Last night’s threesome taught me an important life lesson:
This may be an important distinction to make someday.
There was also prodigious fucking! It has to be said.
I don’t know exactly how concerned I should be that someone recently tried to access my personal Facebook account from the city where Reginald Sleeth now resides.
I should add the caveat here that it is a large city.
Reginald and I haven’t seen each other in over seven years. At least, I believe this to be true.
I saw him three years ago.
It was Christmas Eve. My grandmother was dying, and my sister and I had been visiting her in the hospital. She hadn’t woken up all night, even to look at us. I’d never seen her megawatt blue eyes dim before that week, and now there was nothing, and the later it got the more nothing eclipsed her. Her time was coming and the thought of it made my solar plexus ache. Eleven thirty we finally left. Eleven thirty and there was nothing at home but ingredients to eat. Eleven thirty, and we were drained and hungry and defeated.
To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t showered in at least two days and my fatigue settled on my face like two black eyes.
There was a single restaurant open that night in our smallish hometown. A greasy spoon that never closes, where kids can go pad their pickled stomachs after last call. We were just glad to find a place to sit down and vacantly watch someone put plates of warm things in front of us.
Right after the waitress, brown ponytailed and shimmery lidded, took our drink orders, the door swung open, briefly staining the air with the outside chill. And in he walked.
I could see him perfectly from the booth where I sat. Reginald Sleeth. His hair was spiked high, garishly, as he used to do it when he was feeling especially self-conscious. And he had gained some weight, perhaps, but he still fit in his old winter coat. His stride was the one I’d memorized, casually hunched but hemorrhaging arrogance. He was distracted by the girl who’d moved in after I’d left our shared apartment four years prior, and another couple. They all sat down at a big corner booth, Reginald in the middle, holding court as he loved to do.
Reginald Sleeth was not even supposed to be in the state. I’d heard he’d moved far away. I’d heard his parents had moved even farther. My stomach recoiled on itself. Suddenly, I’d never been less hungry in my life. Terror had taken over my torso, from tensed shoulders to thumping heart to plummeting guts. I dropped off my seat and hid behind the table.
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!” I hissed to my sister, “Reginald just walked in.” She twisted around to see. “Don’t! Don’t look over there. I don’t think he saw me.”
“Are you okay?” She asked. See, I was crouching in abject horror on the floor at a greasy spoon diner, hiding from the person I feared most in this world. P.S. My grandma, one of my favorite people ever, full stop, was off dying in a hospital room down the road. ‘Okay’ was not a valid guess here. Hurriedly, I told her I was leaving. I was really sorry, but could she explain things to the waitress and follow me as soon as she could? I snuck a couple dollars onto the table and slithered out of there as quickly as my crippled limbs would carry me.
I don’t think he saw me. To this day I choose to believe that.
I choose to believe it partly because those were not the circumstances under which I was supposed to see him after all that time. What was supposed to happen, I’m sure, is something more like this:
I’m on a gorgeous, 16-hand Friesian stallion who is also a cyborg who can fly. Having just published my first international bestselling novel, I am riding through the countryside, looking inexplicably like Twin Peaks-era Sherilyn Fenn and wearing the coolest pair of sneakers in the world (because no fantasy is complete without great sneakers). Reginald is in a ditch, bawling because his life has collapsed like a house of cards. He is wearing flip-flops and has zero cyborg horses. I coolly observe Reginald from my high vantage, “You hurt me,” my eyes tell him. “I am a terrible person and you deserved better,” his say. A single tear rolls down my face and falls to the ground, where it becomes a beautiful blossom that will never fade nor die. That beautiful blossom sprays a toxic mist onto Reginald’s face, disfiguring him for life. Then I turn my flawless, porcelain doll face homeward, where I go have earth-shattering sex with diamond-studded nerdcore rappers who are also professional water polo players.
Is this so much to ask?
The other reason I’m pretty sure he didn’t notice me that Christmas Eve was because he didn’t acknowledge me or try to contact me soon afterward. And Reginald tries to contact me every so often. Sometimes to say he misses me, sometimes to say he’s sorry, and sometimes to be fucking creepy. Once he emailed me (at an address I never gave him) to cryptically tell me that he prays… every day. As far as I know he’s still an atheist, so I don’t even know what that means!
It’s been a while– over a year– since his last try. I hope I’m off his radar. But whenever something weird happens, like when, say, someone tries to hack into my Facebook account, I have a moment of panic. In a twisted, fucked up way, it’ll never be completely over with him, and I will have to live with that even after my cyborg Friesian ship comes in. But every time I don’t respond to whatever shit he’s trying to pull, he doesn’t win, and that’s something.
The very week my website features confessions from married people and Auntie Gibbon’s guest post about keeping sex alive within long-term relationships, the marriage issue explodes all over the internet and TV news programs like my pussy on a date with the njoy Pure Wand. You’re welcome, Zeitgeist. Always a pleasure doing business with you.
The newest news fad of the week is apparently proclaiming the Death of Marriage. I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that this is the most blatant admission of a slow news week since CNN did an exposé on the World’s Ugliest Dog Contest. Why the fuck should anyone care about a survey where 40% of people said they think marriage is obsolete? Why is this news when it feels so much like… not news.
Let’s be clear about something. It’s something you probably already know, but it needs to be stated: There is absolutely no purpose a married couple fulfills in society that an unmarried couple can’t. Close your eyes and imagine… wait. You’re probably reading this with your eyes. Don’t close your eyes, just imagine a world where marriage no longer exists: where pair bonds form, break, shift, and last, all without a legal document or religious ritual. Try to visualize that. Does it look very, very close to the world we live in today? It should, because relationships are going to function in more or less the exact same way. Some people will mate for life, others will have a string of committed relationships, and still others will play the field indefinitely. People will be monogamous and polyamorous. Couples will switch partners. People will love and fuck and fight and breed and raise their children. Taking rings and vows out of it won’t change that.
Does that mean I agree that marriage is obsolete? Not at all. I just think the question is uninteresting. It isn’t a breaking story that the concept of matrimony has drastically changed over time. Romance, partnership, and parity within marriage are comparatively new ideas in the Western world. The latest great evolution in marriage, I believe, is the removal of the stigma of divorce. Sure, divorce sucks and most people don’t like doing it, but instead of being anathema to polite society, it’s now more or less a break up smothered in legal hassles. A failed marriage is no longer the mark of Cain (in the mainstream and the vast majority of subcultures, at least). Since there’s less risk of becoming a shunned outcast when you get around to leaving a shitty situation, being married no longer forces a couple to stay together the way it used to. That and the increasing mainstream acceptance of premarital sex and the whole “living in sin” thing make marriage less and less necessary in the grand scheme of things. But they don’t sap its potential to be important to individuals, whether society needs it or not.
If it’s important to you in a religious or cultural way, or will ensure that your family or circle accepts your partnership, marriage is probably a good idea. If you find personal, romantic meaning in the institution, then have that wedding, you crazy kids! If you’ve chosen your life partner and being married makes sense for home ownership, insurance, legal, financial, or child-rearing purposes, much joy to you. If you want a free stand mixer, have at it. If it’s important to you to define your relationship that way for any other reason, I support your decision 100%. I don’t think your relationship is automatically more valid and special than everyone else’s just because you chose (and were able) to opt into matrimony, mind, but I also get that making that gesture of lifelong commitment is a big damn deal.
My point here is that if marriage is important to you, it obviously isn’t obsolete. No, society wouldn’t crumble without it, but it can indeed hold beauty, meaning, and practical advantages. If marriage were viewed in a more realistic, personalized way, maybe we wouldn’t have so many people deciding that others should be excluded from what should really boil down to a personal choice rather than a public virtue.
And yes, I absolutely did just write an entire blog post about how I don’t care about a news story. What of it?
I am ready to design sexy Halloween costumes. Lately I’ve been studying the art and science of taking a costume idea and removing as much material as possible, and I feel like I’m really starting to hit my stride. I realize this is a highly competitive field, but I feel I have the courage to push the cleavage envelope. I know in my heart that I can make people aroused, frightened, and nostalgic all at the same time…and maybe even make them think a little. I just need this chance.
It all started when AAG was having a lingerie.com Halloween costume giveaway on her blog where the winner got to pick any costume in stock, and I totally won (thanks again to both)! I have won two random drawings in my life, and the first time I won hairspray. Needless to say, this time I peed a little. With glee. And I just knew, like you just know your high school crush probably ended up in jail, exactly which costume I was going to pick: “Miss Krueger”, which is like dressing as Freddy Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street but replacing all the scariness and ugliness with sexiness and legs. It arrived very promptly. The hat is a little too big, but otherwise it’s everything I dreamed it’d be. Disregard the fact that I have no costume parties to go to this year. I’m wearing it around my house and threatening to kill my dog in his sleep (Look, even if he could understand English he’d appreciate my witty turn of phrase, so no calling the ASPCA now).
But looking at the other costumes available on lingerie.com I realized there were a lot of horror movie villains left out. Was no one trying to make them sexy and desirable? So I decided to be the change I want to see in the world, and designed some myself.
Oh yes, I really did, and here are some hastily drawn sketches that should give you a rough idea of my visionary talent. Novelty Fashions Industry, you are going to want to headhunt the shit out of me.
1. That Creepy Girl from Ring. The whole “being a little girl” part has to go, but we just replace it with cleavage! I love horror movies.
2. Chucky from Child’s Play. This is exactly what it would look like if Chucky didn’t insist on being a My Buddy doll and let himself be a sexy, sexy lady. Sure, you can theoretically wear a striped shirt under the cut-off overalls, but I need you to know that the sideboob is part of my vision.
3. Ghostface from Scream. This was a challenge because there’s nothing all that sexy about a billowy robe and a Munchian mask. But there’s inspiration to be found in streamlining. So I just lost the robe and made the mask the entire outfit. Seriously, everyone is going to want one of these.
(My final masterpiece is a little spoilerish. If you’ve never seen Sleepaway Camp maybe you shouldn’t click this…) Read more…
Holly Pervocracy’s The People You Meet When You Write About Rape list is one of those complicated birds that is both hilariously funny and unbearably sad…because it’s true.
An example:
Mr. What About The Men
“The real problem here is all these false rape accusations that are destroying our society! 90 million men are falsely accused of rape every second! A woman just has to sort of mumble a word starting with ‘r’ and a man instantly gets a life sentence! There are no instances on record of a woman actually being raped!”
…This is only a slight exaggeration of what people really for real say.
I also love Mr. How Do I Not Rape Someone It Is So Difficult. All those people who are so afraid of accidentally raping someone are really, really disturbing. The more they say the less I’m able to believe that they’ve ever experienced enthusiastic consent from a partner.
I write about rape a lot, mostly because (in spite of the types of arguments on this list) I think it’s an important subject to talk about. But with all the ways people excuse rapists and attack victims, I have a huge incentive to never write about my rape in detail. Let’s face it, a scary man in a balaclava didn’t assault me out of the blue and rape me at knifepoint (although I’d still probably get “What in the world were you doing in a place where a man in a balaclava would possibly be? We’re not blaming you, but you should’ve known better…” if he had.) Maybe I will write it all down for the whole internet to see one of these days, but just knowing what discourse is likely waiting for me when I do is a great, fat deterrent.
So here’s something interesting: the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2010 list has posted, and Quizzical Pussy is number fucking four. No, it seriously is. Needless to say, my mind was blown. Yeah, I don’t really get it either, especially considering all the amazing bloggers who appear on the list. But I’m wicked excited about it.
Quizzical Pussy is still a very young blog; my first entry appeared a year ago next month. But it’s become the one place on the internet where I can be honest about sex and my past experiences. It’s made me remember how much I love to write. It’s become a huge part of my life, to the point where it’s often frustrating that I’ve chosen to keep it such a secret in the real world. What I’m saying is that this blog is important to me, and I’m honored that you’re reading it. I appreciate every comment, and don’t think I don’t notice how supportive and kind they always are whether the author agrees with me or not. I get excited every time someone sends in an anonymous confession. In short, I’d still be writing Quizzical Pussy if no one was reading it, but you all make it so much better. So thanks.
A huge thank you to the people who took the time to go over to Between My Sheets to nominate me. And to the judges and Rori, who read, tallied, and ranked over 200 nominees, which was no doubt a ton of work.
I also want to specifically thank Laramy Fuquerton, who encouraged me to start this website, brainstormed names with me, hosts it for me, gives me content (often in the form of rodgerings), and is a generally awesome, supportive person. Also Crispin Hijanx, who vectorized the curious kitten logo I drew and made it look much smoother. And no, I am not intentionally making this into an award show speech.
There was a lot of controversy surrounding the list this year concerning one or two* of the bloggers who appeared on it (one of whom got the top spot). This might invalidate the list for some people. I hope it doesn’t because it’s an awesome resource for finding new blogs to read, and I happen to think that many of the spots on the list are very well deserved. Naturally, I think my personal favorites should be higher up, but every ranking is bound to be like that. The fact remains that if you want to find some new top-notch sex blogs to follow, this is a great resource.
Go see the full list here!
*I’m aware of the issue with “Alexa” of The Real Princess Diaries, which is more or less resolved, but if there’s someone else objectionable, could someone comment or email me to let me know? I’d like to be able to warn my readers if someone else on this list is indeed shady.
If Receiving Cunnilingus were my girlfriend, our Facebook relationship status would be “it’s complicated”. While some women don’t care for it at all, and some literally can’t get off outside of a tongue placed just so, I’m somewhere roughly completely outside those extremes. Oral sex gets me off fast, and well, and feels amazing. I love it, really. But on the other hand, I always try to dissuade my partner from giving it to me.
At this point it’s probably occurring to you, and rightly so, that I’m not the altogether most healthy, normal person you’ve ever come across.
What is it about oral sex that turns me even more neurotic than usual? I think it’s the focus. While one of the things I love about giving oral sex is being able to focus on someone else, I feel guilty once the tables are turned. I feel like it’s really unfair for me to accept that level of attention.
I’m aware that this isn’t exactly rational.
Early on with a new person, it’s usually much easier for me. There’s a lot of lust flying around, and everyone wants to put their mouths everywhere. But after a while things tend to settle down a bit, and I start feeling like it’s getting to be a chore, going down on me. Like my naked vulva is sitting there expectantly and prompting an aggrieved “Gawd, this again”.
Not that there’s anything preternaturally trying about giving me oral sex, that I’m aware of. I come within seconds, I give enthusiastic and appreciative feedback, I reciprocate, and I don’t think I taste weird. Sometimes I squirt, but definitely not always! My problem is really conceptual more than practical.
The thing is, I’m not hard to satisfy in bed. My orgasms come fast and boisterous, and although it takes some effort and skill to blow my mind, it can usually be done without a lot of fuss. In no way do I need oral stimulation. So it seems almost too greedy in my case to ask a partner to pay attention to me in any way that’s so one-sided. That’s where the guilt comes in.
Sure, sometimes I want it. Sometimes I even crave it. It feels really good, and the exact orgasms I get from it don’t occur elsewhere. But in my experience, once you start seeming reluctant to receive oral sex, you kind of get fewer and fewer offers for it. And that situation is both comfortable and depressing. Because in my weird, twisted little world that somehow makes perfect sense, asking for oral sex would be even more unforgivable than actually getting it!
I’m absolutely insane.
Once in a while you run across a person (in my experience, always a male, though I have no idea if this is pattern or statistical aberration) who opines that rape is a more horrific crime than murder.
O RLY?
I’m not interested in playing the “more horrific” game, nor being an armchair criminal philosophy expert. I’m really not. But there’s something disturbing about their reasoning.
Are you suggesting, person who has (every time so far) admittedly never been raped, that a rape victim would be better off dead? The response is usually something like “a murder victim’s suffering is over, while a rape victim has a whole lifetime to deal with what happened.” So that’s pretty much a “yes”. Rock.
I can’t speak for everyone, but I would prefer murder to pretty much nothing, and I think plenty of people who’ve survived rape, torture, and other atrocities may feel the same way. Some probably wouldn’t. But the bottom line here is that I don’t think a bystander is the right person to decide which of these people would be better off dead.
So I’m pretty sure Laramy’s penis kicked me in the balls.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking: “Silly Pussy, chicks don’t have balls.” Well, you haven’t seen me sing karaoke, then. It takes serious stones to belt out Sister Christian by Night Ranger when you haven’t had a sip of alcohol since last October.
I guess you do have a point, though. Maybe I don’t literally have balls to be kicked in, and maybe Laramy’s cock doesn’t literally have feet with which to kick. But what did happen resulted in some crazy sensations that seem roughly parallel.
For a long time I’ve likened having my cervix pounded into to getting kicked in the balls. This was based only on the fact that it hurts and cramps and makes me want to stop having sex (I’ve met very few men who want to soldier on after I’ve accidentally taken out their artillery, if you know what I mean. Boo.) But one thing I pride myself on is my ability to understand proportion. I knew all along that it wasn’t a perfect comparison. There seems to be some sort of blinding nausea that comes into play in the balls scenario. As someone mentioned on twitter, it’s “like someone dropped a load of cement on your guts.” Also, there appears to be a profound full-body weakening that skates past mere pain and into the realm of horrifying comic book vulnerabilities. My cervix has never worked this kind of alchemy.
Until, perhaps, recently.
Laramy and I were in agreement: we were damn well about to fuck any minute. First, I thought I’d put on some music to drown out my caterwauling so I was bent over my keyboard, ass presented. Laramy came up behind me, my pants collapsed to the floor, and suddenly I found it incredibly difficult to concentrate on pointing and clicking anything. His cock slid in and I gasped as it split me. I’m not sure what it was: my pussy gripping harder than usual in ever denser and more furious orgasms, or some slightly altered angle as he fucked me from behind, but the intensity was blistering. I either had roughly 300 orgasms in rapid succession or one incredibly long one. I honestly couldn’t tell.
After a while like that, I was starting to feel crampy enough that the mad orgasms weren’t dulling it anymore. It was really starting to fucking hurt, actually. But I have these priorities, see. When one position is bringing pain, you don’t throw the baby out with the sexual bathwater (…it got weird, didn’t it?), you change position. So I switched to an even lazier posture: missionary. And then we fucked some more. The pain seemed less urgent. I pretended I didn’t see it sitting there, watching us fuck. The orgasms (orgasm?) kept coming in, crashing. Laramy was pounding harder now, building. It suddenly occurred to me that when all that climaxing, analgesic of the gods, stopped I’d probably have something unpleasant to deal with. But you know how when you’re in the throes of passion you just don’t care?
But, as they ever must, the orgasms eventually came to an end. And sweet leaping Odin, a singular and absurd pain broke across my body. It was rather like the feeling one has during and just after a spinal tap: blasted with weakness and nausea and an inexorable pressure. I was shuddering and hysterically panting/giggling, though I assure you it didn’t seem funny at the time. I wanted to get to the bathroom in case I had to throw up, but I could barely move at first. Just shake. And laugh. Then I tottered semi-successfully to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I felt right again within 10 or 15 minutes.
I think I traumatized Laramy a little. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt me, but I was so set on ignoring everything to keep having awesome sex he ended up not getting much of a choice. It was so totally not his fault, but I know he felt pretty bad. Probably because I looked so wrecked from it. Fortunately he wasn’t so upset that he’s refusing to have sex with me now or anything.
But you know, it did kind of feel like someone dropped a load of cement on my guts, so I’m wondering if somehow we fucked at an angle where his penis kicked my cervix, and that I experienced the female version of being kicked in the balls. Either way, I’m going to recommend you go ahead and not try it.
Modern demons have advanced a bit.
Words are like people. Complex. They each have a history, an evolution. And just like when you sleep with someone you’re also sleeping with everyone that person has ever slept with (hawt), when you say a word you summon up all these wonderful tendrils of ghostly meanings that you might not even realize.
And some of the tendrils just tickle me.
Chastity and celibacy are now used interchangeably to mean “miserable”…er, rather, to mean “the state of not fucking”. In days of yore, though, neither of them meant that. You could actually be either and also get laid. Chastity referred to having no illicit sexual liaisons, so no-frills sex inside marriage for purposes of procreation was perfectly chaste. Celibacy simply meant “the state of not marrying”. Celibate clergy would have loads of bastard babies back in yore.
The etymological roots of incubus and succubus come from the Latin for “to lie upon” and “to lie under”, respectively. This suggests that even demons observe the missionary position. How bland.
There’s no point to this other than the fact that I find it terribly interesting.
