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Posts Tagged ‘experiments’
19 Sep

That was a real nice clambake

Of course this is relevant. I'm insulted you even ask.

Thursday night. Just another chain restaurant at the tail end of the dinner rush. But what lurked there beneath the preformed burgers? What waited just beyond the salad bar sneeze guard? Pulsing debauchery. Desires dark and unspeakable. People everywhere, naked under their clothes! And munching. Yes! Munching!

I don’t mean to alarm you, but there’s a chance this is happening in your city too. I wonder sometimes if anyone even bothers to please, think of the children!

And of course by all this I mean that I made it to my first munch last week. The table was easy to find in the sense that it was in a detached section marked “reserved” that was literally right next to the entrance. I didn’t see a non-kinky diner all night, even by accident. It was a relief not to have to do any pervert profiling on-the-spot.

Everyone was friendly and welcoming as Laramy and I walked in. At a glance, they didn’t look like what I expected. I expected it to look like a gathering of the Sci Fi nerds I tend to hang out with, which would mean mostly nerds, many in nerd-themed t-shirts, probably (as Holly pointed out in comments) a lot of black clothing, some unnatural hair colors, and at least one guy wearing a hoodie with the sleeves cut off1. These people didn’t look like that. They just looked like regular people having dinner at T.G.I. Appletuesday & Erma’s. Every time I try to form one nice, modest little stereotype, you non-me people ruin it. What gives?

Everyone else seemed to know one another well, and were seated at a long table. Laramy and I sat down at the free end. The munch organizer immediately visited us there, and gave us a little information about a BDSM education group the munch is affiliated with. As a curious kink novice, this has me very interested.

Then our friends came in, and everyone ordered food, and we didn’t get a chance to officially meet most of the group, and I didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of “these are my people and this is my tribe”, per se, but that would probably be sort of like finding your soul mate on your first blind date ever, or something.

Bottom line: BDSM community, you are promising. I shall forge ahead.

(image source)

  1. He knows who he is. []
15 Sep

One munch, please. Size large.

I’m planning to attend my first munch this evening. I’ve wanted to start infiltrating the local BDSM scene for a while now, ever since I noticed a curious dearth of dorky pale chicks with crazy hair in same, an oversight I am all too happy to correct because it will hopefully eventually get me spankings and other lovely things.

Actually, let’s be honest. No local BDSM scene anywhere, to my knowledge, lacks dorky pale chicks with crazy hair, but currently none of them are me. I find that alarming. Rest easy, local kinksters. Help is on the way, coming to a bar and grill chain in your area! Tonight!

Eep. Tonight.

I have no idea what to expect. Social gatherings can be crackling, intoxicating for me, or they can drain all the color out of the room. In a new situation it’s so often a gamble which will happen. Is it going to be awkward or like stumbling upon a chattering of old, favorite-hoodie-comfortable friends? Maybe some of them will be even be sexy and enticing in an awkward, or friendly, way. Maybe not so much…

But I’m reasonably sure there will be a salad bar. So we have that going for us. And I’ve got Laramy and a couple friends coming, so it can’t get too terribly awkward as long as I have three people to hide behind. Overall, I think I’ll be glad we went.

My only real and unrelenting concern, though, is how do we find the table? Do we say we’re with the local munch when we reach the restaurant’s host stand? That doesn’t seem right, somehow. Everyone will be in casual clothing, so it’s not like I can scan the dining area for fetish gear. Maybe there’s a password and I don’t know it.

Fuck it. It’s probably “Batman”. Let’s do this.

(image source)

08 Sep

Hair fracture

It is, objectively speaking, what dead wigs hope they’ll become every time a bell rings. It’s long and layered, wavy, two different shades of blue, and just vampy as fuck. Worth every penny I paid. I’ve never worn it out of the house, but I’ve taken crappy webcam pictures with it on, and when I look at them there’s something strange and unsettling about them.

The girl in the pictures isn’t me. To be perfectly honest, she’s sexy.

It isn’t just her long, blue tresses, although she has mindbogglingly fabulous hair. There’s more to her allure. Framed by that tide, the landscape of her face is no detestable nation. Her waist nips in and her curves bloom out in ways I appreciate. Her skin looks soft and her lips sweet and kissable. At the risk of sounding horribly narcissistic here, she’s actually kind of my type as long as I forget she’s me.

I’ve been clean through a rainbow and yards of hair over the years, and I’ve had a lot of different looks, but somehow I’ve never looked quite like I do in that wig. I guess the biggest difference is that when I wear it I don’t feel like me at all. I’m someone different. Different enough, at least, to stop maniacally tallying the dark circles under my eyes and stretch marks and 15 lbs I wouldn’t mind losing instead of looking. Really looking.

And I don’t hate what I see again until the wig comes off. How fucked up is that? How perfectly normal.

(image source)

01 Aug

Clothes make the what now?

Remember that bra color meme on Facebook? Okay, actually, I’ll probably have to back up for some of you. Remember when Facebook was a thing?

Early last year a bunch of people started posting random colors as their Facebook status, and it turned out they were referring to what colors their bras were. And it turned out that was for breast cancer awareness! Surprise!

I don’t know how effective this exercise was, mostly because I’m pretty sure most people are aware of breast cancer and are more or less against it. If it caused just one person to donate to breast cancer research, or prompted one person to start doing regular self-exams, or started one person on the path to learning potentially life-saving facts about early diagnosis, or anything along those lines, though, I’m all for it.

But something occurred to me the other day when sex education activist and Scarleteen founder Heather Corinna tweeted this link, an article from the Duke Journal of Gender Law & Policy that covers sexual harassment/assault, and what survivors were wearing. From the article (also quoted in Heather’s tweet): “While people perceive dress to have an impact on who is assaulted, studies of rapists suggest that victim attire is not a significant factor.” In fact, it may even be the contrary. The article goes on to say, “Instead, rapists look for signs of passiveness and submissiveness, which, studies suggest, are more likely to coincide with more body-concealing clothing.”

The cliche, of course, is the woman in the tiny skirt and the low-cut top who, essentially, sickeningly, people seem to think got what she was asking for. Now, I don’t think anyone is about to run amok with the above quoted statement and start telling women not to wear long skirts and Cosby sweaters lest they appear like they’re looking for trouble. That would be preposterous. I think the key takeaway here, for anyone missing it, is that whenever you’re tempted to blame someone for getting raped, you should shut your fucking mouth, take your fingers off your fucking keyboard, and think again.

Repeat as needed.

This is the awareness I’d like spread. And as I was thinking that, I remembered the bygone bra meme, and I wondered something. What if all the rape survivors with access to social media did something similar. What if we all posted what we were wearing when we were sexually assaulted? Would the world learn anything? Would people finally realize that in all the jeans and hoodies, microdresses, niqabs, soccer uniforms, Comme des Garçons couture, vinyl bra sets, three-piece suits, pajamas, and polo shirts, there is really only one constant: there was always, always a rapist nearby.

I’m not suggesting we actually do this. On most social networks it would mean potentially letting all your family, friends, and acquaintances know something very personal and raw, and I’m not sure I’m up to that myself. But still, I think it would be interesting, and I wonder what would happen, if it would make any difference in the way people see sexual assault. I’d like to think it would. I’d like to think that when faced with enough truth people eventually have to stop being assholes. But, you know, you’d also think that when a sex blogger is faced with enough truth about assholes she’d eventually stop being naive, and that might never happen either.

Still. Jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

(image source)

15 Jul

So floggers?

Serving suggestion.

Turns out they’re not nearly as scary as I thought they’d be. But they do make me awfully giggly…

(image source)

05 Apr

ConTuesday! Toys are tools

I’m at the point where I get kind of surprised when I learn that a woman doesn’t own a sex toy. I don’t call that jaded, though, I call it optimistic. I wish I could say the same for men, but far fewer guys of my acquaintance have (or admit to having) toys, so it rather pleasantly surprises me when a man tells me he has one.

I realize sex toys aren’t for everyone. They’re just so fun, though! Tech nerds like to compare their gadgets, I like to talk about which sleeve, vibe, or fetish gear you like best.

So inevitably, I like to read confessions that deal with all that stuff. It’s a sex toy ConTuesday!

I just dropped almost a hundred bucks on a Lelo Siri! It’s charging now, and I can’t wait to try it! (And I just called my boyfriend and left him a message regarding the same. . .)

Do you love it? I still love mine. It is my absolute, number one go-to masturbatory aid, not counting Natalie Dormer.

I bought my wife our first toy for Valentines Day…The Lilo Irus. There was no fireworks the first time out, but we sure had fun.

It was such a turn on to hear ”I wonder what it feels like inside?” Not to mention the sight of it moving to and fro, in and out. I can’t wait to have her wiggling and twitching with me at the controls, or to catch her using it alone ;-)

Another LELO! I am not one for too much brand loyalty, but goddamn it do I ever want more of their toys.

Sometimes it takes a little while to warm up to a toy. Or sometimes, like with people, you have to try a few before one can really hit the right spots. Hope you guys found your fireworks. Trying new things isn’t just what marriages crave (from what I, single filer who should do her taxes already, have heard), but it’s also so much fun!

I’m a guy, I love sex and masturbation. My sex life is good, but my personal time is amazing! I enjoy things that I don’t feel very comfortable sharing with my current partner. (I’m not even sure I’ll find one who would make me that secure)

One of my dark secrets is hot wax, Until tonight I hadn’t used it in probably a good 6 years. Laying in bed, candle lit I tried to remember how hot it would be. Was it going to be too much now? When my partner gets home will she smell the scented candle? Maybe she’ll discover a stray wax droplet somewhere and ask questions…

On a dark-secret kink scale of zero to you’ve-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me-I’m-filing-a-restraining-order, I sure wouldn’t divide by hot wax. I don’t know about the safety of playing with regular candles, whose wax gets a lot hotter than dedicated sexy candles manufactured just for wax play, but I’m assuming (and hoping) you do as an experienced practitioner.

I can’t tell just by reading if you’re worried your partner will learn your secret, or simply want a way to invite her into your wax play, or both. If you want to share the fun with your partner, may I suggest a gateway drug? That thing’s about as intimidating as a Persian kitten.

I’m obsessed with the idea of using a sex swing with my fiance. He’s agreed, and we have one ordered… who wouldn’t want to use grown-up playground equipment for nefarious ends? My confession is, I consider that the first in a sequence of baby steps toward my ultimate obsession. I REALLY want to rig it with a pulley system so he can pull me off his cock and drop me back down while I beg for mercy. I’m picturing an interrogation scene where I go from reluctant to depraved as the sex progresses.

He reads your blog, I’m hoping he’ll read this. That’s one of the baby steps!!!

Oh, I see. Using the sacred trust that is ConTuesday for your little passive-aggressive games, are we?

And who wouldn’t want to see grown-up playground equipment desecrated? Really? I guess your elementary school didn’t have any paraprofessionals patrolling recess time. Well, they oppose playground fun in all its forms and age ranges, and I assure you they are not smiling.

Just fucking with you. I support your dream, your baby steps, and your fantasy, which I’m pretty sure I saw approximated once in a samurai movie or something. I agree, it sounds delightful! Just remember to test the pulleys ridiculous amounts before your maiden voyage. Good luck, you crazy kids!

Got a secret? Let’s turn it into a confession.

09 Feb

Lady trouble

There is really nothing like having yet another two-week period (while on the pill) for tempting one to finally break down and buy a fucking DivaCup. I swear I am this close. Unless someone talks me down I’m going full hippie.

In other news, I officially feel like a failure at period sex. Apparently it sometimes doesn’t feel as good as usual on the penis end of things.

But see, if my vagina isn’t mindblowing every time, I honestly just don’t even know who I am anymore! I’m going to blame my current existential crisis on my uterus.

Fucking uterus. Bitch doesn’t even need lining anyway.

29 Nov

Fuck-crossed (Pt. 1)

I think a lot of us live in fear that the sex will dry up for us, and we’ll be left horny, frustrated, and humping furniture. Or maybe it’s just me. My first relationship set a precedent for that: at some point Reginald Sleeth just stopped wanting to touch me, and that damaged our longevity and my self-esteem almost as much as all the abuse did, if indeed in our case one can completely separate the two.

I still don’t understand how it happened. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that everything Reginald found challenging and attractive in my personality had withered away by that point. Maybe he’d mentally moved on to his next victim. Maybe he’d been faking everything sexual with me and got tired of humoring me. Maybe finally having vaginal intercourse was too great a turn-off to recover from. Whatever made the sex die, I’m glad now that it did because it made it easier to walk away, but it was devastating at the time.

But my second relationship wasn’t exactly validating either, and brought up the question of whether it’s worse for the sex to dry up, or to have to keep wondering why it never got around to getting damp in the first place.

Perhaps Aldo Melastophilus and I shouldn’t have started dating. We were so great as friends. Our conversations popped with absurdity and hilarity in ample and equal parts. We could spend hours doing art projects together like six-year-olds, or have super serious time discussions about the sociopolitical wisdom that Opeth songs held for dinosaurs, if dinosaurs were to still exist and like death metal. We got along famously. It didn’t bother me that he was also very good looking. I’m open minded like that.

Then one day he walked me to my car after an evening together, and lunged forward to kiss me. Which was very surprising indeed, but I regrouped eventually and we kissed a little more.

Eventually we evolved into regular making out, but not significantly fewer art projects. After our early progress, it seemed like I was doing all the escalating. I was the one to introduce his hands to the concept of potentially interesting things being present under my shirt. Eventually I removed my shirt, and then later my bra. I put my hands down his pants. I put his hands down my pants. I may have given him his first blow job, and I could tell– like some kind of disappointed sixth sense– that I was the first girl he tried giving oral sex to. He didn’t seem to dislike any of these activities, but damned if they weren’t always my idea.

This sexually forward person I’m telling you about really doesn’t sound like me, does it?

The first time we tried having penis-in-vagina sex (on my initiative, naturally) it was awkward. His bed was lofted and he’s almost a foot taller than I am. Add inexperience squared to those key facts, and there was no immediately obvious solution as to how to configure our bodies to make our genitals match up correctly. I think we just ended up on the floor, or possibly his computer chair, which I remember us breaking somehow either then or on another attempt. He got inside me, but went soft soon after.

A word on losing your boner: it’s really, really not a big deal. Until it is. First time pressure to perform is just too great? Understandable. Stressed lately? These things happen. You swear this never happens to you? Let’s just cuddle. It’s really not the end of the world, although I would respectfully like to remind you that you still have fingers and I still have needs. But when it happens every time there’s a problem, and that problem is my ego.

Turned out, Aldo could keep wood all the way to orgasm when I gave him oral sex, but not so much when my vagina came into the picture. We just failed at having vaginal intercourse every damn time. I don’t think we ever rode that pony for more than a minute or two, tops, before his erection faded. And he never, ever came when we were fucking. After many failures I quite naturally concluded, as any reasonable person might do, that my pussy was repulsive and that I was probably also disgusting in every other way that matters. I slipped into a sadly resigned stone approach: forgetting about being touched; just trying to give him orgasms and abandoning any idea of my own.

Of course we were doomed. I’m not saying that stone/pillow queen relationships can’t work, but when I am part of us and that’s what we’re doing, we’re doomed. So very doomed. Doomed doomed doomed. He was embarrassed, I was frustrated, and eventually we just stopped calling each other. Much later he told me that he’d been slipping into a clinical depression at the time.

“It wasn’t you; it was me,” he confided.

“I can not believe you just retroactively it’s-not-you-it’s-me-ed me,” I disclosed. It was truly a time of healing.

Maybe it was just depression. Maybe I wasn’t repulsive. I really don’t know. Maybe Aldo just isn’t a very sexual person. For all the conversations we’ve had while and after we were dating, he has never once mentioned dating anyone other than me. Manifold nuances and forces could have conspired to keep his penis out of my vagina. All I know is that I’m still much, much less aggressive than I was back before Aldo and I became fuck-crossed lovers.

Fuck-crossed (Pt. 2)

21 Sep

ConTuesday! Once, in flight school, I was laconic.

ConTuesday! Today I’m not feeling chatty at all, so you’ll get (mostly) pure, unadulterated sex secrets from strangers without much commentary from the pussy gallery. Of course, feel free to add your own!

I’m really pretty conventional. Like most men, I would love a three-way with two chicks, and like most men, I’ll never get that. I’m very devoted to my wife, and I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt her, and whatever she may say, I think that emotionally she would become very self-conscious if I were to sex another woman, even if she were in the room with us. But I know that she is turned on by certain men, and I’m fine with that. As a matter of fact, it turns me ON that she is turned on by other men. I want so much to watch her have sex with one of these men, but then come back to me. Does that make me cocky, that I know she will come back to me? Self-demeaning, that I want my significant other to be pleasured by another? Specious, that I probably just subconsciously want my own free fling? (We’re monogamous, and have always been so.) I don’t really think so. I pretty much ALWAYS need my wife to be completely turned on before I can perform. I just want to see her delighted, from outside. I want to see her come, HARD, and then return to me. I suppose there’s the danger that she’ll love his cock more than mine. But to be honest, the thing that keeps me from approaching certain men with suggestions right now is just the terror of the Worst Case Scenario occurring: Her getting pregnant or catching a bug that can’t be un-caught. But really, the guys she likes would probably be pretty safe for the latter, and the former would be addressable (redundant BC, for starters).

I’m a poly heteroflexible white male, mostly out, and I want to write publicly about sex and poly. However, I don’t want to do so with my name (or any known internet handle) attached, because I think it’s tacky (and possibly harmful) to write openly and possibly identify my partners, but also because I’m anxious about what my friends and family will think. But I have some really hot sex, and I find poly so fascinating and wonderful – I’m just not sure where and how to share my thoughts about it.

Why not start an anonymous blog? It’s fun and easy and in some contexts, even free!

Every time I take a especially large toy or a hand or anything else larger than usual, I spend the next day doing tons of kegels or wearing my smartballs around, because I’m afraid my vagina will get stretched out. Even thought I KNOW that’s not how vaginas work.

I have a raging libido (mid 30s, woman, i guess that whole sexual peak thing is true) and all I can think about is sex. I read porn online, fantasize about sex, masturbate all the time- and tell my husband that my chronic illness has left me with no desire at all. Ever since he got sick, I’ve been taking care of everything and I’ve come to view him as a child I have to care for. And I’m not a pedophile.

Got something to share and nowhere to share it? Send it to me.

31 Aug

ConTuesday! About those double standards…

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!