ConTuesday may be coming late today, but it has not forsaken us. I was just really tired from an exciting, dehydrated day at an amusement park and I scheduled it wrong. Oops! Here are the anonymous internet confessions you may have been expecting, and certainly deserve.

P.S. I’m chatty again in this one.

When he was young, my boyfriend was bi-curious, and he experimented a bit. His experiments showed him that he was definitely straight, but he said that the one thing he did enjoy was sucking cock – he just wished it hadn’t been attached to a guy. Ever since he told me, it’s haunted my fantasies. Sometimes, when my boyfriend is going down on me, I imagine that I’ve got a cock that he’s sucking, and that he’s being pounded up the ass by my guy best friend. I know they’d both be freaked out and upset if they knew about my fantasies, but it gets me off every time.

I can’t help thinking that the average hetero guy who learns that his female partner has/had bi tendencies has a very similar reaction, and no one ever seems all that shocked. Double standards!

While studying abroad, I fell hard for a boy on my program. He even goes to my college back home. But he doesn’t want to be in a polyamorous relationship, and I already have a girlfriend, so that’s just non-negotiable for me. We had sex for perhaps the last time last night, what with me going home in four days, and the ache in my pussy and jaw (we do last-time sex right, dammit!) is serving as a constant, depressing reminder. So I’m self-medicating with ice cream and Mad Men.

Ouch, that sucks. Hope you’re feeling better by now. Christina Hendricks always cheers me up.

Sometimes I feel like I know too much about sex toys. I just found out via Facebook that somebody from my high school is hosting Temptation parties (those Tupperware-but-for-toys parties), so I went to her blog and checked out her product list. It’s all jelly toys, which I feel obligated to warn people about anyway, but to make it worse, her blog also announced that she’s pregnant. I feel guilty about not warning her about the birth defects linked to jelly toys, but I just don’t know her well enough to say anything!

I’m not sure if there’s such a thing as knowing too much about sex toys, unless of course the mystery somehow dies and they no longer inspire passion. That might be close to too much. But yeah, jelly toys are varying degrees of a bad idea for most of us, folks.

I’ve always felt filthy and ashamed of myself for having any kind of sexual desire for as long as I can remember. I’ve always thought of myself as ugly and unloveable. I’m never in my own fantasies. A friend suggested I read some of the sex blogs, and I started to, for once, feel like maybe I wasn’t so bad after all.

Then I read far enough back to find that none of the acceptance applies to us furries.

One of the things that I challenge myself with in writing this blog is trying to portray myself honestly, insofar as an anonymous blog allows for that. I’m insecure and flawed. I make terrible decisions sometimes. Odd thoughts blindside me and I run with them. Oh, and I have an irrational fear of most anthropomorphic animals. And then I’m a jerk about people that like them. I’m working on accepting furries more. And, you know, I really am glad if that’s what makes you happy, or gets you off, or makes you comfortable. It’s just something I as an entirely imperfect person have issues with. I also can’t watch Yogi Bear cartoons. Please don’t let me being an asshole about the stuff you’re into make you feel worse about yourself. You can go ahead and be pissed about it, of course, if that was more the subtext.

Confess everything here!

This ConTuesday has several sorts of anonymous confessions to sample: transgressive, triumphant, murky, and really kind of gut-wrenching.

While I was married to my first wife, I had an affair with her sister, that lasted about a year. In all honesty, I should have stayed with the sister, life would have been much better. One night, I butt-fucked my SIL, and then went upstairs, and woke up my wife, and had her give me a blow job. What made it even more weird was that my SIL stood in the hallway and masturbated while she watched us.

I recently discovered that if I apply really strong pressure to my clitoris as I’m orgasming, the climax keeps going for an extra thirty seconds or so. I wish it was socially acceptable to share these sorts of little personal triumphs with the world at large, but it’s not, so I’ll share it with you.

You know how something will randomly pop into your head and you’ll think “I have to remember to look this up on the internet later”, but you don’t have a smart phone and you every time– without fail– forget to look it up when you’re actually on a computer? Well, in a similar vein, I keep meaning to try this!

Boy, you are very cute and you have a tophat, which is always a plus. However, you violate the xkcd rule, so despite your flirting I doubt we shall ever have a relationship. …Maybe making out. But that is definitely the limit here.

If I wear top hat will you make out with me? I’m just curious here.

I confessed here before my boyfriend barely touches me. He’s doing such a great job convincing me he doesn’t find me attractive, that I’m starting to find him less attractive… I go to get my nethers waxed and think sadly how I’ll keep paying for this because at least twice a month, I know someone will touch me below the waist.

If I wear a top hat will you let me give you a big hug? Because this confession really makes me want to.

Send in your anonymous confessions using this convenient form! Make haste!

I’ve never (literally never, which is probably weird at my age and player level) given nor solicited a phone number at a random pick-up spot. Flirting from a stranger always shuts me down right away. I know it’s terribly rude, but I don’t mean it that way. I’m just a shrinking violet. Really, ask anyone! (Okay, not really. But I really do hit a brick wall when it comes to flirting.)

But the fact is that with the cell phone number of a near-stranger I’d be tempted to send disturbing, creepy text messages, like “You’re painfully beautiful when you sleep,” and “We’re almost out of milk.” Because at that point in the possible courtship you really have nothing to lose and can really fuck with someone. And I’m afraid that it would seem like a perfectly good idea at the time!

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Hopeless tool of the patriarchy that I am, I just don’t like having very much pubic hair. I’ve been shaving to various degrees since I was sixteen, even though no one was helping me enjoy it until two years after that. It’s a tactile thing: I like feeling smoothness when I play with myself; I don’t want hair dampening sensation. To me, a shaved pussy doesn’t look much– if at all– better, and as long as I can sort out what’s where I don’t mind other people maintaining a healthy bush themselves.

But I’ve always had different standards for myself than I have for others. That’s why I feel confident saying you’re a degenerate for reading this smut.

In the realm of pussyshaving, though, you know what I hate? Razor burn. I hate it with the passion that we reserve for those who disagree with our politics and cut in front of us in line. It itches, and looks ugly, and sometimes even hurts (especially if you try to shave over it). I’m going out on a limb and guessing that every person who’s ever seen me naked, and not mentioned a razor burn that I had at all, didn’t exactly swoon over it either. I only fuck the brave, oblivious and/or polite, apparently.

Because, you see, I tend to get it a lot. Those chicks with gorgeously naked genitals swathed in silky, flawless skin? I’m not sure what they’re doing but I suspect they’re not shaving. Or maybe they are, and my skin is even more sensitive and fussy than I thought. Or I’m a Oh God I’m a freak of nature, aren’t I?

Bikini Zone cream has always helped the issue, but I accidentally transferred it from my hands to my lips after applying once, and the taste is not something you want on your pussy unless you’ve utterly despaired of getting oral sex that day. So there went that solution.

It’s actually been a lot better lately because I’m following the rule of only shaving with the grain of hair growth, which I used to think was for pussies. It turns out that it really, truly is, and should be observed accordingly. I’m also shaving a little less often (mostly because I’m exhausted and therefore not as precious about my bush these days), and conscientiously applying coconut oil after shaving.

Still, based on the recommendation of some head-shaving friends, I’m wondering if a safety razor is actually a gentler, superior shave, or just makes them feel like fancy gentlemen. Also, if this stuff works.

ConTuesday is here, and it’s all about creative problem solving. Here are some innovative anonymous confessions from mysterious denizens of the internet:

As quite an overtly sexual, somewhat kinky type, I’m often attracting shocked/disdainful/disapproving looks from passers by, when sneaking betwixt clubs and hotels and whatnot.

When I receive such a look, I really enjoy (despite almost never finding the person attractive) vividly imagining the giver of the look and myself engaged in the filthiest sexual practice I can come up with at the time, then making eye contact and imagining how they’d feel if they knew what I was thinking.

I’m increasingly unsure if this is hilarious or genuinely sinister.

I’m a rather closeted bisexual-sex-fiend and there are no sex toy stores near me, thus explaining my lack of dildos. I use mascara tubes after they’re done. My fravourite is Lash Max by Maybelline ;D

Now I’m wondering if those vibrating mascaras would be any good.

I cheated on my boyfriend. Three times so far (all with the same guy). The first two times I just gave him head, but the third time we had sex. I really don’t like the guy I’m cheating with, but his cock is really fabulous so I keep wanting to do it even though I know I shouldn’t and really don’t want to except for the awesome sex. I wish my boyfriend gave me as awesome sex, then I wouldn’t still be waiting the other guy.

My husband and I have an “open marriage”. My husband fucks like a porn star but he kisses me like I’m his 90 year old Aunt. Kissing is just about my favorite thing to do, so much so that I’d rather make-out with someone than get oral. If he’d kiss me half as passionately as he fucks, I’d have no need for other men.

If only partners were modular and you could upgrade just one thing. Of course, people have been saying that since time began. Great sex and kissing are pretty great, though. I will have one of each, size large.

Have something to share? Give it to me.

This week all of the confessions are just a little more meta than usual. Enjoy!

Last week’s FWB confession made me want to confess this: Sometimes I hope that my former FWB’s current girlfriend will leave him after the kid is born… they’re only together because she’s pregnant, and I really miss his dick…

In relation to your post on penetration. I’m a guy who enjoys the occasional “pegging” by his girlfriend. And I do not feel particularly dominated by the experience. I asked for it, the first time we did it, and it always feels like I’m perverting her, that I am, in essence, controlling and dominating and corrupting her; she never gets off on it, although she comes close. It’s not the case, though, as she quite enjoys it; this had been a fantasy of hers for almost precisely the reasons mentioned in the article – the idea of domination. So we’re both feeling like we’re dominating and corrupting the other. The more confessional part? I haven’t really told her how I feel about it because I’m pretty sure it would lessen her enjoyment of the experience that I’m still feeling in control of the situation.

I’m challenging myself to send in 1 confession a week, even if it means creating adventures just to have something to send in each week.

You’re pretty much the coolest ever.

That doctor who chopped up little girls makes me sick, but Truth: my girlfriend’s clitoris is too big for my taste. I’ve not mentioned it to her,  I definitely don’t want her to be self-conscious about it. It still weirds me out and effects my attraction level. I know part of loving someone is realizing that those details aren’t important in the big picture, but it’s a turn off anyway. And I feel bad about it.

Why don’t you go have an adventure and then tell me about it?

Today's post isn't really about sex. But this makes up for it, no?

I was born in the United States, and that’s where I live. Today is Independence Day here. It commemorates not any victory or truce, but simply the intention to stop being a trodden-upon colony. This is kind of like celebrating your anniversary with a paramour on the day you first admitted you wanted to fuck each other rather than the day you actually did for the first time. Which is fine, really, just an interesting choice that becomes completely meaningless unless there’s some decisive follow-through. Which, in the case of the Declaration of Independence, there was. It was called the Revolutionary War.

I’m somewhat conflicted as a U.S. citizen. It always feels awkward that there’s not a proper word for us. “American” is desperately broad and kind of pushy, as if the manifest destiny myth gives us the right to claim ourselves the sole possessors of all flavors and varieties of Americas, some of which are entire continents. Sure, “America” in this case is just shorthand for “United States of America”, and no one else seems to need it as much as we do (try saying United Statesian. It just doesn’t work), but it bothers me anyway. Other things bother me more profoundly. Our country was never, even once, all integrity and liberty and pie. The United States government and its citizens systematically slaughtered and displaced the people of sovereign native nations to get us where we are today. They enslaved and exploited those people and so many others for generations. No ends justify those means.

I don’t believe our founding fathers were infallible or indefatigably noble. I don’t think that they necessarily planned for “all men are created equal” to mean seriously fucking everyone someday. They were, as we are, products of their era and culture, and that means they had some pretty shitty ideas about plenty of subjects. Instead of perfect intentions and godlike wisdom (or even the moral high ground), though, they gave us wonderful promises and forged them into law. That’s their beautiful legacy.

What I love about my home are the promises it was built on. Those flawed men gave us the framework to grow into an honest, fair, and free society, or as close as we’re likely to ever get. I intensely believe this, and it makes me grateful and yes, proud.

But just because those promises were made doesn’t mean they’re automatically kept. I don’t just think, I observe that we’re not as free as we think we are in this country. Votes become increasingly difficult to verify as paper ballots are phased out. Appointing corporate lobbyists to White House cabinet and advisory positions has become de rigueur. People are lining up to hand in their reproductive rights, relinquish free speech (funny how limiting someone else’s rights also compromises your own), and to thwart the one provision in the Constitution that seems designed to give us a fighting chance if everything goes irretrievably to hell. We’re losing cherished friends, family, and compatriots in two interminable wars that most of us don’t seem to believe in. Our president, who was stridently opposed to the Patriot Act while he was campaigning, recently extended it by a year, and was met with precious little outrage.

The government can do bad things. It will sometimes try to do them in secret. There are recorded, admitted instances where this has happened in the past. So I have to ask, has any government in history ever cleaned up its act and restored its integrity on its own, without a coup, a war, or at least the undeviating insistence of an incensed public? What makes us think a government that, for example, covertly performed mind-control experiments on many of its citizens without their informed consent mere decades ago can be trusted today?

And yet, apathy thrives. Helplessness encroaches.

I realize that everyone has a different vision of the ideal America (mine has a lot of naked frolicking). I don’t know the answers to everything, and I’m not pretending to. I just feel very strongly that no good can come from a nation’s citizens having fewer rights and sitting idly by while more important promises are broken. Even if you’re not using all your rights or you don’t particularly like some of them, aren’t they… I dunno… kind of nice to have? Just in case?

My fellow United Statesians, have a great Independence Day. See fireworks. Grill meat (or tofu, if you’re kinky like that) over fire. Celebrate your state’s relaxed sodomy laws. Do something outdoors. Our nation is beautiful and you have every right to love it. But today I feel bound to remind myself that freedom isn’t something you’re necessarily born with and get to keep. That’s the way it should be, in a perfect world, but in reality freedom can be taken away at any time. That’s when you have to decide whether or not you’re going to declare your intentions to fight for it. And then, fucking follow through.

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.

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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.

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My friend Crispin Hijanx selected three women to stand up with him at his wedding. He also selected a woman to marry, cause that’s just what our state is like these days! His best friendships really are with women, and he tends to loathe rigid gender boundaries, so it makes perfect sense for him to have groomschicks. Of course, in terms of the bachelor party I’m not sure if his selection was unfortunate or ingenious.

We groomschicks are determined to throw one hell of a party, but we’re a little handicapped by the fact that none of us has ever been invited to a bachelor party before, so while we know the movie-style ideas of what bachelor parties are “supposed” to be, we don’t have vast libraries of experience to draw from. And Crispin isn’t even interested in “hired strippers”, he says, so we have to get creative from scratch: no strip clubs, no boozing, nothing stereotypical. Did I mention that Crispin hates being stereotypical?

So I’ve been running around like an energy-impaired chicken with its head cut off lately trying to help plan this shindig. It threatens to be pretty fun, too. We’ve had lots of good ideas that reek of Crispin, but there’s one that makes me especially nervous. See, not too long ago, one of Crispin’s friends was getting married and he, along with a few other male friends, agreed to strip for her bachelorette party. I don’t think it’s mere happenstance that Crispin has mentioned this factoid about three thousand and six times since his engagement.

When you get to the point where you realize that one of your oldest close friends is asking you to take your clothes off in honor of his impending nuptials, what do you do, punk? In light of the fact that I’m terribly naked shy, my solution is to start with many clothes and end up with significantly fewer, but still some.

In stripping, is it still the thought that counts?