quizzical pussy

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.

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It seems to me that virginity is one of those things that you pretty much get to define for yourself, like cheating or happiness. Other people, institutions, even laws may have their opinions, but when you break it down enough any definition of virginity seems arbitrary at best. Virginity is so confusing that some people don’t seem to know whether they’re talking about it or not.

I’m about to don my pedantry hat for a minute. Also my seldom seen, but very jaunty, theology hat. You’ve been warned. Immaculate Conception doesn’t mean what most people think it means. In common use, it’s become confused with virgin birth and used synonymously, but it’s never meant “conceiving a child while one is a virgin”. Immaculate Conception is an explanation by the Catholic Church going back to the year Way Long Ago A.D. as to why Mary (the mother of Jesus Christ) was good enough to carry and bear God’s son¹. They decided that Mary, unlike regular non-god-bearing people, had been conceived without original sin (a legacy from Adam and Eve) and was thus pure, immaculate. Later Mary conceived a baby while she was a virgin² and gave birth, but her Immaculate Conception was only a distant prelude to that virgin birth, and has very little to do with virginity whatsoever.

My personal theory is that people use the wrong term because it sounds fancier. People are suckers for fancy. Hold on for a second. Removing hats.

There. That’s better. Where was I? Oh, virginity. I don’t know what the fuck a virgin is. I don’t really know when I was one. My hymen broke twice, but neither of those were the first time I had an orgasm from someone penetrating me. And then it was still two years before I had a dick inside me. Except my mouth. Are we counting my mouth? Suffice to say I lost my virginity, if it was even a thing, but at this point I don’t really know or care when.

But when Laramy commented the other day that he’s never fucked a virgin, I’m almost positive he meant someone who’s never had penis-in-vagina intercourse. That seems to be the most common definition, although I can only imagine how gold star lesbians feel about that. Anyway, he’s mentioned it before.

“Is that one of your goals?” I asked him, curious, but smelling trouble from where I sat. Now, at our age virgins are getting a bit thin on the ground, so it wouldn’t be terribly easy to find one without actively hunting. And a casual, drama-free deflowering with one older, experienced partner who already has a girlfriend and one partner who doesn’t remember that pogs were once a thing can happen, of course. But it feels like it would be asking a lot of the universe.

“It’s not something I’m actively looking for, but it might be interesting.” One interesting thing about Laramy is that he says this about virtually all forms of heterosexual sex he’s not having at that precise moment.

“If you’re that interested, I’ll just get one of those fake hymens³,” I shrugged.

“That’s a thing!?”

Of course it’s a thing! Because sadly, some people still buy into one of the weirdest definitions of virginity: the intact hymen. And there are still places in the world where a woman’s future might depend on her ability to fake that, whether she’s a virgin by any other definition or not.

But I guess it could be a sex toy too. If you’re not too cautious with your mucous membranes.

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1. The later Protestant explanation is that she quite simply wasn’t, just like no one on Earth was good enough for a god to die for. This is probably why it took a Protestant to write “Amazing Grace”. [↩]
2. Or as a young, unmarried woman, depending on how you like to translate ancient texts. [↩]
3. Just for the record, I was in no way serious. I have no idea what’s in those things, but I can guess it’s not all medical grade silicone and hypoallergenic red lube. [↩]

I barely ever have erotic dreams. Not that I have an innate talent for remembering any dreams whatsoever, so I guess it’s possible that some or even most of my dreams are about sex, but I don’t think so. Vague impressions that linger on waking are usually just “So there was this antelope that was, like, a double antelope, and it was growing knockoff Faberge eggs in a hydroponic watermelon. And then I tripped on the watermelon and sprained my ankle…IN SPACE.” or similar. It feels like I pretty much never get any action while sojourning in the Land of Nod.

I’m being cheated, really. Sleep would be the ideal place to have sex (excepting, of course, actual sex with a person you’re super into, pretty much anywhere, which I get fairly often so I really shouldn’t bitch). You waste no physical energy, are unlimited by any rules, laws, or limits, including of physics. And you could probably learn important things about yourself and your deepest desires or some shit.

Maybe I should look into lucid dreaming.

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I’m a very, very normal person.

Aside from the nymphomania, the utter absurdity, the crazy hair, the whimsy, the sluttishness, physical disabilities, geekery both sexual and general, and all the aberrant philosophies, I’m totally and completely normal. Probably just about as normal as you, anyway. No offense.

And you know what? I love sex toys. Normal people love sex toys. Normal people buy them. And normal people have a whole hell of a lot of fun using them.

And I recently bought my first glass dildo in honor of Buy A Sex Toy day! Here’s what it looks like:

Some of you may remember my long-cherished dream to own a tentacle dildo. Oh yeah, I make shit happen.

What did you buy, oh-so-normal readers?

Ever since I went off birth control pills my already erratic periods really just come whenever they damn well want.

I’m starting to figure out a pattern, though. An early warning system, if you will. I’ll feel fat and vaguely dissatisfied with myself or my life or something and my gums get tender. And then I will finally realize, “Oh, hey. I bet my period’s coming.” And then it doesn’t come for a few days and I start to wonder if maybe I was wrong.

Then it comes.

The time it takes me to second guess myself tends to vary, though. It seems like my period actually waits until I admit I’m wrong.

So, basically it’s come to mindgames. My reproductive system has achieved sapience, and it has a perverse sense of humor. And I, and to a certain extent my sex life, are at its mercy.

My sexual stomach is tolerably strong. There’s a lot I want to try, and there’s even more I’m willing to try. And even if it’s not my kink, I try to be accepting. You like to make your partner bleed? If your partner likes to bleed, that’s beautiful, my friend. Want to have sex with your sibling? If you’re both over the age of consent and into it, I’m certainly not going to try to stop you. If you’re into the whole scat thing I really don’t want to know about it, but I wish you joy. From way over here at the other end of the internet, I wish you joy. And I know I’ve made it clear that I’ve had severe aesthetic issues with anthropomorphizing animals, but I’m even working on my furry acceptance. I hugged a high school mascot last week and only had to take one panicked shower afterward.

I believe I’m within limping distance of sex positivity, inching slowly from “I’m scared to put a penis in my mouth” ten years ago toward the Platonic ideal of open, loving acceptance of all safe, sane, and consensual human pleasure.

But for some reason kissing grosses me out.

It’s everywhere: people gently brushing lips, tongues crawling into one another’s mouths like great, glutted worms. It’s disgusting to look at. I know they’re having fun, and it’s just about the most socially acceptable form of romantic/sexual interaction. Still, my entire body revolts just seeing it.

Try finding a movie where they show tits but skip that moment of body horror. It simply doesn’t exist. Every sex scene has a nauseous distraction. To me, PDA at the mall is more obscene than porn. Clearly I missed my calling as an old-school, by-the-rules prostitute. Well, by one of the rules, anyway: No kissing, lots of coming.

The human mouth is a cesspool. Simple fact. We all know this, right? Is it unreasonable to not want to cross-pollinate my filth with yours, no matter how fond of you I might be?

I’ll put my mouth lots of places. Oral sex is fine (it’s amazing how much cleaner genitals are than pie holes), as is mutual kissing from the neck down. Maybe even the cheek if I really, really trust you. But mouth-to-mouth? Save it for when you have to resuscitate me, and then hand me a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

As you might imagine, this quirk isn’t an easy sell for most people. I realize that kissing doesn’t squick most people out; quite the opposite. It’s a lot to ask, wanting someone to forgo their primary avenue for expressing affection in favor of, what? Hugs? Nuzzles? Conversation hearts?

Still. I just can’t. I can be sex positive, but kissing positive? That just isn’t me.

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Reginald Sleeth and I had been dating for all of two weeks. Our dates usually consisted of me driving the half mile to his house and rushing upstairs to his room where we’d make out furiously. That night, though, he handed me a tightly folded piece of college ruled paper first.

I knew it was a poem. He’d given me several already. Reginald liked to write love poems to girls. Years later my friend Miriam, who also dated Reginald for a while, and I would go back and compare and realize that some of the heartfelt verses given us looked shockingly similar. Kid must’ve kept master copies somewhere.

But this was the first poem I ever unfolded to discover blood smeared all over the paper.

Reginald looked rather like a cat who’d dragged his freshly killed bird onto the porch. I reacted rather like that cat’s owner.

“What, I just don’t even… I mean what happened here?” Beat. “…It’s a very nice poem.” Nice save.

Reginald proudly showed me his hand. There was a distinct gouge. Then he produced a blunt decorative knife. “I designed this years ago to one day spill my blood for my love. And now it’s yours; I have no more need of it. It has done its job.”

I’m not even kidding. He seriously talked like that.

I figured that perhaps my sense of the romantic was underdeveloped. I liked Anne Rice as much as the next little demigoth, but I was more creeped out than moved. Of course my (most) fatal flaw kicked in at this point and told me that I must be the one who had it wrong.

It soon became clear to me, though, that Reginald expected me to perform the same gesture. It was supposed to be some kind of sacred lovers’ ritual conceived in Reginald’s head at some point. That was more or less why he gave me the knife.

I just wasn’t going to do it.

Understand, I really thought I loved Reginald at this point. The bloodletting had meant something to him, clearly, and I didn’t want to ignore that. But seriously? No part of me was happy that I had his blood on a piece of notebook paper, and I wasn’t jazzed about the idea of following suit.

And if I ever did, I knew it wouldn’t be with his Renaissance Faire knife. Thing was fucking letter-opener-dull! And coated in his blood.

In retrospect, this should have tipped me off. This wasn’t ever going to be a healthy relationship. Yes, healthy relationships can involve exchanging blood or playing with letter openers, but they’d at least require a little prior communication. And less peer pressure.

As for my dilemma, one morning I nicked my ankle in the shower shaving and I realized I’d solved my own problem. Well, one of my problems. The other one I kept around for a long, long while yet.

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Laramy got me an Android this past Christmas. I mean this, of course, in the phone sense, not in the Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation sense, which is unfortunate but understandable.

It’s kind of cool to have a phone that doesn’t flip open anymore. No longer do old women accost me while I’m texting, crying “Goodness, my dear! We have the same phone!” and weakly waving their jitterbugs aloft. My flip phone had a camera, thank you very much, boasting an entire megapixel. So there, bitch.

My new phone is awesome. I can do all sorts of things to avoid being productive and paying attention to people. Alchemy is basically an opiate with a touchscreen interface. I’m told my Android can also make and receive calls or something, but whatever.

But this is interesting: According an older entry on OkCupid’s fascinating OkTrends blog, which features the spoils of their various dating site data mining adventures, Android owners get less sex than other smart phone owners. Or perhaps, more precisely, sleep around less.

Since the data is all from OkCupid users (though quite literally over 9,000 of them), maybe this is a pure anomaly. We can generally say that a single dating site isn’t a perfect microcosm for the entire population of Earth, but since there’s no ready explanation for why it exists anyway, I don’t see any blatant reason why this correlation would be limited to OkCupid users only, and not translate to a wider sample.

Here’s their pretty graph:

Notice that these numbers are all for 30-year-old smart phone users. Android owners have had an average of six partners, whereas female iPhone owners are total studs with twice that, and Blackberry users fall somewhere in the middle. This correlation plays out in phone owners ages 18 to 40.

What’s going on here? Theories?

It seems that iPhones tend to take better pictures than Androids, but Androids take better pictures than Blackberries, so that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Anyway, that would be assuming that these people have met most of their sexual partners through OkCupid, and all in the past few years. So that’s not it.

And I refuse to believe that a statistically significant number of people out there are seduced because of personal electronics, so “shiny phones are the new shiny cars” rings hollow. But if they were, my Droid is pretty awesome; sleep with me.

This has to be something about which people which phones appeal to, I think.

Either way, I like to think I’m bringing up the average just a bit, being a tad more in iPhone country with my number of conquests. Come on, Android people, let’s get laid more!

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I found the winner of the best ad on Facebook. You can all stop looking now.

See, the reasons this ad works so well are manifold (or possibly closer to twofold): First, Pell Grant eligibility is absolutely based on the sex of the applicant* rather than economic need, so saying “Pell Grants for Women!” isn’t at all embarrassing.* Second, a mudflap girl in a margarita glass is the perfect image to complement the concept of online education.*

It’s also important to point out that Academies of Burlesque do accept student loans.* I plan to minor in titty tassels.

*Lies. All lies.

Last night’s threesome taught me an important life lesson:

1. Hákarl is fetid shark from Iceland. It apparently tastes of ammonia and broken dreams.
2. A Hot Carl is something altogether different (and honestly, you probably don’t want to click this).

This may be an important distinction to make someday.

There was also prodigious fucking! It has to be said.