quizzical pussy

It’s kind of cool when you realize that the positions you like best also seem to be particularly good for your partner.

I’m really super partial to what I guess we’ll call the “folded deckchair“, although traditionally I like to call it “throw my legs over your shoulders and fuck me sore.” For me, that and doggy are to sex what Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman are to modern comics. In vulgar parlance, they’re the my baby daddies of their respective fields.

But I also don’t like to ask for things in bed. Ever. You may recall that when I ask for things, it hasn’t always worked out in my favor. I guess with my experiences of it backfiring, my natural diffidence, and my reluctance to rock the boat when someone inexplicably actually wants to fuck me, I just tend to go with the flow instead. It’s to the point where I generally don’t even suggest new positions to try out (zounds but I’m dull!), although I do occasionally maneuver into them with utmost subtlety.

I’m not sure why Laramy and I hadn’t tried the “folded deckchair” yet. (Also, that name is stupid.)  I guess maybe we just hadn’t gotten to it yet, but that night it seemed like a good idea. We were settling into good old missionary when I flung my legs over his shoulders. Oooooh, yes! I thought, I remember why this is awesome now! Suddenly his cock was catching my G-spot from the most delicious angle and my orgasms came fast and urgent, one after another, building.

I have my suspicions that the texture of my G-spot or the grip of my pussy when I come so hard is something that Laramy likes especially, because we both seem to favor the G-spot heavy positions. With my legs like that, he was getting that face he gets when it’s unbearably good, slowing down a little to dial the intensity back. I felt a jolt of joy that we were together on this one: this was Watchmen, this was a triumph. At some points my legs moved down under his arms and he grabbed them for leverage, and at others I’d toss my legs higher again and we’d grimace together at the absolute bliss of that angle. We felt it together. We sucked in air together, except when I forgot to breathe while I curled my head back in climax after searing climax.

When you have dozens of orgasms, scores of orgasms, a motherfucking shoal of orgasms, the odds get pretty damn good that you’re going to have a simultaneous orgasm with your partner. Laramy and I come at the same time often, and it honestly doesn’t get old. It’s like twice the orgasm. The feeling of his cock pulsing and pouring its heat into me sometimes sends me over the edge even if I’m not quite there yet. But this time I really, really was. It was like Michael Bay was directing my vagina. I swear.

Laramy and I were both sweating and spent. He hung over me, draped on the frame my legs gave him. He was panting and grinning and blinking like a big-budget explosion had just torn through the bedroom: it was kind of adorable. I grabbed my ankles and pulled my legs back to my own shoulders, lowering him right over my lips, and then we kissed, which made us laugh. “I didn’t know you could do that!” he cried.

Piffle. Of course I can!

Happy International Women’s Day, everybody!

In honor of this highest and holiest of high holy days, I’m going to reveal something that may shock some people, and here it is: We’re really actually not living in a post-sexist age. Your mind’s blown, isn’t it?

I’m not here to tell you it necessarily sucks to be female, although concerning some parts of the world we can certainly make that argument. For me, though, in all my incredible comparative privilege, I more or less like being a chick and I’m not ready to turn in my pussy card just yet.

But even nestled in the bosom of Western culture we haven’t attained the basic equality that women set out to achieve generations ago. We’re closer, but we’re so not there. Equal pay for equal work is still a goal rather than a reality. Our culture produces children who believe that violence against women is easily justified. One in six women is sexually assaulted in her lifetime, and all too often it’s perfectly acceptable to blame her.

Women are still sexual objects, not just to some people, but to society as a whole. I know 20-year-old women who have anxiety over being “too old”. Too old to have a kick-ass career? Too old to make a difference politically or socially? Nope. Too old to be a doe-eyed ingenue; too old to be Miley Cyrus. Apparently legal is the new expired. And realizing that being pretty gets us more appreciation and success than any other positive trait, way too many of us have a near-religious conviction that we’re ugly: too fat, too tall, too short, too flat-chested, too pimpled, too muscular, too pale, too dark, too scrawny, too imperfect. We think that our toes are weird or that our stretch marks mean that no one will ever love us. And if no one is going to love us, we are somehow worthless.

If we mention that these things are unfair, we’ll often get called unbalanced, emotional, or irrational. There are still so many things to tackle, but as a small nerdy she-fish in an ocean of crap I wish women didn’t have to deal with, I’m starting tiny.

I’m starting with sexual harassment at the Sci Fi Conventions I go to.

Here’s an imagination exercise: Take a bunch of people who likely faced romantic rejection and isolation growing up, making sure that a healthy percentage of these are shitty at recognizing social cues. Add a common interest they may not get to talk to real people about all that often, and all the excitement and adjacent libido that would naturally result. Put some of these people in costumes designed to make the wearers look (with varying success) like cartoon and video game characters, and put others in corsets. There will also be people inexplicably wandering around wearing cat ears.

Hi there. It looks like you have a Fan Convention on your hands. You realize, of course, that with all those roiling factors in play, someone is going to try to fuck up this nerdy utopia by being super creepy, right? Some guy will inevitably think that the hot costumes exist only for his personal enjoyment and that any woman who likes the same TV shows he does must be praying nightly for someone just like him to appear and grope her tits.

Which is why I’ve taken on the daunting task of organizing an anti-harassment project at my local con. The convention has a sexual harassment policy in place already, but it hasn’t been implemented all that well, and some creeptastic geek-on-geek crimes have been perpetrated.

Creeps have been routinely grabbing or hugging people without permission or warning, commenting on their bodies uninvited, flirting aggressively… you know, the things that you might have heard about cons that make you reluctant to ever go to one, but that shouldn’t be tolerated. Worse, the injured parties have been afraid to report these incidents to con staff because they’re worried about seeming hypersensitive, or like trouble-makers.

But how fucked up does a culture (or subculture) have to be to alienate the victim and make the offender feel justified? Just because men tend to outnumber women at these things doesn’t mean they get to make it a boys’ club where the women attending are just so many sacrifices to the communal hard-on. And neither do women get to harass men, nor men men, nor women women. Let’s just be universally uncreepy.

Of course, nerds flirt at conventions. They get laid at conventions and have glorious, debaucherous times in an environment where free love and free energy drinks reign. I don’t want to put a damper on that, but seriously, the creepy people need to back the fuck off, practice common respect, and only put their hands where they’re expressly invited.

So I’m going to work to make sure the harassment policies are accessible to everyone, to educate the con staff and the con guests how to deal with creepy person encounters, witnessed or experienced, and to open a dialogue about this stuff. I’m going to try to make my little corner of fandom safer for catgirls and cosplayers.

In reality, though, there’s a good chance I’ll set a terrible example for everyone by shouting off-color jokes all over the place. But at least my horrible behavior will be a good talking point for whichever brave warrior takes over my post after I’m escorted off the premises.

I know at least six people who reached adulthood before realizing that narwhals are real animals and not mythological creatures like griffins and hot, single bisexual women. I’m just about at that point right now with narwhal dildos. I think they should exist, but I’m not sure they do yet. And if they really don’t, who dropped the ball on that one? I can get a replica kangaroo penis but not a narwhal tusk toy? Fuck yes I’m judging you, world.

A recent conversation with my friend Lucian Treblewood follows.

______________________________________________

Lucian: So ummm, hey there… watcha wearing?

Quizzical Pussy: A bearskin! (note: If you ever ask me what I’m wearing you’ll likely get an absurd kind of answer. Fair warning. -Q.P.)

Lucian: Sweet! Like with the mouth and teeth?

Quizzical Pussy: Of course. And I’m holding a narwhal tusk as a scepter.

Lucian: Well wearing just a bearskin rug, I hope you will not be innapropriate with your narwahl tusk… *tisk tisk

Quizzical Pussy: We may have different ideas about what qualifies as “inappropriate”.

Lucian: Perhaps I would find it more or less appropriate only due to the fact of the instrument in question (I don’t even know what this means, which is why I’m about to answer with “Narwhals are sweet, man.” Watch… -Q.P.)

Quizzical Pussy: Narwhals are sweet, man.

…I should design a narwhal dildo.

Lucian: Bet its been done

Quizzical Pussy: I’ve found ones branded as unicorn horns, but not narwhal horns. Or tusks. Whatever.

Lucian: Hmmm, now I shall be on the hunt. If I can’t find you one, I will craft you one. (I can guarantee you that Lucian has forgotten this promise by now, but I have not. -Q.P.)

Quizzical Pussy: Even though you find it inappropriate???

Lucian: I only asked you… I said it could be more or less. You will find, I am pretty open and accepting.

Quizzical Pussy: Oh, so you’re a fencesitter!

Lucian: Hardly

Quizzical Pussy: Okay. It’s time to come down on one side. Narwhal horn fucking: pro or con?

Lucian: It would be hip cuz it’s exotic

Probably not on the narwhal

Quizzical Pussy: Well, no. That’s turning the corner into bestiality town. And it should be fake because they’re an endangered species. (Actually, I guess they’re not, but I’ve never met one, so… -Q.P.)

______________________________________________

Now, I realize that narwhal tusks are pretty damn sharp and way too long to be at all comfortable for insertion, so a realistic one might not be a super great idea, but it’s a helical tusk, people! That’s nature’s “ribbed for her pleasure”. If Viking women of yore didn’t carve dildos out of those things, I feel like they should stop calling themselves Vikings because they’re abusing the privilege. So, we could just chunk up the design and round it out a little, and maybe the blowhole should be incorporated somehow. Honestly, I haven’t really worked out the details… but, but, narwhal dildo! The idea sells itself.

They come to Monday night karaoke at the pub sometimes, and when they arrive the party considers itself brought.

They’re a middle-aged couple. He’s husky with a Van Dyke goatee; she’s short and slight and definitely shops in the juniors’ department. Often they have costumes on: a cowboy hat and loud print button-up for him, platform boots and mini-skirts for her. The first time I saw them they were wearing matching gold lamé outfits, so to me they’ll always be the Gold Lamé Couple. I can’t explain how intensely I adore them.

The thing you have to understand about the Gold Lamé Couple is that they take karaoke very seriously. The other thing you have to understand about them is that they are not strictly very good at it. Their singing isn’t anything to write home about, but they commit. You think you’re committed to karaoke? Do you bring your own CD case full of Black Eyed Peas and Lady Gaga karaoke tracks? Do you have a prop bag? Is there a harmonica for every conceivable key in your prop bag? Have you ever pulled out a whip and set a hula hoop aflame whilst performing “Circus” by Britney Spears? Yeah. Didn’t think so. The Gold Lamé couple comprehends all these wonders and more.

My friend Miriam likes to play a little game when she’s at bars. She looks around at the different couples and tries to guess what kind of relationship each pair has and how long they’ve been together. She’s either pretty perceptive or great at bullshit because she can usually back up the reasoning behind her guesses with details about  body language and other visual cues. She thinks the Gold Lamé couple found each other fairly recently, perhaps a second marriage for each. Miriam suspects they were tired of decades of boring relationships and their exuberance about karaoke mirrors their glee at finally finding someone to really cavort with.

Eloise, another friend of mine, surmises that they aren’t even together romantically but decided to form a platonic partnership, knowing that they had the potential to be a gestalt karaoke tour de force. They do it just for the love of performing…in front of thirty or so pub patrons. Their electrifying chemistry is limited to what they do on the mic. And with props. And the choreography.

The one thing everyone agrees on is that they probably practice their act for hours every week at home. You don’t mess with hula hoop fire without a trial run or six.

But I prefer Miriam’s theory. I want the Gold Lamé Couple to be a real couple. It makes me smile to know that maybe these two people have something beautiful and playful and oddly fearless. They don’t care what they look like to each other or the pub at large. They go balls out and have fun, wasting no time being self-conscious. If they ever settled for boring before, they certainly don’t anymore.

And if that’s what they’re like about everything, I think they might just have the perfect relationship. Life, and especially love, should be like music you don’t care if anyone else likes… and definitely like a motherfucking flaming hula hoop.

I was born into an attractive family. My parents had about a million kids, and in the looks department they mostly range from “pretty cute” to “damn, girl!”. But I’ve always felt like a spectator in this particular sport. Early on, a family friend informed me that I was not the best looking of the litter, and that’s been reinforced in countless ways over the years. I’ve been described as “the smart one”, “the funny one”, and occasionally “the talented one”, which are honestly pretty awesome titles, maybe even preferable to just looking hot. But it still rankles that I was never, even if everyone else was knee-deep in an awkward phase, “the pretty one”.

I’ve always felt like I have to rely on my personality to attract people. I can (hopefully) get you to forget the bump in my nose or my too-round face by being charming and making you laugh. If I can rope you into a real conversation, I may have a chance at intriguing you, winning you over, and then maybe you’ll consider boning me. I do not feel confident that I can do this on looks alone. Without the personality factor, I’d probably still be waiting to go on my first date.

I’m not saying that everyone is going to like me for what’s inside: some people think I’m annoying, don’t find me funny, and wish I would shut up so much. But I have a fairly distinct personality that some people are drawn to, and I think that’s been responsible for whatever social and romantic success I’ve had.

Maybe that’s why I find humor, kindness, and intellect so central to what I find attractive in others. I actually find that these affect my evaluation of physical merits. This sort of thing probably happens to most people: you meet someone who seems sort of so-so at first glance, but as you get to know this person’s mind-blowingly cool personality, he seems to get better looking each time you see him. Or, conversely, your first impression of someone might be “Wow, she’s stunning,” but you learn that she’s hideous inside and it’s not just that you’re turned off by her personality, she actually seems to get uglier right before your eyes.

The latter is what happened with my first boyfriend, Reginald Sleeth. When we started seeing each other I thought he was beautiful. It wasn’t just me. I had a picture of him up in my dorm room at university, and girls would sometimes pass through, stare at it, and gush about how gorgeous he was. But by then he’d already flashed his true nature as controlling, abusive, and venomously angry down to his bones. Those girls could say what they wanted; I didn’t see it anymore. Sometimes I could barely even bring myself to touch him, he’d become so unattractive to me.

A less traumatic example occurred in the elevator at a recent Sci Fi convention I attended. Laramy and I stepped on from the twelfth floor, and we both noticed a chick with great tits and a cute face wearing a corset, flying cleavage like a banner from the back corner of the elevator. We both smiled appreciatively to each other; we generally check out the same women, and it’s wonderfully bonding. But within seconds she opened her mouth and started loudly complaining that no one was complimenting her boobs, and she wasn’t getting enough attention. Her aggressive griping continued through three stops on the way down and all the way to the first floor. By the time Laramy and I had reached the lobby we were completely irritated and turned off. She actually went from fetching to repulsive inside of five minutes.

So while looks matter, they’re not everything. I’d rather have someone interesting, witty, sweet, silly, and funny. Okay, and adorable. And I’ve had the good fortune and excellent taste to get more than my fair share of genuinely pretty people into bed. But sometimes adorable comes later, after all that other good stuff, and that can be pretty awesome too.

It’s no secret that I’m a fan of male sex toys. I think they’re every bit as good an idea as their female counterparts, and those are canon in Quizzical Pussyland. I even want a Fleshlight of my own so I can fuck it with my Feeldoe. Is that meta or what?

I say I specifically want a Fleshlight because I’m a little wary of some of the other toys out there. Like with any partner, I have some standards for my sex toys. I’m not saying that my masturbation aids have to be charming, witty, and have pretty eyes. I’m saying that they need to not creep me right the fuck out.

Fleshlights are cute, with a range of neat little orifices and inner textures (lotus, twista, ultra tight, vortex…), many of which seem appealing. The coin-slot “stealth” orifice is the closest these things come to being creepy (I can’t help but think it’d be like fucking a Barbie piggy bank, if there were such a thing), unless you find the hilarious “Succu Dry” vampire-toothed mouth off-putting.

Another  masturbator that seems pretty cool is the Tenga Flip, which looks like a hyperbaric chamber for your cock, or possibly something out of 2001: A Space Odyssey. It might seem a little sexless and sterile for some people, but since I have a well-known robot fetish I’d have no trouble putting my equipment in this docking station. Hopefully the tech wouldn’t revolt and the ending wouldn’t be totally inscrutable.

There are other sleeves and masturbators that seem pretty great. But there are many, many toys for guys out there that seem like catastrophically bad ideas. They’re designed oddly, marketed awkwardly, rendered patently unattractive, or just seem weird somehow. I realize that a vulva or a mouth is more aesthetically complex than, say, a penis, and that might account for some of the problems I’ve seen. But let’s face it, it doesn’t explain away all of them. Let’s examine some of these issues a little more closely:

Terrible Marketing Copy

The Super Head Honcho Masturbator has the following quote in its description: “It’s as good as a blow-job. Women will be dancing in the streets.” You know what guys like to think about while they’re masturbating? How much chicks hate giving them blowjobs! If my boyfriend had one of these and we were about to have sex, I’d definitely just hand him his Super Head Honcho Masturbator and a bottle of lube and tell him, “Enjoy your foreplay! Let me know when you want to fuck. I’ll be on the couch playing Pokemon.”

…Except how I like putting cocks in my mouth and the Head Honcho doesn’t have anything to do with that. That quote is just reinforcing the “Hey, consumer, you can’t get a woman to blow you, so you’d better buy this!” stereotype that I already mentioned I hate. This also seems like a rather dim marketing strategy.

Hilarious Details

Some guys are turned on by a full bush. I’ve had zero real guys complain that I shave mine, but I had a phone sex client who would always treat me to a diatribe about how I was hurting my “poor little peach” and crippling my sexiness whenever I forgot his preference and told him my character was smooth. So there’s a market for pubic hair.

The Full Bush Vibrating Cyberskin Pussy isn’t just a clever name: it was clearly meant to cater to the bush-loving demographic. But I can’t help but think that something went wrong in the execution. Something about it seems a little… off. I don’t think that pubic hair grows the way they think it grows. I vote we rename this “The Swedish Cleft”.

…which brings us to…

Dealbreakingly Embarrassing Name

The design could be absolute genius, the orgasmic promise superb. Still, I just don’t see myself buying a Flip A Sister Over or an ATM (not referring to banking) masturbator. Where I come from we try to keep our masturbation devices classy, thank you very much.

Resembles Something Deeply Troubling

I may never learn why anyone would choose to give the Kinky Virgin Masturbator a scalloped detail around its gaping suggestion of a vulva, but I hope they realize that it gives the toy an eerie vagina dentata/hookworm flavor to it.

However, I don’t have time to worry about The Kinky Virgin. I’m too busy praying to Paul Verhoeven Almighty that the My Cocoa Stroker isn’t hiding under my bed. I can confidently state that this is NOT what pussies are supposed to look like. Why why why would anyone put a body part inside something that looks like the brain bug from Starship Troopers? I loathe the people who brought this abomination into the world and I hate everything they stand for.

WHAT?

The reviews for the UR3 Pocket Ass are really good, and maybe I’m missing something, but does the disembodied finger tugging open its “life-sized” anus add something positive to this toy, or is it just really, really funny?

Real Dolls are arguably kind of creepy, but their anime-inspired Boy Toy line is far creepier. “Hey, Dawg. I heard you like the uncanny valley, so I put your sex doll in the uncanny valley so you can be unsettled while you fuck fake women.”

And don’t even get me started on ROXXXY. Robots are keen, but I’m with Holly on this particular one. I wouldn’t touch this “companion” with a ten-foot arc welder.

In closing, dear god what IS this thing?

I was up way too late, but the Sci Fi convention I was attending had negotiated extended pool hours with the hotel. I couldn’t resist the temptation. I had to check out the hot tub.

I like cons. They’re silly and exuberant and many of my nerdy friends are there. But there are also all these… other people around. Some of them are the “friends you haven’t met” kind of strangers, indubitably, but there are also the “that guy that talks like a robot just farted on me in the elevator” kind. So conventions are admittedly a mixed bag.

Another thing about geeks: they’re often (not all of them, mind, but probably more than average) starved for attention, kinky, and accepting of the social quirks of others. I love this about them, but it puts a little extra pressure on me to be tolerant of quirks I don’t enjoy.

Take, for instance, bad breath. I have nothing against you if you have bad breath. I think you’re, like, fearfully and wonderfully made and stuff, and I’m sure your gorgon breath has nothing to do with dental hygiene and everything to do with a medical condition you can’t control. I’m not saying it’s your fault or that it reflects on you as a person (although I am totally judging you) but I’m still going to want a significant space between your face and mine. I would like you to stay outside the breath bubble, had I my druthers.

…And that’s just one example. But it often comes back to the personal space thing.

But I was talking about general acceptance before I was talking about my raging olfactory hatemongering. Acceptance is good. It’s freeing. Watching some of these people, it’s like a metric ton of societal pressures have been lifted off their shoulders for one weekend and they tool around frenetically, being who they wish they could be every day, in a gentler world.

This is all just a very round about way to say that as I entered the pool enclosure, 90% of the people there were stark naked.

Fandom is populated with some legitimately hot people and a host of other people that aren’t… I mean, that are more… well, people I’m sure are beautiful on the inside. I’m speaking for me here, since everyone finds different things attractive, but I’m going out on a limb and saying that there were three naked people tops at that highly attended pool party who would be considered above-average looks-wise.

Yeah, it’s shitty that my brain made evaluations about which naked people were pretty and which weren’t. They were just hanging out (ha) and not necessarily asking to be stared at and graded by shallow sex bloggers. But guess what? I’m human and I’m anonymously honest on the internet, and my brain probably didn’t do anything yours wouldn’t have. So there.

I wasn’t actually there to gawk at naked or to be naked. I was there to relax a bit in the hot tub before bed. If I flirted with some hot people (naked or clothed) so be it! But personally I’m a little naked shy, so I stripped down to my bra and knickers and grinned at my own cleverness having selected dark colored undies that day.

The sunken hot tub was crowded, but I found some space next to my (betrunked, if you’re curious) friend Crispin Hijanx. We chilled out and maxed, relaxing all cool, trying not to stare directly at anyone’s fun bits. It was all of two minutes before a naked (not ugly, if you’re curious) guy I’d never seen before came up and started small-talking me. I made some fairly bland, exhausted answers, failing in my attempts to not watch a curvy girl with an awesome ass ascend the hot tub stairs and dive into the nearby pool. When she was safely submerged, I turned back to my nameless naked companion.

“So,” he said, now that he had my attention, “you’re not going topless?”

I looked down at my bra “No. No, I guess I’m not.” Actually none of the women there were topless. They were naked or suited. But I guess Nameless Naked Dude thought boobs would be a good start.

“Why not?” Hmmmm. I’d never had a stranger ask me why I wasn’t showing him my tits before. His tone creeped me out: like he wasn’t mad, just disappointed. Like I was cheating him out of something. I suddenly felt oddly exposed. With all the flesh in that room he was feeling petulant that my breasts (probably the smallest pair in the room, even) were going to remain a mystery.

The cute thing about carefree light-hearted nudity is that no one makes that a big deal of it and no one solicits it. Everyone’s enjoying it, sure. That’s natural. But I don’t think that a hot tub needs an Ambassador of Naked. I didn’t have to flash Crispin the “save me” eyes or anything, but the whole exchange did convince me that the best way to get me to keep clothes on is to creepily request that I remove them. Maybe that was Nameless Naked Dude’s cunning plan all along: to keep me covered and hasten my departure. If so, his naked fu is very good.

Or: Let’s all have a chuckle at my needlessly intricate self-loathing!

When I first started masturbating with mens rea and intent to get off (rather than my earlier preteen system, which was basically “Wow, neat! This feels cool! I wonder if other people know about this!”) I ran into a slight problem when it came to fantasizing.

I hadn’t discovered the wonders of visual aids yet, so all I really had was my libido and my imagination. I would lie alone in bed in the silent, friendly dark, thinking about sex. I only had a rough idea of what sex was at this point, but I could feel the vague promise of it purring down between my legs. I wanted to pretend it was more than that, though. I wanted to think about what it would be like to share that lust and that dark with someone: another body, a counterpoint breath weaving through mine. But there was this difficulty, you see.

I couldn’t figure out an honest way to fantasize about sex. I could not realistically conceive of anyone actually wanting to have sex with me. No one had ever told me that boys only wanted one thing from me, but if they had I wouldn’t have believed it for a second. I was shy, undesired, awkward, unattractive, uninteresting: being invisible was the best I could hope for. Being admired was something that only happened to other girls. How was I going to pretend I had a willing partner? My suspension of disbelief just wasn’t that good. I’d start composing a story in my head about some attractive guy from school touching me and my brain would jump in, “Wait wait wait. Are you delusional? Every girl he goes out with is stylish and thin and decidedly unhideous. This fantasy is ridiculous!” And pop! I’d lose the budding narrative. I was usually too disgusted with myself to try again.

I wouldn’t even let myself imagine an anonymous guy. “Nope. Not buying it. No one would ever want to touch your boobies.” I had to admit I had a point.

But horniness really is the slutty cougar mom of invention. It wasn’t long before I came up with an ingenious way for “fantasy me” to get sex without overburdening my skepticism and turning all my masturbation sessions into self-harangues about how ugly and worthless I was. I didn’t imagine myself thinner, prettier, or with better social skills. I did way better…I turned to Sci Fi.

I’d pretend myself into a dystopian society where as some strange ritual, everyone in my high school had to have sex with one of our schoolmates as determined by blind lottery. It was kind of like a Battle Royale key party. Each girl went into a cramped little chamber that was furnished with a bed, and there we waited for our surprise sex partner to enter. No one knew what or whom they were getting into until the door opened. Of course, my guy always turned out, through the magical luck of daydreams, to be whichever one I fancied especially at the moment.

Once my crush opened the door and realized it was me his face would fall (my hypercritical brain demanded this). Mortified, I’d immediately apologize for not being someone attractive, but he’d reassure me that it was really okay; he knew it wasn’t my fault, and besides, he’d always thought I was kind of funny. Oh good. Funny. And that’s when the fun could start. Then and only then would my brain allow me to fantasize about having sex. It was like the cheat code for my self-loathing.

I was so sure that no one would ever voluntarily fuck me, which is weird because I later found out that several of the guys I locked in that fictional sex pod with me would’ve had all sorts of sex with me in real life if I’d given the least encouragement. I’m so glad I eventually stopped being a teenager.

Laramy was about to get up from his computer chair to do something that was probably a medium amount of pressing when I suddenly grabbed the armrest, wheeled him around and pulled him toward me. Then I kissed him… not super roughly, exactly, but not gently either.

“You know you could just ask me to come over and kiss you, right?” he cocked his head like a very quizzical puppy. Laramy thinks I’m silly. He’s likely correct.

“Sometimes it’s more fun to manhandle you a little,” I admitted. “You know you like it.”

“Yup,” he gave me a reassuring whisper of a kiss; then, pulling back, his lips curled into a little grin. “Hey, do you remember when we first started hanging out, and you were so timid? We just cuddled and kissed a little for weeks and weeks…”

“Yeah. So did it surprise you when you figured out I’m a sex fiend?”

“It did. But it was a good surprise.” I’m usually one of those infuriating people who don’t know how to accept positive statements about themselves without a struggle, but I took his word on that one. I’m sure it was a relief when we finally stopped just cuddling.

Freaks are the best. Whenever there’s a possibility of playing with someone new, I always hope I have a sex-crazed maniac on my hands. Because honestly, if you don’t have a stellar sex drive I’m going to want eight of you. But I’m sure I would be dismayed evaluating myself at first… you know, if I were hoping to fuck myself. I’m a stealth freak. On a first date, for instance, I’m basically just a little warmer than my basic non-flirting technique. I’m not very physical; I probably end up talking less about sex than I do with random strangers or my coworkers. Sadly.

I think I’m almost afraid of how much power sex, orgasms, and by extension anyone who provides me with them, can have over me. I’m also worried about unleashing the full weight of my sexual desire on people. I’m concerned that it will crush them into a bloody, quivering pulp, or worse, turn them off. I guess you could say that my sex drive actually intimidates me, so I don’t hold out much hope for a near-stranger. I’m glad not everyone has hangups like these because then human reproductive activity for sport or species would be like Vogon paperwork: there would be so much senseless delay and complication that nothing new would ever get started.

And that would make the quizzical pussy very sad, to the point where maybe she’d have to suck it up and grab some crotches! Respectfully, of course.

I’m actually horrible about initiating sex, for the aforementioned reasons. I simply don’t do it at all. Being more or less always up for making the beast with two backs, I’ve fallen into the unhealthy habit of always letting other people decide when they want me and just waiting, doing calming breathing exercises, and praying to Our Lady of Thwarted Libido in between these times. It’s not a flawless system, so learning to initiate sex is yet another thing on my “To work on” list. Making out initiation, though? That I can manage to do without an order, signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public enquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months.

If you read this blog and haven’t yet realized that I’m sort of a geek, I find your naivete both charming and worrisome. I’m not claiming to be geeky in any useful or entertaining sense: I’m not working on a new app for your iPhone or anything, and I’ve gnawed through the necks of zero chickens so far, but I like sci fi and video games and nobody talked to me in high school, so I guess that’s what’s important here.

And considering I’m a geeky girl who can remember any part of the late eighties/early nineties, you sure as hell know I wanted to fuck Data. You know, Lieutenant Commander Data of the Starship Enterprise, from Star Trek: The Next Generation… the pasty, stoic android with a heart of gold (proverbially speaking). I don’t know what it was about him, but I think most little girls who grew up on TNG grew up wanting to get on Data (or maybe it was just me, but I cherish my delusions). Maybe it was because he was childlike yet adult, so we could relate to him but also perceive him as a sexually mature male. Maybe it was the Pinocchio pathos of his whole story arc. Anyway, when I was a wee lass I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to do with Data, but I certainly knew I wanted him, especially when he dressed up as Sherlock Holmes. I’m wet as October just thinking about it.

That early crush may be a contributing factor in the lust I later developed for the replicant cyborg Bryan Fury from the Tekken games. I even wrote a series of haiku for Bryan. Among them:

Cyborgs are machines!
I like to grab your joystick
It’s just two quarters

I also had ravenous crushes on Tasha Yar, Geordi LaForge, and Beverly Crusher, whom I credit with my later interest in chicks with short hair, literature, and… er… blinky scanner thingies, respectively. I’d probably still pine for Jean-Luc Picard to this day if I didn’t identify with him so strongly. I’m really a bald, French, male starship commander with an English accent trapped in a woman’s body, you know.

But I have to admit that I haven’t watched much TNG since I was a kid, so when Laramy asked me, “You’ve seen the episode where Yar and Data fuck, right?” I was like “Whaaaaaa?” because while I’m sure I saw it back in the eighties, I’m also positive that I had nothing approaching any concept of what was going on in sex scenes until circa 1993.

So, of course, we had to watch The Naked Now, like, now. While naked. Just kidding. Although we probably should’ve thought of that.

In The Naked Now, the crew of the Enterprise is infected by some exotic water molecules, which pick up carbon from their bodies and somehow produce dramatic intoxication, rendering everyone completely uninhibited and wacky. This was the second episode ever of TNG, and in it they had basically everyone break character, which is an odd choice for so early in their development. But anyway, all you have to know is that Tasha Yar seduces Data (whom we learn is fully functional and programmed in multiple techniques, a wide variety of pleasuring), but she wasn’t in her right mind so we the audience aren’t obligated to think she’s a slut. What the fuck is that, anyway? The only time this character can exhibit sexual agency is when she has zero personal agency? That’s super weak. Tasha had every right to keep boning like mad until she got killed by that evil blob guy.

I explained as we were watching that I used to want to lick Data like a 9-volt battery, and Laramy suggested I fulfill the old fantasy: all I’d need is a white dildo with a subtle shimmer.

…

That’s when it hit me. That dildo already exists. I’ve been making fun of it for months! Sweet William H. Macy on a stick!

Have you seen this? It’s called the Vamp. Toymaker Tantus thought it would be a good idea to capitalize on the Twilight series mania, and made a dildo that was pale, shimmery, and retains temperature. Put it in the fridge for a couple hours and bingo, you’re fucking Edward fucking Cullen. But it occurred to me that this novelty dildo was perfect for fucking Data, too. I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Tantus.

And really, isn’t the super creepy, controlling vampire heartthrob that has captured the hearts of repressed, immature females everywhere actually just a poor woman’s Data? I trudged through part of the first Twilight book before it put me off my feed, so I know what I’m talking about here: Edward Cullen is cave creature-pale, has yellowish eyes, isn’t quite human, has superpowers, and uses unwieldy diction. Sure the details are different: Data has more awesome, less emo powers like logic and speed reading against Edward’s preternatural moping and mind reading. But really, the major difference between them is that Data doesn’t suck, and he doesn’t hesitate to pleasure (with wide variety) a lady when she asks nicely. Now that’s a character truly deserving of his own dildo.  Plus, he isn’t profoundly troubling like some other pasty anthropomorphs I might mention. Could everyone please stop teaching young girls to fetishize abusive relationships? Eschew trashy supernatural abstinence porn, kiddies, and embrace the high tech lechery of science fiction.

Now, to order a Vamp and emblazon the Starfleet logo on the bottom. Oh, my delicious android: I’ve waited far too long.