quizzical pussy

Oren Regardie will be the first to admit that he’s lucky. And, at least by many people’s standards, he is pretty damn lucky. Let’s look at this: he is married to Poppy, who’s one of those women men just spontaneously collapse over because of her sheer multi-disciplinary awesomeness. He also has me, and I’m not so terrible either. And together, Poppy and I make a pretty adorable, crayola-headed pair; actually, we look like the Manic Pixie Dream Team. In addition, because he’s charming and attractive and because we move in social circles that are very snuggly indeed, Oren never has a shortage of lovely ladies to make out with and cuddle and whatnot. So his life doesn’t suck. It really doesn’t.

Last Saturday night the three of us (a couple of our friends have taken to calling us The Trident) were hanging out in a bar with several friends, many of whom are fetching ladies. The bar is equipped with booths and bar stools and even a dance floor, but only two comfy chairs. One of my friends and I (both of us with chronic pain issues) agreed that the moment those chairs were open they were ours. And, because the Universe loves us deeply, that didn’t take long.

Oren came over to occupy the space between us, and some communal cuddling happened. Then some other ladies joined us. Because of the magnetic nature of cuddling in public, we soon had a joyous heap of people (mostly women) cuddling, with Oren roughly in the middle but not singled out in any way. But something interesting happened, though it’s only interesting when you actually think about it: the bar, which was mostly populated by males, started to kind of sort of wish he were dead. Men–total strangers– kept coming up to him, some congratulating on his pimposity, most commenting enviously on his position and acting vaguely hurt that they were being left out. When he got up to go to the bathroom a few guys hovered around, hoping to take his place. Glares followed him as he returned.

This dimly recalls the little economist who met the three of us on New Year’s Eve and had his mind blown as soon as he figured out our dynamic. “It was nice meeting you. Touché on the harem,” was his parting shot to Oren. But really this is not rare.

The really weird thing is that no one ever thinks to high five (or scowl at) me. I mean, there I was nestled between my incredible boyfriend and my gorgeous fuck-buddy-for-life Viola– kissing each at various points, and holding hands with another pretty chick. I’m going to go ahead and call that motherfucking lucky, but to average bar guy to process that I’d have to be a subject rather than an object, I guess.

Because when you break things down, it’s weird. Oren is lucky, sure. He is. Having two people you love loving you back is goddamn remarkable. But Poppy has relationships with several totally amazing guys, and no one ever seems to harp on that in quite the same way. It holds hands with that weird insidious old-timey sexism that warns never to congratulate a bride because that would be indelicate. You wish her joy. Because it would be rude to imply that her groom is the prize rather then her, and that she accomplished something by finding someone she wants to spend her life with. How vulgar to imbue a woman with agency, or attribute desire to her.

This cuts in every direction. When women are reduced to objects with no desires, men are reduced to insatiable desire.

I started reading Y: The Last Man. I’d been meaning to for a while, and it’s very good. But it’s hard to get around the fact that being the last surviving man on Earth seems to be a fantasy for a lot of guys (though admittedly not the main character of the comic, and I’m sort of expecting the series to deconstruct that), while I physically cringe when I think of any moderately realistic narrative of a last woman because in my mind it would automatically invoke absolute metric tons of rape. It’s such a bleak way of looking at gender dynamics, but is it inaccurate?

I hope so. I don’t know. I sure as hell know I wouldn’t want to be that woman.

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Pushing, testing, annihilating your own boundaries can be awesome. Not so much when someone else– anyone–decides you need this done for you. Whether it results in irritation, full-on trauma, or something else, I’m not sure it ever ends well.

I have always had lots of rape fantasies, especially date rape scenarios where I’m too drunk to make a decision. I also really like getting fucked while I’m asleep. A couple years ago I did get date raped while I was asleep and I woke up halfway through (side note: I still don’t know whether to consider it date rape since the guy was as drunk as I was… although he did have to be sober enough to move, while I didn’t). It was traumatic for a bit but I still have the same fantasies and they’re better than ever! They never involve that incident and I don’t think they’re even connected…

The boundaries between fantasy and reality can be really difficult to resolve for rape survivors. Giving up control voluntarily is totally different from someone taking it away, or from being in a position where you had none.

The more I reflect on being semi-kinda date raped, the more confused I get. Yes, I was too drunk to consent; but he was too drunk to realize that and stop. And I did get too wasted to go home at his house knowing that he might wanna fuck me. Isn’t there any space between blaming the victim and accepting responsibility? Does putting all the impetus on men make women seem passive and pathetic (at least in my situation, where there was no threat of violence)? Is there a way to think about this without secretly wanting to feel like a victim, or conversely feeling like I’m too tough to be a victim? And how does being penetrated change it? If I had secretly sucked his dick while he was passed out would he have felt as violated as I did? And does any of this matter since it was a long time ago and I’m not traumatized? Most of all, is it wrong that we’re still friends (I yelled at him about it at the time)??

Although the details and the experience of being raped can vary widely, I think most survivors grapple with these questions. I can’t answer them. I really can’t. I can tell you that I tried to be friends with the guy who raped me afterward. I don’t think it was wrong, but in my case it was kind of more a way to punish myself for what I “let happen”. It wasn’t because I actually wanted him for a friend. But that’s me, not necessarily anyone else.

We’re going to deal with slightly less devastating boundary issues for the next couple. Because damn.

I’ve been following a blog for months, thinking that the person writing it was just another friendly sex blogger. Today I suddenly realized that she’s actually someone I’ve known since high school, and I’ve been reading about her sex life all this time without realizing it! I feel awkward…

I’d like to officially not apologize to anyone I’ve ever met in real life who has stumbled across this blog. You’re the ones reading it, you perverts.

So, I recently found out two things about a friend: she probably has a crush on me, and she has supremely deft fingers.

Item #1 is seriously putting a pit of dread into my stomach. I don’t know how to deal with it and I feel like I shouldn’t have to.

Item #2? Well, let’s just say I’ve rediscovered an old favorite from literotica. Super-butch masseuse blackmails seduces/rapes femme girls through blackmail and the power of her hands. It’s so poorly written. I cast myself as the poor hopeless girl and my friend as the rapist.

So while I’m coming to the thought of her hands on me, I’m also ignoring her texts: “night sweetheart,” “come to the park and read poetry with me.” Cognitive dissonance.

Okay, really we most of us have some cognitive dissonance percolating in the shadowlands between our fantasies and reality.

A few years ago, I decided I liked not wearing a bra during the steamy summertime. I have small, rocking’ tits, so it’s totally comfy to do so. I began to like being proud of my AA boobies, hanging out, free.

I was walking into a Big Boy, one afternoon, and this middle-aged guy held the door open for me. As I walked past him, saying ”thanks,” he said, in a very loud voice ”Damn, those are THE biggest nipples I have ever seen.” He said it to nobody in particular, just the air, and just the bunch of people within hearing distance. He said it with a very obvious tinge of disgust.

Mortified, I ran to the restaurant bathroom before even getting seated. I stared into the mirror for about ten minutes. I didn’t want to go back out there. I didn’t want him or anyone else to see me.

Yes, those nipples were huge. But did it need an announcement?

And…until that moment, I had thought that the silhouette of my breasts looked beautiful. I suppose if I had been in Manhattan or some other spicy, Cosmopolitan place, nobody would have shamed me like that. But I live in Northwest Ohio. But the real questions were and are: Why was I so surprised? Why was I suddenly so afraid? And how could some overweight sloppy man in overalls make me feel, suddenly, so dirty?

As long as we have bodies and people have eyes, loved ones and strangers alike are going to have opinions about our bodies. It would be nice to get to the place where one didn’t give a shit what anyone thought: compliments are nice, but they feed nothing; comments that shame or sexualize us are as the quacking of ducks or the susurration of a distant freeway.

It would also be awfully nice if people kept the latter category of comments to themselves.

Something squicks me out about actually having sex with someone who does unusual things with gender. A woman with a dick won’t do it for me. Nor will a man who wants to wear frilly underwear. I like macho men and femme women, and anything in between kills my ladyboner.

This makes me feel incredibly mean because I have a trans friend, love her like a sister, and she complains about not being able to find partners. And I’m thinking, guiltily, “maybe most people are like me, and just can’t get over the the gender thing.”

We each get to have our own boundaries of whom we’re attracted to. It’s actually good to know what these are. It’s not so good to be hurtful toward or dismissive of people who don’t match our orientation (and as a suggestion, I probably wouldn’t use the word “squick” when talking to them), but we owe no one our attraction. For what it’s worth, I don’t think most people are necessary oriented as you are. There are a lot of people who are attracted to trans women, and I suspect there would be a lot more if we could collectively manage, as a society, to stop being horrible to them as a general policy.

A while ago, I shared a bed with a friend, who touched me in ways I didn’t really want him to when I was half asleep.
It took me a while to say no and stop him, partially because I was too tired/dozy to work out was going on, partly because I felt awkward because we were good friends, did he feel I’d lead him on, did I for some reason owe him this? But also because my body was responding to the touches, even though my mind did not want it to happen. When I snapped out of it and realised I had made it clear that we weren’t that sort of friends, and then he did it again even though I said no, I stormed out and we didn’t make up for a long time. I felt used and like our friendship had been chucked away because he thought I’d be easy.

I don’t know, anymore, what I feel worst about – the fact he took advantage of me in such a weird situation, or the fact I was so angry with him for it considering I semi enjoyed it.

As much as we owe no one our attraction, a thousand times more do we owe no one our bodies. He was violating your boundaries. Your reaction gets to be as complicated as it is, but it doesn’t change what he did or how fucked up it was.

Which is VERY.

Confess things here.

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I don’t often wax nostalgic about my sex life. So far in my life, sex builds on itself, getting better and better as I understand my body more and hate my body less and explore more facets of that ephemeral thing people call chemistry.

But there were moments. Numinous, they were. It cannot be denied that there were those moments. Little fairy lights that lace the past with unbearable sweetness: that’s how I want to remember my exes. My current, my future exes. May we all learn from the bad but remember the good.

I gave up my Much Younger Lover today. It’s mostly my own fault, I helped set him up with a great girl. They’re crazy for each other and it’s so cute to see. I’m happy for them, I really am, but my heart is tender and bruised. The sex was getting incredible. I mean crazy, mind blowing, screaming, gasping-for-breath incredible. Earlier this week when I fell asleep in his arms, I knew it was going to be so hard to give him up. I get to keep him as a friend though. If I had to give that up, I don’t know how I would manage. I can only hope he knows how much I’ve enjoyed our affair, how grateful I am for his discretion, how he gave me back parts of my self I thought were irretrievably lost, and how I will never forget him.

I think this is the classiest, most mature shit I have ever read about any illicit affair. I have never said this, but I think you may have actually done cheating right.

Not that I’m endorsing cheating. Just selfless love, mostly.

I broke up with my boyfriend. I have cried more than him. The thing is, I know that it kills right now but five years from now he’s still going to be the same person essentially and I will be leaps and bounds ahead.

I wish that he used our breakup as a turning point to realize his life is taking some bad turns.

He’ll figure out what he needs to figure out when he’s ready, and not a minute sooner. You can always count on people for that. In the meantime, go be awesome!

I feel silly saying this because there’s many more important things that I lost as a result of my recent breakup, but here goes in a secret place: I am worried I will not find someone as sexually compatible as he was with me. There were some issues towards the end re: mismatched libidos, but otherwise, we were excellent together in bed and I was totally comfortable with asking for everything I wanted and giving him everything he wanted. I liked his openness.

This is particularly related to his being a bisexual boy who wanted me to fuck his ass. Not sure where I’ll find that anytime soon, in high school.

If all else fails, college holds the rich promise of bisexual boys, boys who like to be fucked in the ass, and a capella groups with names that are also puns.

Is there another reason people go to college?

This happened years ago but one weekend of too much party time I had sex with four guys starting Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon. It was the most embarrassing and demeaning thing I have ever done, but I was in a perpetual state of arousement. As much as I was humiliated by what transpired I constantly orgasmed. Once I was naked I stayed that way and was constantly used and abused by these four boys. I gave oral sex to all of them several times and subjected to anal sex often as well as intercouse. I was sexually satisfied while as many as three of them violated me at the same time. There were possitions I was put in I had never thought possible and was constantly displayed to them in the most degrading ways. It only happened that one time and it happened ten years ago. When it took place and for many months afterwards I was totally mortified every time I saw any of those boys. Years later when I thought about the things they did to me it all the sudden had an arousing afftect I still today masturbate thinking about it. I think now that it was the most satisfying sexual experience in my life. The number of orgasms I experienced that weekend is astounding.

I may be mistaken, but it seems like this was a completely consensual experience, right? The word choices are confusing me, but that’s what I’m getting from it.

When I’m especially sad, my fantasies always turn subby. It’s not a bad coping mechanism, and actually it’s a pretty good way of tracking my depression. For the last couple of months, most of my fantasies were about kind but stern random people fucking me and beating me up. Wanking helped me relax and kept my thoughts away from the mess that is my life, but it didn’t make me happier.

Yesterday, when I was alone in the house, I locked myself in the bathroom with some vague background music, and had an epic, four-hours-long (later I transferred to the bedroom), extremely detailed fantasy about an ex-bf, my roommate, several fictional characters (including Kaylee Fry and Dr Tachyon) and the guy I currently like. I was kind but stern and I fucked them and beat them up. They worshipped me and we discussed ethics and at some points I was some sort of deity.

It was amazing. I came several times and I’m still feeling the aftershocks of euphoria. And best of all – my depression’s dissipating again! Hah!

Tonight I think I’ll be a pillaging pirate. (And tomorrow? I’m taking the guy I like to the movies.)

Imagination is the best way to engage sexually with exes. And vikings. And Dr. Tachyon. Whoever that is.

I am afraid that the combination of my inability to maintain strong boundaries and the partners I’ve had who have taken every inch they could get is destroying my ability to be sexual and enjoy my own fantasies.

There are people out there who aren’t douchebags. I just want you to know that. Maybe focus on regaining your trust in yourself for now? Past partners have no claim on your sexuality or your fantasies unless you invite them.

I lost my virginity on the floor of my bedroom the week before my 18th birthday. It was by girlfriend at the time’s birthday present to me. We started on the couch and made it all the way upstairs, but not quite into bed. I (not so) secretly wish that I could have sex that was literally all over the house again.

There are some moment from our sexual histories we really can’t revisit. This one? Seems more or less doable. Get thee to a couch, why don’t you?

Sex Confessional

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Confessions hot off the metaphorical presses of my email!

Had a lover with a foot-long dick, no technique, and no desire to acquire any. I suggested mutual oral one time, got three or four quick flicks of the tongue, and then back to PIV. I faked orgasms just to get him to stop.

No offense to any incredibly well-endowed readers out there, but I think just the foot-long dick alone would be a deal breaker for me. I’m surprised anyone with a cock that’s potentially lethal wouldn’t want to bother to learn how to use it, and all his available alternatives.

I seem to run into a certain man every 2 or 3 years, and he always follows up with a phone call saying some degree of how he’d like to fuck me, but I’ve not verbally told him I had any temptation to follow through with him. I saw him this weekend, and he asked if the patterned stockings I was wearing were thigh-highs or went to the waist. I said ”waist” and asked if he has a preference. He said ”that kind, so I can do this:” and made a ripping open motion with his hands. He and I made loose plans to see each other in about a month, and he said he is going to fuck me nine ways to Sunday. I went out and bought more stockings today.

See, and if they’d been thigh highs, I would’ve fucked you.

Just kidding. I just wanted to be creepy. Have fun!

I never, ever considered myself a pain slut. Sure, I like it rough and am in a Dom/sub relationship with one of my partners, but I was never craving pain. Then, in the beginning of the summer, my boyfriend started using his leather belt on my ass. I was shocked at how much I loved it. Mildly hard play sessions were pretty regular until we had a pretty bad fight that separated us for a few weeks in August. After we got back together we toned it down a bit but just a few weeks ago I mentioned I missed the feel of his belt on my ass.

Well, this morning we had a pretty intense session with the belt and it hurt a lot but I was flying. He asked me if my ass still hurt afterwards and it did, but not that bad. It wasn’t until I was getting ready for work tonight that I realized I have some raised red areas on my backside. I feel so proud of them, like maybe I am a pain slut now, hehe. Regardless, I feel like a very good little sub and at least that I have a bit more credibility in the kink scene.

Yay for pushing boundaries and enjoying more things! ::Internet high five::.

In my personal-in-QP’s-head kink scene, credibility comes from playing safe, treating others respectfully, owning who you are and what you’re into, sharing your knowledge, and displaying a delighfully sick imagination. How much pain someone can take doesn’t even begin to figure into it, but exploring does.

I have a hard time climaxing during sex. It’s not that I’m not into it or I don’t have the ability; I just get distracted really, really easily. I almost need to induce a zen-like state in order to get off.

I found out today I can do this by reviewing Attic Greek verb forms in my head. I swear by all true gods, I am going to shoot myself if this becomes a fetish.

That… that’s adorable. I’m not fetishizing it! But it is.

The situation – a gloriously painful breakup of a short and tumultuous relationship, a little over a year ago. In between? Lots of sex and a committed relationship (that ended badly in it’s own right). And now? I am still hung up on the guy that dumped me a year ago! How??? Why???

…is it those broad shoulders, smirking half-smile, and messy hair – exactly my type, no matter the gender? ….is it the fact that I kinda wish I -was- him that I can’t get over him? …is it because he is inextricably tied to my nostalgia for Japan? What the hell is with my persistent attraction, resilient even though he is a total slut-shamer and indecisive lout?

I’ve never held onto feelings this long after being dumped. I just don’t get it.

I don’t know why you’re still hung up on a slut-shaming lout; I really don’t. I agree with you that linking a person to nostalgia is a good way to give them a lot more power over you than reason dictates.

It sounds like you actually, if you’re being objective, wouldn’t get back together with this dude. Remember why. Remember what was awesome about Japan that wasn’t reliant on him. Remember that there’s nothing he can offer you that you can’t easily do without, or at least find somewhere else.

My most recent ex both introduced me to the joys of anal fingering and possibly ruined it for me forever by fingering me even when I said no. I can’t think of anal without thinking of being violated.

I am so very sorry you went through this.

Dear Way-too-many-people-on-Earth: Why is the concept of consent such a hard fucking thing for you to understand? Seriously.

I’ve started sleeping with my best friend, I’m only really attracted to him when I’m drunk but everyone says we should be in a relationship and it’s driving me crazy! I don’t want to go out with him, I just want to have sex with him when I feel like it and still be best friends, is that too much to ask??

You will have to ask him if it’s too much to ask. He may even tell the truth.

Confess your sexy things here!

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You always hear that rape isn’t about sex, it’s about power. And that probably holds true if you look deep enough, but why in the world would a rapist do that? On more casual reflection, I think that dictum has the potential to allow people to easily deny that what they did was rape. A lot of times, in their minds, it was completely about sex. They weren’t paying particular attention to consent, but they think they probably got it, more or less. And besides, they weren’t trying to take anyone’s power away. They weren’t being violent. They were just trying to get laid, man.

I believe that it’s easy for people to think “Rapists are monsters. I am a person. Therefore, I must not be a rapist. IT’S LIKE MATH.”

Piers Vitiard liked to bike and play lacrosse. He knew about Classical mythology and was good at Soul Calibur. He thought everyone should see Donnie Darko and the entire Godfather series. He was a pretty nice guy. He also raped me.

Reginald Sleeth dreamed of being a filmmaker. He always wove intricate stories in his head, but rarely wrote them down. His voice got louder when he was self-conscious, and he spoke in a fake Scottish accent when he wanted attention. He worried about getting fat. He thought that orange striped cats were the best kind. When he gave you a compliment you tasted it for weeks afterward. He was emotionally, physically, and sexually abusive.

They weren’t monsters, they were just people who did some fucked up things. And people don’t let themselves feel like abusers or rapists. They might have moments when they realize that they’ve done some fucked up stuff, and even feel guilty, but the homeostasis of the mind demands that our thoughts move on from there. We need to justify, rewrite history a little. We need to slant events in such a way that allows us to be the heroes of our own stories.

And along a similar vein, I’m no righteous, innocent victim. The choices I made were monstrously wrong, if I really examine them. I played into Reginald’s abuse, responding to his manipulations as if he’d scripted them and I’d memorized my part. I let our dysfunction teach me what it meant to be in a romantic relationship. Every chance I had to stand up to him, I folded; right up until I found the strength to leave at the very end. I excused Piers after he violated me, and made a point of trying to make it seem to both of us like what had happened wasn’t a big deal. That was unfair to me, to him, and to the next woman he got alone in a room. He learned nothing from what he did to me.

I got it all so wrong. I denied myself the protection and respect that were mine by right. I told them it was okay to disrespect me, harm me, use me. I allowed myself to become inhuman. Maybe I didn’t feel human in the first place. I do now, though. I know better now.

You can be a real person, even a normally decent person, and fuck up big time. You can be weak. You can collude against yourself in the sickest ways imaginable. You can be a rapist. You can be an abuser. Maybe you didn’t mean for things to happen that way, but motive isn’t everything. Sometimes what actually happened is important too. And you’re allowed to forgive yourself, but that really sort of requires admitting it to yourself first.

(image source)

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I’m a slut. Maybe. Honestly, I don’t even know what a slut really is.

Identities that are defined by the opinions of others are weird, aren’t they? If a slut is someone who’s considered promiscuous or lacking sexual morals, that’s exactly what it means. Considered by whom? Who knows! I think my sexual morals are just fine. But I’m relatively sure your grandma would disagree (although grandmas can be sluts too).

But if we’re going to define slut as someone who enjoys sex and possibly has a more relaxed than average attitude about it, that’s me. I’m a total slut.

That just doesn’t mean I’ll necessarily sleep with you.

This is why I like the concept of Slutwalks. Because I feel that’s more or less what they’re trying to say. There’s a big difference between someone wanting sex and “asking to get raped”*. But you know who doesn’t realize that? A rapist. Also, to an extent, rape apologists.

There’s a Slutwalk being planned near-ish to me and soon-ish to now. I think it’s where I belong.

1. Must start designing a clever sign ASAP.
2. May also will coordinate a slutty outfit. Or not. My most debaucherous moments usually don’t begin with me in a sexy little outfit, oddly enough.

(image source)

*Which, just to be crystal clear, is a thing that DOES NOT HAPPEN.

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Warning: This post contains description and discussion of rape and its aftermath, including victim-blaming.

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While you’re being raped, you don’t get to feel like a person. Your personality, your history, your passions, your mannerisms, your interests, your pleasure, your protests: everything about you gets shoved to one side so your rapist can get to a hole.*

The violence is eloquent: you’re meat. People get to decline sex, so you must be something else. You realize through the fear and the horror that in that moment you’re nothing more than a flesh frame for negative space.

And hopefully one day that feeling goes entirely away.

When people say that rape is dehumanizing, that’s usually what they mean. To rape is to perpetrate an inhuman act that denies a person human dignity. But that only scratches the surface of what it’s like to survive a rape.

After you’ve been raped, you don’t get to be treated like a person. Your experience, your story, your anger, your grief: they’re all messy and unpleasant for everyone to deal with. Won’t you please put them away?

You’re going to be a statistic now. You’re going to be a cautionary tale. If you speak out or press charges, you get to be “the accuser”, whom people will likely suggest is trying to ruin your poor rapist’s life. Above all, you’re going to be a case to study and analyze so everyone can explain to each other why you were victimized. Because that’s more important than anything else.

See, if people can somehow figure out a way to blame you for being attacked, they feel safer. If rape is a crime of two wrongs, it can be prevented by scrupulously making rights.

You? You were asking for it. Or unprepared to defend yourself, or maybe your lifestyle put you in danger’s way. Or whatever. Something like this just wouldn’t happen to everyone else, or everyone else’s loved ones. It happened to you for a reason. Had to. Otherwise things get uncomfortable!

Apparently this time-honored system of rape aftermath management holds rock solid even when the person who was raped is an eleven-year-old little girl.

A little girl can be gang raped by at least 18 men and boys, and people will point out that she dressed provocatively to look older than her age. They will comb her Facebook account trying to prove that she engaged in transgressive behavior. The men who raped this little girl can take video of the rape and share it at school and on the internet, and some fucked-up woman will have the gall to comment, “These boys have to live with this the rest of their lives”. I want to believe that she’s referring to the soul-rot and gut-burrowing guilt that should encroach after committing such a vile act, but I don’t. I believe she’s referring to their reputations and the legal fallout. I believe she genuinely feels more compassion for the rapists than the eleven-year-old girl they brutalized. And I feel sick about the human race.

The New York Times and other news outlets repeated this victim-blaming bullshit without comment. NBC news invited someone to come on a TV program to say that this child was a willing participant in her rape. The way this story has been treated isn’t atypical, it’s only more dramatic because how can you blame an eleven-year-old for getting raped ARE YOU INSANE??

When people say that rape is dehumanizing, do they realize how much we as a society help it stay that way? Can anyone truly be surprised when rape survivors choose to remain silent?

We couldn’t protect and care for a little girl. We couldn’t work together to keep her safe. We couldn’t create a world where those young men would be sickened at the mere thought of hurting her. That would’ve been too much to ask, certainly. But why in the goddamn can’t we admit that she did nothing wrong, and they did?

Are we fucking animals?

*The mechanics of rape do not always work this way. I want to be very clear about the fact that I’m drawing from my personal experiences to express a feeling I believe may be communal, or close to. I’m not saying that my specific experiences are universal. Not all rape involves penetration. However, I believe it always involves some level of being involuntarily reduced to a body.

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ConTuesday is here! Let’s begin.

My current boyfriend is the first one ever that I haven’t cheated on.

You’re either growing as a person or your boyfriend is one sexy man. Maybe both. Sweet!

I’d rather fuck someone on a first date than blow them. I always freak out the first time I go down on a guy and I know panic attacks aren’t sexy. I have no such problem with women.

Having to go around the bases in order is boring anyway.

I’m the newly-married-certainly-not-a-

virgin-anymore!

To say sex is amazing would be insulting to sex! I think my head has blown off a couple times, hehe.

I did end up with a bruised cervix after 3+ times a day honeymoon sex, that wasn’t fun. Even now, most positions are a tad painful, boo. It’s still awesome though.

Yay for sex! :)

Congratulations! I think you’re the fourth confessor from this ConTuesday. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, and yeah, bruised cervices are super ouchy.

My stepdad is all happy because I’ve been watching football with him lately. Little does he know that I’m spending most of the time fantasizing about being gang-raped by a team of football players!

I think the bonding probably goes a little smoother that way.

I’m happily in a committed relationship with a girl I’ve asked to marry me. Now, I know that they say the sex stops once the ring’s on her finger, but her drive is strong enough that I’m not worried about that.

Thing is, I’m not usually much on going down on her. And as I think most ladies would agree, that’s high on the list of ”Yes please!”
I just can’t get into it.. unless I take my Ambien. Then I turn into an oral monster, going to town on her while experiencing what feels like a one sided opera argument in my head.

When I was done, she was unable to move and told me it’d actually hurt to come again. Anyone else have this sort of experience mixing hallucinogenic sleep aides and sex?

Aaaaaand I’m off to the pharmacy. Check you guys later.

Hit me with your best secret.

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Okay, so studies have shown that circumcised men may be less vulnerable to several STIs, and less likely to pass them on to a partner. I’m going to go ahead and take the research at face value and say:

Okay, sweet. STIs suck. Let’s stop circumcising little boys.

This might seem counterintuitive, but hear me out. If circumcision is the wise choice, if it’s such a wonderful thing, surely we can leave it to consenting adult males to choose it. Because we’re talking about their bodies here.

Strapping down a baby and performing unnecessary surgery on him without anesthesia is a human rights violation. I honestly can’t see it another way, and just because we’re used to it, just because we expect it, doesn’t make it okay.

If there are health benefits to getting circumcised, great! Let the men who will reap them, and pass them on to their partners, get the surgery. With proper anesthesia and/or pain management. Don’t take the choice away from them. Even if it is in their best interests (which I think is highly debatable) that shouldn’t trump an individual’s right to body autonomy.

You can make all the arguments for circumcision you like. Just make them to, and for, adults.

(image source)

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Here are some interesting facts about ConTuesday, the best sex confession apparatus on the entire server that hosts my website!

• ConTuesday isn’t here to judge you.
• ConTuesday is a Pisces.
• ConTuesday is patient. Or rather, requires patience. If you’ve ever sent in a sex confession and had to wait weeks or even months to see it appear here, there’s a perfectly good reason for that. That reason is called lead time. I mostly, more-or-less post them in order, but sometimes I’ll nudge one to the front or hold it back for a couple extra weeks to put it in a theme post. Your confession will appear… it just might be next year.
• ConTuesday is subject to the whims and foibles of an evil villain named QP, who is rumored to have a monkey tail.

I’m in my 20s, but most of the time people see me and assume I’m around 15. I’ve been told that I seem to exude a sort of virginal, innocent exuberance. That makes me feel twice as wonderfully naughty when I’m walking around town with a plug up my ass, carrying a purse full of floggers and vibrators and strap-ons.

Virginal innocence and butt plugs are complementary colors.

The closer I’ve gotten to my male best friend over the years, the more he’s come to see me as a sister. Most of the time I see him as a brother, but once in a while I love to ”innocently” start pushing all his buttons. I know that I’m exactly his type, physically and mentally. It’s insanely fun to watch him start getting all hot and bothered. He tries so hard to hide it, and I pretend not to notice. Such a wonderful power trip!

I’ve learned to gauge the health of my relationship by my wandering eyes. When our relationship is solid and healthy, I don’t find most other men sexually attractive in more than an aesthetic way, and fantasies about people I know are rare. When our relationship is rocky, I start fantasizing about my guy friends during sex. When the shit really hits the fan between us, I start wondering what it would be like to be in a relationship with one of my guy friends, and I start getting seriously turned on just talking to them.

The problem is that I really, really like my fantasies about my guy friends. They’re ridiculously hot, partly because I don’t know what they’d really do in bed. Unfortunately, when my relationship is solid, I can’t for the life of me get those fantasies going in my head. Damn it, I don’t want to miss out on my hottest fantasies when I’m happy!

Play fights, maybe? Hell, I don’t know; I think about fucking my friends all the time. (Sorry, friends!)

I IM’d my friend last night and told him I liked his voice. I told him there was no context, but in reality I’d been listening to sex stories wishing he’d been ordering me around. Oops.

I’ve only been with four people. My first was with 15 girls before me and I was always for some reason pissed off about it because I haven’t had the chance to fuck as many. My guy now, I won’t let him tell me because I don’t want to resent his win over me. Between relationships, I feel extra compelled to boost my number. Exactly how unhealthy/rare is this outlook?

It isn’t any of either! I don’t really stress about my number either way, but on some level I can’t help but think it’ll be a damn shame to die without fucking all the attractive people in the world first. (Sorry, friends!)

Many years ago, I had sex with my friend’s husband. We’re going to a party tonight, at their house, and I’m dreading it because he won’t ”let it go” and understand that it’s never going to happen again. Sadly, it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s my friend’s husband that is keeping me from doing it (incidentally, they are ”swingers”) but the fact that he won’t stop asking for it AND he is the worse sex I’ve ever had. I’m so tempted to just come out and tell him that I’m not interested and, if he keeps it up, tell him exactly why.

Final fact: ConTuesday is written by you. Confession your secrets here!

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