quizzical pussy

Sugru seems like a pretty neat development in the world of making your shit a little cooler. A malleable, silicone-based substance that cures at room temperature and comes in bright, happy colors, its tagline is “hack things better”. That’s what it’s for: hacking your stuff and making it softer, stronger, quieter, safer, comfier, better, or less broken. A super cute Irish chick invented it. Her accent makes me feel happy in my pants. Please understand that I’m not trying to objectify her and overlook her accomplishments or anything just because she’s a woman. If a cute Irish boy had developed sugru I’d be minimizing his intellectual merits in favor of leching all over him too. Trust me.

Anyway. Some facts about sugru:

• It’s named after an Irish word for “play”. Hehe.
• Sugru is like modeling clay when you take it from its pack. Once it’s exposed to air, it cures to a tough flexible silicone overnight using the moisture in the air.
• It’s designed to stick to as many other materials as possible. It forms a strong bond to aluminum, steel, ceramics, glass and other materials including plastics like perspex.
• Sugru is resistant from -60°C to + 180°C. It gets hot and cold but it won’t get softer or harder or melt.
• It’s completely waterproof and dishwasher safe.
• It is only a matter of time before people start making awesome, custom, one-of-a-kind sex toys using this stuff.

When there’s a new technology, people will figure out a way to use it to get off. Of all the things we humans like to hack, our bodies and sex lives are perennial favorites. Sugru has some real potential along these lines. Not only can you make an original silicone phallus with hints of your fingerprints all over it (that would make a romantic present, right?), you can also modify your current sex toys. You could enhance textures, add little pockets for bullet vibes…the possibilities number in the many! I’m not sure if it would bond to silicone toys or not, but it would be worth a little experimentation.

The website says sugru isn’t suitable for use in direct or prolonged contact with food, so that might raise some questions about its promise as an insertable. But I really don’t think that’s going to stop people.

Of course the first run of sugru sold out in no time flat. Well, technically 16 hours. But they’re working to produce more, and I can’t wait to see all the dildo pictures start rolling in when the stuff becomes more widely available.

P.S. If you were lucky enough to get your hands on some sugru and have a dirty mind, please send me pics of what you’ve done with it!

Sofia: I’m preorgasmic.

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

-Shortbus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I may never come out to my parents as bisexual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A while ago my friend Penelope Svelterwald jokingly asked me to have a threesome with her and her husband Max for his birthday. I believe my response was something dorky like “Well, now! I had a feeling today was going to be my lucky day! Har har har.” and we all laughed and went on with our lives.

Obviously, the threesome did not happen (still waiting for that first FMF to come my way). Penelope and I did end up fucking a couple months later, and that’s an interesting story that I should tell you about sometime, but it was largely unrelated.

The thing is, she was joking (or half joking, or mostly joking) about the birthday threesome, but that doesn’t make it a crazy concept. Another female friend of mine was a birthday present for my friend Crispin Hijanx from his girlfriend in a similar-though-far-less-theoretical manner. Crispin had mentioned that he’d been in threesomes before but had never been “the focus” (aside: I’m not sure what happened in these past experiences that made him specifically feel that he wasn’t– or even had to be– “the focus”, but I kind of prefer a three-person sex=three-person focus paradigm. I’m pretty sure the only way one out of the three people involved can get lost in the shuffle is for things to transfigure irretrievably into a twosome. So I’ll admit I’m confused by this part of the story, but I guess we’ll never know. Unless the subject comes up again and I ask.) and his chick sweetly secreted him off to a hotel rendezvous with a mutual friend who also happens to be a fetching redhead. And a good time was had by all.

Now, I’m not sure if people have always been doing this and I’m just now catching up or if it’s a fad/zeitgeist/what the hip kids are doing, but more and more I’m hearing about people-as-gifts scenarios. And I want to go on record as saying that the more I think about it the more it actually sounds really hot.

I’m being a bad feminist here. I get that. Women are people. People aren’t toys. And, thankfully, you can’t strictly speaking give a person as a present this side of 1865. These things are certain. But who’s to say people can’t play toys recreationally? Because I’m a woman and a person and I kinda wanna. With the right people, naturally (obviously I’m not volunteering to fuck anyone and everyone with a birthday and a dream.)

There haven’t been many moments in my life when I’ve gotten to feel like a treat. And by that I mean I can’t really think of one ever. I’ve felt like prey, a possession, a playmate, and a respected partner– a couple of these I even appreciate. I think, though, that it would be neat to occasionally feel like someone was giddy enough to touch me– even if it was only just once–that I actually rated up there with other awesome and highly anticipated birthday presents like PS3 games and robot kits. I’d like to feel like I’m the dessert someone is looking forward to, sitting glistening and toothsome at the end of a long and glorious meal. I want to be the fucking mochi ice cream for once, instead of just a bowl of miso soup or those carrot shavings on the salad. It’s exciting to be exciting!

Yes, I realize that all I’m accomplishing here is saying I’d like an ego boost. But there’s more to it. The birthday threesome could be giddy and gleeful, full of enthusiasm, and extra fun because at its essence it’s a celebration and a gesture of friendship and lust and adventure all at the same time. This is all assuming that no one gets buyer’s remorse or starts having rampant attacks of jealousy or goes into sugar shock, or whatever. But I’m arguing on potential, understand.

I’m not sure I’d want a threesome as a present myself, though, because I’d never be entirely free from the specter of worrying that one or both of the other parties would never have fucked me without factoring in the “well, it’s her birthday… might as well throw her a bone” card. It turns out that catalysts for self-loathing paranoia probably don’t make the most thoughtful gifts, after all. But a birthday threesome where I’m not “the focus”? Wrap me up, bitches!

When guys learn that I have and use sex toys, they often want to try to involve them in our playtime. Once or twice a guy I’m boning has adorably suggested that I bring “it” over, betraying his naive belief that I have a single vibrator or dildo. This is clearly misunderstanding the scope of my not-immense-but-respectable collection. I tend to ask “which one?” in response, with an innocence that belies pure evil, because it’s fun to watch the sordid truth dawn on them. Sometimes, when I know someone a little better and may have described my menagerie a bit, he’ll have a specific request. Sometimes I’ll be asked to bring whichever is my favorite. Usually, though, in whatever form, there’s interest.

I’m not sure if it’s an insecurity thing where they want to insert themselves into that hemisphere of my sex life, checking it out to see how intimidating it really is, or if they’re genuinely curious. People being the precious snowflakes they are, I’ll go ahead and take the safe bet: some have the former motive, others the latter, and still others have both in various proportions. I’m mind-blowingly intuitive, right?

I relate to the curiosity part. That would be me, all the way. When someone gets a new phone, puppy, blender, car, or pair of nipple clamps, it’s hard for me to resist the urge to want to see, and play, and maybe make smoothies. I guess the other motive makes sense too, though. For instance, I think every guy should have his own masturbator, just on principle. There should be some kind of secular, sexular bar mitzvah: turn thirteen, memorize Closer by Nine Inch Nails, get your first fleshlight, and start practicing ennui: now you are a man, or at least a teenager. But, as much as I want every guy to have a sex toy or fifteen, part of me still hopes it doesn’t make my pussy feel less awesome by comparison.

My first boyfriend, Reginald Sleeth, bought me my first vibrator, which is pretty enlightened considering he didn’t actually seem to like sex (…or at least sex with me. I really never have grasped the depth and breadth of the problem there.) It was a purple insertable, a little thicker than a man’s thumb, with a curve at the top to hit the g-spot. We went to an “adult book store” to pick it out together. I was cowed by all the lurid packaging under the too-bright lights and the smiling woman at the counter trying to help me decide what would feel good, while I squirmed. Maybe Reginald tried to sooth my intimidated deer-in-headlights psyche by suggesting only slimlines and clit vibrators, but it’s also possible there was something else at work. Maybe, considering the fact that he was human (and not anybody’s definition of secure) he also wasn’t comfortable with me having a phallic presence in my life that threatened or even thrashed his penis. Either way, it was a nice gift that I put to very good use.

It’s always interesting to see how a partner uses a toy on me as opposed to, say, how I use a toy on myself. When I masturbate with something that vibrates, I usually apply it with steady pressure directly on or adjacent to my clit (depending on the intensity). It isn’t fancy, but the orgasms come in delicious waves. In my experience, a toy novice will try to tease me with the toy, running it lightly over nipples, clit, and labia, not giving the vibrations much purchase in any one place. I realize that’s more visually interesting for the person wielding the tool: tracing along the curves of the body, watching muscles tense and skin moisten along the path… it probably beats just holding a gadget in place while my clit silently laps up the tremors. But the visually interesting method supplies a psychological and physical tease, but it doesn’t actually feel all that good. There’s little hope of getting me off that way. I’d rather just have hands exploring the skin of my breasts or neck or back: that will turn me on more and has an excellent chance of giving me an orgasm as well.

Personally, I’d prefer to watch a woman get herself off with a toy before I used it on her. It’d be an excellent education in pleasuring her, and I can’t think of a better didactic tool than to get to watch a sexy woman come, preferably while making out with her between the being attentive parts. Or I’d at least ask her how she generally likes pressure, vibration, position. The questions wouldn’t have to be too clinical; when you know the nuances of how a toy can kiss a body (and I’ve certainly made a study of that), a husky “you like that?” can actually take on a wealth of meaning, in context.

But really, I’ve never found toys necessary with a partner. They’re fun to experiment with together, but I don’t miss them when they’re not in play. While battery operated devices are a vital part of my solitary sex life, and if you try to take them away from me I’ll cut you, sometimes a real, warm, aroused person proves the best possible sex toy there is. I mean that, of course, in the least dehumanizing way possible, you pretty snowflake, you.

My flirting skills are roughly on par with T-Pain’s singing ability sans Auto-Tune. I’m aware that I recently described performing lap dances for my friends, so I should probably clarify. I can flirt recreationally– purely for the joy and play of it all, but when the flirting might have a purpose (i.e. testing the waters for imminent sexin’), I suddenly have no idea what I’m doing. I can easily come on to people whom I feel sure aren’t a sexual possibility, when I feel safe with them and I know that they’re not going to read too much into it. But with strangers, I freeze. I don’t turn diffident or timid, understand; I’m just completely non-sexual. I’m practically one step shy of calling any potential suitor “bro”.

___________________________________________________________

Example:
Interior. Restaurant. Evening. Quizzical Pussy enters and sits down. An attractive gentleman caller saunters up to her table. Things are about to get pretty fucking uncomfortable, folks.

Gentleman Caller: Hi, I’m Roger Jollylad. I saw you when you walked in and thought you looked like lots of fun.

Quizzical Pussy: Ohai. I’m Quizzical Pussy. I try to bring the party, whenever possible. It’s kind of you to notice. (offers high five, like a tool)

Gentleman Caller: You’re cute.

Quizzical Pussy: My favorite dinosaur is Parasaurolophus. What’s yours?

Gentleman Caller: Do you want to maybe hang out sometime?

Quizzical Pussy: Ummmmmm. I’m going to go fight those guys in that booth over there. I’m pretty sure they’re assassins or something. Peace,  bro.

___________________________________________________________

It’s especially bad with guys. I think it’s because it’s so much easier to assume (because of statistics about sexual orientation and stuff) that women aren’t going to take pleasant recreational flirting seriously. Often, when a male comes up to talk to me in a bar or some other “let’s pick someone up” type of venue, he’ll end up asking me if I’m not into guys, because I’m just that neutral.

I’m not opposed to something coming of the “safe” flirting. It’s not a matter of teasing to get a jolt of power or control. Normally, for me, this type of flirting is about showing affection– not withholding it, and unexpectedly finding that playful flirting has transmuted into serious flirting is often a welcome and sweet development. Thing is, I’m not nearly as worried about people wanting to touch my naughty bits as that they will think I’m assuming that they might want to.

See, I’m concerned about being attracted to people without permission. About offending them for presuming that they’re viable conquests. I have no idea where I got this, or if it’s common at all. Maybe lots of people feel this way and no one admits it because it’s kind of silly. Rationally, I realize that most people aren’t going to backhand me for daring to see them as sexual possibilities. Even if not interested, chances are they’d be flattered by a little attention, right? It’s not because of logic that I’m so wary of imposing my libido or interest on people who haven’t invited it. It’s something else. Something stupid. Something I have the hardest time shaking. It’s so bad that I won’t allow myself to admit (even to me) an actual desire for someone until orgasms have come into play, or at least a vigorous make out. I can think you’re objectively pretty and even say you’re attractive in a general sense, but I won’t feel or express actual lust until I have the go-ahead that only physical interaction provides. And even then, I’m so very careful.

For someone who’s kind of a sex fiend, this is slightly obstructive. If I flirted a little more, a little better, judiciously, I bet I could get way more laid.

I wouldn’t exactly call it easy to fuck someone. It’s exhilarating, inspiring, powerful, and sometimes glorious, but I wouldn’t call it easy. For me, it’s even harder to sleep with someone.

Like, sleep sleep.

This isn’t a rare phenomenon: it’s quite common to find either easier than the other, I think. I’m just in the “sleeping together is harder” camp. If I’m fucking you, I’ve conquered enough of whatever misgivings I may have about you seeing me naked. I’ve gotten to the point where I trust (or hope) that you won’t be a huge churl afterward. I’m ready to accept the risks in order to get the payoff. To actually sleep with you, though, I have to be able to really relax around you. That’s trickier.

I’ve always been a finicky sleeper as it is. I have these preferences, you see. If possible, I like to have it cave dark and death quiet. When I was a lass, I used to stuff towels into the crack under the door to blot out the hall light until my dad explained that continuing this action would have the dual results of 1) decreasing my likelihood of being able to escape from a house fire in time to not die, and 2) buying me a swift and furious spanking. It took me over a year to get used to leaving my computer on all night, even in sleep mode, and I still often just turn it off. I own and scruple not to use ear plugs, when decibels  threaten. I generally sleep alone; my dog isn’t even invited to sleep with me. So I’m kind of that girl. Sure I can sleep with more light, some ambient noise, or with another body in the bed, but sometimes these factors make it a little tougher, especially if I don’t feel entirely comfortable with the other body.

Sex, now, that I’m always ready for.

It’s not that I’m scared that I’ll be bludgeoned to death while asleep or anything. It just takes a little more…something for me to be okay sleeping with someone. It’s almost like I can have sex on lust alone, but I have to like you to fall asleep with you.

Interestingly enough, I tend sleep very well with Laramy.

It’s kind of weird when you realize that you’ve been alone together with one of your sex partners precisely once, for about forty seconds, and that this time overlapped exactly none with the actual sex.