quizzical pussy

Thank you for trusting me with your confessions. Especially the really bizarre ones. But also the sweet ones, the wistful ones, the confessions from crisis and the lurid missives of lust. All of them, really.

I have no idea who you are, but your minds are delicious.

My boyfriend and I are doing some anal play, with an eventual goal of anal sex. Unfortunately he’s a rather girthy guy and the pretty little butt plug I bought simply doesn’t come close to approximating him. Yesterday we went to the toy shop and did some looking for an intermediate step, or something slightly larger than he is, to keep working toward our goal.

All I could think was how intimidating the buttplugs look! The ones with gradual girth increases are all slim enough to not be useful and the rest either get fat really fast or incorporate some shape that frankly looks scary as hell.

We wound up getting a silicone dong that starts about where the plug leaves off and has a very gentle girth increase until it qualifies me for his lovely cock, and then some.

Plus, it was way cheaper than the ” anal trainer ” toys.

Am I the only woman out there who doesn’t really care about the toys (although I thoroughly enjoy myself when we use them) except as a means to an end? I don’t want it to vibrate or oscillate or be beaded or engraved or whatever else those things were. I just want it to be what I need, a way to allow my body to adjust to the point where I can give my love something he really likes.

This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever read that incorporates the word “dong”. I hope your system is paying off in anal orgasms and a sex life that gets better by the day.

I’ve found myself in a crisis situation. I have to have strong vibrations to get off, and my vibrator just broke. I go to school in a tiny, rural town without a sex-toy shop. My credit card is still under my parent’s account, so I can’t use it to order a new one off the internet. And I won’t be in a big city again until Christmas break.

Hopefully you already found a replacement, but if this happens again, remember that Amazon has sex toys. Who would question an innocent bookstore charge on a credit card statement? All you ordered was a package of AA batteries to go with your, uh, kitten calendar. Yeah.

I have fancied a guy for a while now and when we see each other we tend to flirt a bit / a lot depending on the occasion. Last night I revved myself up for a good night out with him present and hoped I could take things a little further. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stay long and I ended up flirting with another guy I barely knew before.

Now I can’t decide what I want.

Well, I actually do know what I want. I want to keep flirting and kissing and snogging and possibly more both of them. At least for a little while. Because in the end, I still think I’m monogamous. But a girl’s gotta have some fun. With a little luck, they’ll both be up for some non-exclusive fun.

I have never been able to wrap my mind around people who expect exclusivity while casually dating, before making an explicit agreement to be exclusive.

Whenever I read confessions from married/attached people about having very infequent sex I think ”I can sympathize. I know exactly where you’re coming from” and then, invariably, they complain because they’re only having sex like once a week. OH the HORROR. You poor thing. What I wouldn’t give to have sex once a week. In the last 7 weeks I can count, on one hand, how many times we’ve had sex. In fact, I can count the number of times on one hand, that had a freak farming accident, and had 4 fingers amputated. So, quit bitching about your once a week sex life and consider yourself lucky. (but I’m not bitter).

I feel your pain. Intensely. In another week I’ll be able to count the sex I’ve had in the last seven weeks on zero hands. Which is good, I guess, because those hands are occupied with furiously fapping and flipping off my life.

Of course, if I ever get married or have a live-in partner again, I do hope it will be with someone who wants to bone more than once a week. I really and truly do.

I have developed a huge crush on a co-worker. She’s pretty much amazing, as far as I’m concerned. I sat in my meeting today imagining all things I want to do to her and all the hot girl sex we could be having. Her style is super edgy and I don’t know if I’m judging her personal sense of style (which is incredibly ”non-normative”) and applying that to other aspects of her personality or if I might be pegging her as possibly queer because I want her to be queer as a consequence of my super big crush. A part of me feels like a judgmental jerk. The other part is still super turned on. I’ve decided not to press the issue and actually find out her orientation. I think the fantasy would be ruined should I discover she’s super super straight.

Wait, let me get this straight: you feel like a judgmental jerk for having had your gaydar tripped?

You know what is a good remedy for guilt? Hot girl sex.

Hey, guys! Visit the Sex Confessional!

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So, I’ve been thinking. ConTuesday has, to my knowledge, never posted a confession featuring ghosts, werewolves, or Indiana Jones. Am I to suppose, then, that these things don’t exist?

We’ve had one or two about unicorns, though. That’s reassuring.

This week’s confessions:

I had an affair with a married man on a business trip. Emotionally he was just a friend with benefits (I don’t miss him or want more than friendship), but the sex was some of the best I ever had, and I can never tell anyone about how good it was, how sexy he was, how incredible that two-month affair was. God, it was good. I still see him at work, but we mutually agreed it was over and never to be spoken of again.

The most ironic part? He introduced me to his wife after the fact. She’s my best friend. Some days this bugs the shit out of me.

All that guilt, (possibly one-sided) awkwardness, potential drama, and no more best sex ever? Ethics aside, this is why cheating sucks.

So there’s this guy I met online– he lives about half the country away from me, but we really hit it off. We’ve been talking a lot– most of the day– and he’s been really nice, flirtatious, talking about sex, telling me I’m pretty and there aren’t a lot of girls like me. But he’s more experienced than the type of guy I usually go for (i.e. he’s hit on girls before) so I think if he REALLY liked me he would make some kind of move, and maybe he thinks the distance or the fact that we met on the Internet or my polyamory is a dealbreaker. Or maybe he’s this flirtatious with everyone and I’m building it up to be a big deal because I have a crush on him.

I know, I know, just fucking say it, what’s the worst that could happen, right?

He also mentioned a while ago that playing hard-to-get gets one more dates. Is this some kind of hint or something that he wants to chase me? Or is he just making conversation? I suck at hints, why can’t people just talk to each other?

I’m also stymied by the proper asking-someone-out method via the Internet. Do you send an email? Do you do it in chat? Maybe over Skype? (Does he even have Skype?)

Sorry for the marathon confession…

I bet I have a reader or six who have been in this situation, more or less, and perhaps they’ll have suggestions for you.

But really, email, chat, or Skype seems fine for confessing a crush. If I were into you too, I’d get all melty inside no matter which one you used. I doubt I’m alone in that.

So far the only thing I dislike about Roller Derby is that after practice my muscles hurt so much I can’t masturbate properly.

The sacrifices you make for being one of my fetishes! Thank you. A thousand times thank you.

I was watching a documentary featuring animator Nick Park creating a Wallace and Gromit film. It shows him working wtih the clay figures for the stop-motion animation and one little blob of clay was not quite doing what he wanted it to do. He sort of growled at it to ”do as you’re told” and I was instantly *wet*. ”Ooh, make me, Mr. Park. Pretty please?”

I like the way your mind works. That is all.

Have a confession, secret, boast, or lamentation? Give it to me.

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The other key, of course, is Pong.

If someone with a not too terribly impressive amount of judgment were to come to me and ask, face so straight and tone so earnest: “Quizzical Pussy, what’s the key to a good relationship?” my first priority would be to not snort while I was doing all the laughing. Really, the “I Make Wonderful Romantic Decisions, And In Case You Were Wondering, Yes, That’s Sarcasm” sash I was awarded in 2004 didn’t win itself.

And then I’d be tempted to say “blind luck” because that’s certainly how I’ve landed in the one I’m in. But then I’d give my real answer.

Inside jokes.

Yes, love and trust and patience. Absolutely. And fabulous sex usually doesn’t hurt either. But it’s harder to quantify those first three things, and sometimes even tricky to detect when they’re fading away. And the sex? It’s possible to have fabulous sex with someone you actively dislike.

But if you’re always laughing together at things that would elicit shrugs and eyebrow twitches from all the rest of humanity, you have this secret language. You’re each choosing to be in closed, joyous company, which in my experience is the last thing you want when you’re fundamentally unhappy with each other. In essence, inside jokes are an old magic that transports you to the island nation of Us, a place of moderate climate and ruthless border control. You are never dragged to Us, although you can often convince the other person you’re already there just by smiling and nodding politely. But there will still be an ocean between you.

And this isn’t just romantic relationships. Not at all. I never feel like I’m fully friends with someone until we have at least one inside joke together. We’re just on the shore, friendly together but sharing no homeland.

Maybe this is just me. I could be biased by the amazing sex Laramy and I had yesterday between spates of laughing at things that are sheer nonsense to everyone else. I could be placing too much value on laughter for this to apply to anyone but me. But that would be my answer anyway.

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You know how sometimes ConTuesday has a theme? Well, maybe this one does. If you can guess what it is, then you are probably right!

I used a vibrator for the first time this weekend. (I’m 22, female) I’m sure it’s related to the circumstances (college dorm with thin walls, minimal time due to roommate return, lack of practice/playing around, etc), but really? I wasn’t impressed. Any thoughts/advice?

Experiment! Preferably when you have a bit of privacy. Use it on your clit, use it for penetration (either penetrating yourself with it if it’s an insertable, or poising it against something you’re inserting), tease your labia with it, use it on your nipples, your perineum or ass. Use it while reading dirty stories; use it while watching porn. Use it while fantasizing about Wil Wheaton (maaaaybe). If nothing you try with it thrills you, maybe that’s not the toy for you. Maybe toys in general aren’t for you, in which case it’s a bummer that you wasted your money, but there are thousands of other ways to have fun with a pussy!

I’m going through a sexual crisis. I keep getting crushes on men. I THINK I’M TURNING HETEROSEXUAL.

…One’s straight friends are deeply unsympathetic when one starts freaking out about this.

Noooooooooooo Ladies are so fun do not forsake them!

While I was growing up, I genuinely thought I wasn’t having orgasms when I masturbated. Not that I wasn’t enjoying the end result, but it was around then that I had started reading about sex and orgasms online and based on what everyone was saying, I couldn’t possibly. It felt certainly like the end of things (or at least that round) but it felt way too short. Everyone was talking about 30 second orgasms or extending their orgasms by minutes. I can’t even imagine that! Now that I’m an adult, I know that they _are_ orgasms, and I enjoy them every bit as much (more, really). And everyone I’ve been with doesn’t really have orgasms longer than mine. So how do people come that long! I’ve tried the tricks suggested and it either ruins the moment or does nothing. I think I’ll just stay satisfied but always curious.

Once there was an H.B.O. Real Sex episode where they interviewed a couple about their workshop that taught men to give their female partners hour-long orgasms. It seemed like the process involved the lighting of many candles and meticulous grooming of fingernails. What else involves candles and fingernail clippings? Witchcraft, that’s what.

I’m not monogamous. I’m just temporarily not sleeping with other people.

I suppose I would fall into this category at the moment as well. Huh. Anyone wanna do it? No? Didn’t think so.

Whenever I date someone, we stop being able to talk about anything but sex. Should I stop fucking on the first date maybe, so we develop a firm nonsexual basis? But I don’t WANT to. I don’t want to deny myself pleasure. I just want my boyfriends to be able to talk about something other than how hot I am and how much they want to eat my pussy. Like movies or something! Movies are cool.

Date smarter people, I think. Smarter people with whom you have things in common. I’m guessing that if the conversation can peter out that easily it probably wasn’t a strong point to the relationship in the first place.

I’ve never been able to have healthy romantic sexual relationships. Either I’m terrified of being simply used or terrified that the person I love will tire of using me if I get too complicated.

I think everyone is afraid of this. I, at least, can relate to it. I always think that everyone’s either tired of me, in the process of getting tired of me, or at risk of starting to tire of me if I make one wrong move. So I don’t have any advice, except maybe to date smarter people. Smarter people with whom you have things in common. Smarter people who are smart enough to realize what you’re worth, and don’t need you to be uncomplicated because they aren’t so simple themselves.

Now you! You send me a sex secret!

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A couple winters ago I was on a notdate (you know, that social expedition that no one has defined as a date, but it’s pretty clear that at least one of you wouldn’t mind it going in that general direction) with a guy whom, I was certain by the end, I definitely wanted to not date. He wasn’t good-looking (in a general consensus sense), but, though I wasn’t blind to that, it also didn’t particularly bother me. He also seemed to have a lot of mental health issues. It happens. The real problem was, the more we hung out together, the more a striking resemblance developed in his features and expressions to a chick I often, to this day, have trouble standing. There’s no harm in her, and I’m disposed to be civil toward her because she’s married to a friend, but hers isn’t the face I want to see poised on the prow of a guy who wants to do me. It surprised me how deeply and utterly this resemblance bothered me.

Our conversation quality was fair; I usually have no trouble talking at length to anyone who can even pretend to comprehend English, and I think that put him at ease. I felt that we could easily be friends as long as a) he didn’t mind that idea and b) things didn’t get tragically awkward. The face thing that would murder my peace in a paramour I could easily deal with in a platonic way.

After a movie and some wandering while talking, we ended up in my car in the mall parking lot. I was going to drive him to his car since I have V.I.P. cripple parking. Snow drifts rose up where swaths of parking spaces should’ve been, and it was snowing gently, and he kissed me.

And it was awful.

I try to be accommodating, so I went with it, although at the beginning my involvement was no better than half-hearted (and actually a good deal less). There was absolutely no firmness or pressure in his lips or tongue, no apparent rhyme or reason to what those parts were doing, and his breath lingered on the unfortunate side of middling. Every second of horrible making out that ensued made me more and more miserable, and less and less sure of how to stop it without hurting his feelings. Just then, Untrust Us by Crystal Castles started playing, and it struck me all of a sudden what a terrible waste all this was. The veil of falling snow, the dark sky against the white hills, the warmth of my car’s heater in that ocean of cold, and that lovely, delicate song all conspired to create such an amazing atmosphere for those first fragile touches that, when they’re good, are so very, very good. It could’ve been so sweet, so… not awful, such a pretty memory. As it was, not so much. Maybe someday my mind will erase annoying-friend-faced-bad-kisser guy and slot someone more eligible into that recollection.

I still like that song anyway, though.

(image source)

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Recently one of my Facebook friends posted the following status update: “Smile, it makes people wonder what you’re thinking.” It’s another quote in a long line of hackneyed “folksy wisdom” gems he’s read or heard somewhere, and just had to share. But even as folksy wisdom goes, this advice is really atrocious.

I can think of countless reasons to smile: a friend’s face, the sun on your skin, the elation of running and jumping and climbing trees, remembering that puppies exist, or getting a new sex toy in the mail, just to name a few. But just to get a reaction from people, to seem more intriguing? Booooooooooring. I can get behind smiling out of friendliness, or to put people at ease, but this stupid cliche goes a step too far. It’s “I want people to think of me in a certain way, so I’ll disingenuously alter my behavior.”

This, gentle reader, is why we can’t have nice things.

Cilfton Overmangle texted me out of the blue recently to ask if three days was still the customary amount of time to wait to call a girl after getting her number (I don’t know why I’m the person he asks, but whatever. I’m here to help, I guess…) I wasn’t trying to be glib in the least when I responded that he should simply call her when it was convenient for him to talk and he would care to have a conversation with her. Has anyone not heard of the “three day” rule? And doesn’t it seem contrived and a touch desperate-not-to-seem-desperate when you can tell someone has purposely waited exactly three days to call? I’m not the mayor of dating or anything, but even my commitment-phobic ass couldn’t muster up a speck of contempt for someone calling me on days one, two, or four, especially if a decent conversation arose from it.

It strikes me that conventional wisdom encourages us too much to fake things, to play games with each other for social rewards. The fact that there’s a “rule” of how many days to wait before calling an individual with a pulse and a mother and unique thoughts and experiences betrays such cynacism. And you know if Quizzical Pussy is calling you on your cynicism you’ve gone too far.

That’s my major issue with Pick Up Artistry: it couldn’t be less like art. Art is human, individualistic, all about sharing a unique and fallible perspective. It’s against homogeneous rules; it runs counter to a jaded, cookie-cutter approach to people and the world. Hell, even if an artist is expressing a misanthropic point of view, the act of creation itself is the opposite of cynical.

In fact, the “art” referred to in PUA is more just at odds with being “artless”, in the sense that has positive connotations of sincerity and being unaffected.

Instead of embracing the natural, PUAs (and girls that follow The Rules or whatever the kids are calling it these days, or other con artists) devote themselves to running through life like it’s a role-playing game. And the person you’re trying to date isn’t even the princess you need to save or a member of your party. Your “target” is just another monster to vanquish on your way to your goal. So if you don’t get results with one chick, you just need to beef up your stats, or else you threw the dice wrong and luck just wasn’t on your side. Either way, you’ll encounter lots of HB9s on this level, so you’re cool… you’ll get the next one. How is it a good idea to treat a potential partner like a non-player character? Like ultimately, they don’t matter.

There has to be a better way to deal with rejection than dehumanizing people. Can’t a person not want to fuck you, yet remain fully human? Can’t social interactions be more about discovery and less about achievements? Can’t you just relax and see where and with whom you fit naturally, without trying to force perceptions and opinions you can’t control? Can’t you just smile because you feel like it, call when you want to, and acknowledge that if you’re playing a game, we’re all in it together and probably actually all on the same team?

(image source)


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