. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt me, but I was so set on ignoring everything to keep having awesome sex he ended up not getting much of a choice. It was so totally not his fault, but I know he felt pretty bad. Probably because I looked so wrecked from it. Fortunately he wasn’t so upset that he’s refusing to have sex with me now or anything.

But you know, it did kind of feel like someone dropped a load of cement on my guts, so I’m wondering if somehow we fucked at an angle where his penis kicked my cervix, and that I experience the female version of being kicked in the balls. Either way, I’m going to recommend you go ahead and not try it.

(image source)

Countless times I’ve heard and read about how a woman is inescapably and biologically submissive: the penetrated, the supine, the taken. The image of being overcome and driven into is the source of apocryphal radical feminist notions that all penetration is at best a violent act, at worst automatic rape.

But to me, having something plunge inside an orifice that’s all-too-happy to accommodate it doesn’t feel all that passive. Nor does gripping that something in the crush of my mighty orgasm. Of course I’ve felt myself in the submissive position in sex before– in ways both lovely and horrible, but being penetrated wasn’t the factor that made it so.

One of the most alarming and saddening articles I’ve ever read on the subject of sex was Virginia Vitzthum’s 1999 Strap-on Epiphany. In it, Virginia recounts her experience of pegging (before it was called that) her boyfriend, Adam.

The article starts innocently enough. Sure, it flirts with the idea that a woman allowing someone to enter her body is empowering in its vulnerability or something, but it really doesn’t disturb me until she actually starts fucking Adam. Once she penetrates him, shit gets weird. (I refuse to resist pointing out that the link to the second page of this article says “Defiling Adam”. This is indicative of exactly the attitude you’re about to see.) Observe:

As “my” huge appendage disappeared inside him, his eyes showed shame, trust, fear and a sort of helpless adoration. In a way I’d never understood those words before, he was mine. The knowledge I could really hurt this person by being less than careful made me feel responsible, protective. The vulnerability appalled me at the same time; it was vaguely disgusting that he would let someone do this to him. Mixed in with the disgust was possessiveness. The thought of anyone else penetrating him seemed revolting. These observations clicked into place in quick succession; I felt like a projector being loaded with slides of maleness, of male seeing.

…I was conquering, silent, responsible, the taker. With his legs spread, Adam was agreeable, inviting, ashamed, taken.

When I first read this I was shaken. I’d never used a strap-on, and I wasn’t a man, so I felt completely unequipped to answer the question of IS THIS TRUE? Does penetrating someone really give you contempt for them? Is the act of being penetrated disgusting and weak somehow? This Virginia bitch had really upset me by suggesting that the sexual interactions I was having may be entirely different (in troubling, corrupt ways) to the people I was sharing them with.

I asked a few male friends, my boyfriend at the time. Some said, “Yeah, that sounds about right,” and some said “She’s overthinking it.”

In truth, I think that some people might equate penetrating with power, but it’s not an inevitable conclusion. Virginia’s views here weren’t objective, and they tell us more about her than they necessarily do about “men”. They tell us nothing about the native symbolism of a sex act.

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

I’ve had moments when I had a cock inside me and I was conquering, silent, responsible, the taker. Well, not silent, but close enough. And I refuse to be surrendering, tractable, helpless, and (wtf?) ashamed just because it feels good to fill my holes anymore than I would presume to project those words onto a guy I was pegging. It’s fucking piffle, is what it is.

…So 1999, anything else you want to tell me about sex? I’m all ears.

(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)

I’ve never dated, fucked, or even made out with a guy who admitted to naming his penis. I’m one click short of naive enough to believe that this proves beyond a doubt that I’ve never been with a guy who had a name for his penis, but if you were the sort of person to name your genitals do you really think you’d be the sort of person to hide that fact?

While I like to name things as much as the next sexual deviant, naming my genitals would feel too much like dissociating myself from them, and that’s the last thing I want to do a) because that’s where I have a great deal of my fun and I have no wish to start living vicariously through my own body parts, and b) because if they got to have opinions they’d probably be very disappointed in me just now because I haven’t been keeping up on my caretaking duties (read: masturbating) lately.

I have jokingly given my tits names before, patently unsexy names that I throw out at really inconvenient times.

INT. SOME RANDOM COUCH – NIGHT

Groping is happening. Groping moves in a booberly direction.

Quizzical Pussy (indicating left breast): Ooooh, see that’s Statler.

Confused Dude: Huh?

Quizzical Pussy: The other one’s Waldorf. Now back to the balcony, kiddo! The old boys aren’t quite done with you!

Confused Dude: You sicken me.

Quizzical Pussy: Ah ah ah I lahve eet!

…This sort of thing is really great fun until I run out of people willing to fuck me. That’s when the laughter stops.

(image source)

Many of the women in my acquaintance have remarked to me that they’ve given blowjobs to a lot more guys than they’ve had penis-in-vagina sex with. Some of them insist that their “number” doesn’t include blowjobs, but if it did they’d be dangerously close to the “slut” category.

I’m not in this camp. First of all, I see no problem with a higher-than-average “number”. I love sex, and I figure that anyone who would judge me for having had the amount of sex I’ve had would be someone who I’d either a) not tell (e.g. family members, employers), or b) not care if it bothered (e.g. people I’d rather know sooner than later that I oughtn’t date). As a nerdy chick who’s never been wicked popular in the romantic arena, I actually feel like kind of a stud each time my number goes up (it’s at a whopping, debaucherous eight now, if you care). Secondly, I’ve had vaginal intercourse with six guys and given blowjobs to six guys, although one guy was intercourse without any blowjobs and one was blowjobs without any intercourse… still, it evens out. Thirdly, though, I think that oral sex is sex. To me there’s no real ideological distinction, although there sure as hell are other distinctions. But I just can’t see my way to “not counting” oral sex if we’re counting sex partners. Am I just going to not count people I had awesome orgasms with? Am I going to not count women because neither of us has a (real, flesh) penis? Horsefeathers.

But that’s not to say that blowjobs are in every way equivalent to vaginal intercourse. That’s not true at all. I enjoy giving blowjobs, yes, but not in the same way that I love have a cock plunge into my eager pussy. While both can give me orgasms (giving head can be that much of a turn on, yes), the latter has a much more direct and reliable mechanism with which to do so. I’m more finicky about the former. If I don’t particularly like you, I might consider using you for sex but putting your dick in my mouth won’t appeal to me at all. So (perhaps predictably) when a relationship is going downhill, I tend to avoid giving oral sex but still want to fuck. Yeah, I’m pretty much a selfish jerk that way.

Oral sex is very intimate and personal, and that’s part of why it’s so sexy. It’s completely devoting your attention to someone else’s pleasure. That intensity turns me on like crazy. Which, paradoxically, makes me want to fuck. So, while it’s hot to suck cock until hot semen gushes down my throat and all, at times there’s a (big) part of me that feels like a little kid whose ice cream fell off the cone and onto the cruel, hard ground. To wit, it feels like a waste of a perfectly good erection that could have been pleasuring me. Again, yeah. Selfish.

So the best of both worlds is certainly to have a blowjob segue into intercourse: in hooker speak, the ever popular half-and-half.

But today I heard something rather disturbing. My friend Miriam Spiralti has great sex with her fiancé, but they aren’t entirely compatible in terms of drive. As she told me a few years ago, “When we were seeing each other once a week, we fucked once or twice every day… for two days straight. Now that we live together I want exactly that amount per week, and he wants exactly that frequency.” He especially wants oral sex daily, and she likes giving it, but it’s getting to feel like an obligation. And here’s the kicker… it “doesn’t count” if it transitions into sex. It also “doesn’t count” if it’s a short session, and he tries to make the spectacular “I’m getting my cock sucked” feelings last as long as possible. So Miriam ends up feeling burned out on marathon blowjobs and feels more and more reluctant to give them, and her man feels frustrated and unfulfilled. Not a great situation.

I blame this “it doesn’t count” mentality. What’s with all these rules about what counts when it comes to blowjobs? They don’t count as sex, it doesn’t count if they’re not done to completion, etc. I mean, there are no stone tablets I’m aware of that give us the Articles of Head, but to my mind, if I’m sucking your cock you’re pretty much getting a blowjob, and I should probably list you as a sexual partner. Just saying.

Anyway, I jokingly suggested that Miriam tell her fiancé he gets 30 minutes of oral sex a week, and can break it into six 5-minute blowjobs, three 10-minute blowjobs, or one half-hour session…his choice. “That’s actually a really good idea!” said she. If she actually implements this plan I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a hit out on me in the near future, so this blog might get very assassin-run-in heavy all of a sudden.

I’m realizing more and more that I’m oddly picky about sex terminology.

The term “cock worship” grates on me. I don’t love the term “pussy worship” either, but it doesn’t gnaw on my raw patriarchy nerve, and so doesn’t bother me nearly as much.

But I don’t like calling that cock worship. I guess I don’t want to feel less important than a body part, even if it’s a really fun body part. If that implication is built into your power dynamic, cool, but it’s something I’ve never signed up for, so it doesn’t apply to me. If I’m just sucking your cock don’t try to transform it into a religious experience I’m meant to be having without consulting me about it first, buddy.

The following is an actual email. It is also an actual work of art. You may possess such a gem yourself, but you’ve likely cast it into a “spam folder” using your fascist art filters. Don’t worry, though! I’m willing to share…

***

Subject: Your sausage will become hunger than ever before.

________

Making love is always pleasant especially when the girl you love screams from a great satisfaction that she achieves while your tool gets inside the deepest parts of her flower!

According to the statistics some close relations bring people together better than any soul relations and inner world.

That’s why it comes obvious that if you want to conquer the girl’s heart you ought to be a monster in her bed. Every girl love large tools, so that’s time for you to look at your device and decide whether you are able to satisfy your girlfriend or not.

Obviously your tool is not that big to provide the wonderful pleasure and you are risking for your girl to break up with you. So, hurry up to change your lifestyle and inner look. Our enlargement pills are definitely what you need to take in, in order to keep stable relations or make them tighter.

All the information about our enlargement pills and the effect they may give you is available at our site.

***

There it is, people. This is the absolute best thing I’ve ever read. John Steinbeck, Virginia Woolf, James Joyce: sucks to be you. You’ve been bested in a fair fight by the little Penis Enlargement Pill Email that could.

However, I want to see these statistics about “some close relations” vis-a-vis “any soul relations”. If you’re reading this, company whose website I will never go to without extensive antivirus prophylactics and some holy water because it would probably be the internet equivalent of licking the toilet stall floor at a highway rest stop, please send me your data.

Speaking of devices, my Mr. Limpy came today. Mr. Limpy is a packing penis, not really a useful for sex play so much as gender play. I’ll be packing him for my drag act in an upcoming show. Sure, I could use a rolled up pair of socks or a condom filled with shaving gel, but I wanted a real packer. Of course, I’ll review it after I’ve had a chance to put it through its paces, but there’s one thing that stands out: this is meant to represent a flaccid penis, I ordered the size small, and it’s about 6 inches long.

The folks at Fleshlight might not have an incredibly realistic concept of what a small flaccid penis actually looks like. Not that I’m complaining. If I were a real guy, a 6-inches-at-rest penis would pretty much guarantee that my tool could get inside of the deepest parts of her flower, if you know what I mean. Still, that’s size small? And in case you’re wondering, the large is about 8.5 inches.

The old adage that there’s no such thing as a bad blowjob is a little ridiculous. For one, it reinforces the man-as-sexual-supplicant myth, which really needs to end. Additionally, though, I don’t think it’s based in truth. I think that bad blowjobs can and do happen, and they may be happening to someone you know. Chilling, right?

Leo Tolstoy wrote that “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” That’s not actually true of families or of sucking cock. But there are many ways to give a bad blowjob, and each bad blowjob is probably uniquely bad in its own special way. However, if you follow the bulleted rules below, you will most likely succeed in giving one miserable excuse for a blowjob. And, because I’m a philanthropist, I’ll also have a short italic section in which I talk about ways to avoid or address each rule because I honestly don’t wish bad oral sex on anyone. I wish zero oral sex on some really nasty people, but never bad oral sex!

I don’t know how realistic this is, but when someone is giving me oral sex I don’t want it to feel like a favor. I certainly don’t expect servicing me to be the sexual highlight of anyone’s year, but an “Aren’t I incredible? I’m suffering through this for you!” attitude gets an automatic “You shouldn’t have. No, really, you shouldn’t have.” response from me. I can have fun without oral sex, but a martyr in my bed really spoils the mood for me.

But I’ve been fortunate enough to have some really amazing tongues give me mad orgasms with enthusiasm and what passed for joy. And generally these people don’t even have to ask me if they’re incredible because I make that damn clear. So goes the blowjob. While just showing up and putting a dick in your mouth is cool, I guess, it doesn’t necessarily cut it.

Thus, the first and most important rule of a bad blowjob is…

• Be lukewarm and begrudging about it. He’s lucky you’re exposing yourself to this indignity in the first place; make sure he remembers that every fucking nanosecond of this ordeal.

If you find that you aren’t enjoying giving blowjobs, or that your partner isn’t enjoying giving them to you, you might have to get really unorthodox and actually have a frank conversation about sex. Maybe the giver has had a bad experience in the past, maybe there are some hygiene problems, maybe something the receiver is doing or saying is turning the giver off (I have no idea why, but if you call a blowjob a “beej” it automatically halves my motivation to give you one, which is admittedly rather finicky of me, but also fact). Maybe you need to employ the old 69 trick of training each other to associate giving oral sex with getting orgasms. There are many ways to address this problem.

I’ve heard it suggested that the absence of deepthroating ability and refusal to swallow are features of blowjob malfunction. I actually think that these “faults” are greatly exaggerated. Most guys like the idea of bottoming out on a willing throat, but very few will actually complain if you can’t do it. It actually seems like deepthroating is considered more of an advanced oral technique rather than a basic requirement.

I’m going on record right now saying that I don’t understand spitting in the “spit or swallow” dichotomy. If your goal is to not taste semen, spitting actually maximizes its contact with your tongue as opposed to having it spill down your throat. Is there another reason someone might want to spit? Vegetarianism? But why should spitting make a blowjob bad? It’s technically over by then anyway. Also, some guys actually prefer to come on your face,  tits, or various other body parts. Last time I checked that’s not swallowing.

Contrary to these old tropes, the two complaints I’ve come across most often as to technique are more about the fundamentals than the frills, and inspired rules two and three of giving a bad blowjob:

• Avoid falling into any discernible rhythm.

• Make sure to stick with the exact same technique, style, and tempo for the duration of your cock-sucking adventure.

It may seem like these two are at odds with each other, but they’re really not. It’s important to establish a rhythm and not flop about aimlessly, but it’s vital to not get so focused on keeping a rhythm that it gets boring. Do different things: tongue the head, suck the shaft, vary your pressure and depth. Have you ever been fucked by someone who was inept and dull in bed? Chances are he or she was following one or more of these two rules, because they don’t just apply to blowjobs.

I’ve heard conflicting things about what specific techniques guys like and dislike (e.g. suction, head vs. shaft focus, interaction with balls, use of hand/s) and guess why? Because these things are personal preferences, and there’s no magic formula for the perfect blowjob. That brings us to our fourth and final rule.

• You’re an infallible sex deity. You know what men like. Pick a generic blowjob to give to every guy and stick to your guns. If he hints, suggests, or flat-out tells you that he likes a certain kind of stimulus, ignore him. You’ve got this.

Sometimes when people get overconfident in their status as superlovahs they forget that there’s no such thing as “what men like” or “what women like”. There may be some statistical trends, sure, but assuming that your partner complies with what you consider the norm marks the death of sexual discovery. No, this rule won’t always guarantee that you’ll fail at sucking every cock, but it will ensure that if you continue sucking different cocks, eventually you will fail a lot. That penis is attached to a person. Pay attention to the feedback that person gives you, ask questions. If you’re honestly not interested in personalizing this experience for your partner, then congratulations! You’ve actually just managed to make someone else’s blowjob all about you!

In closing, now I want a blowjob. A good one.

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.

It’s kind of cool when you realize that the positions you like best also seem to be particularly good for your partner.

I’m really super partial to what I guess we’ll call the “folded deckchair“, although traditionally I like to call it “throw my legs over your shoulders and fuck me sore.” For me, that and doggy are to sex what Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman are to modern comics. In vulgar parlance, they’re the my baby daddies of their respective fields.

But I also don’t like to ask for things in bed. Ever. You may recall that when I ask for things, it hasn’t always worked out in my favor. I guess with my experiences of it backfiring, my natural diffidence, and my reluctance to rock the boat when someone inexplicably actually wants to fuck me, I just tend to go with the flow instead. It’s to the point where I generally don’t even suggest new positions to try out (zounds but I’m dull!), although I do occasionally maneuver into them with utmost subtlety.

I’m not sure why Laramy and I hadn’t tried the “folded deckchair” yet. (Also, that name is stupid.)  I guess maybe we just hadn’t gotten to it yet, but that night it seemed like a good idea. We were settling into good old missionary when I flung my legs over his shoulders. Oooooh, yes! I thought, I remember why this is awesome now! Suddenly his cock was catching my G-spot from the most delicious angle and my orgasms came fast and urgent, one after another, building.

I have my suspicions that the texture of my G-spot or the grip of my pussy when I come so hard is something that Laramy likes especially, because we both seem to favor the G-spot heavy positions. With my legs like that, he was getting that face he gets when it’s unbearably good, slowing down a little to dial the intensity back. I felt a jolt of joy that we were together on this one: this was Watchmen, this was a triumph. At some points my legs moved down under his arms and he grabbed them for leverage, and at others I’d toss my legs higher again and we’d grimace together at the absolute bliss of that angle. We felt it together. We sucked in air together, except when I forgot to breathe while I curled my head back in climax after searing climax.

When you have dozens of orgasms, scores of orgasms, a motherfucking shoal of orgasms, the odds get pretty damn good that you’re going to have a simultaneous orgasm with your partner. Laramy and I come at the same time often, and it honestly doesn’t get old. It’s like twice the orgasm. The feeling of his cock pulsing and pouring its heat into me sometimes sends me over the edge even if I’m not quite there yet. But this time I really, really was. It was like Michael Bay was directing my vagina. I swear.

Laramy and I were both sweating and spent. He hung over me, draped on the frame my legs gave him. He was panting and grinning and blinking like a big-budget explosion had just torn through the bedroom: it was kind of adorable. I grabbed my ankles and pulled my legs back to my own shoulders, lowering him right over my lips, and then we kissed, which made us laugh. “I didn’t know you could do that!” he cried.

Piffle. Of course I can!