quizzical pussy

You already know that friendship is magic, right? Well it is. And here’s a ConTuesday devoted to the aforementioned magic, in several of its manifestations. Also, there might be ponies.

Someone should create a poly etiquette book. What is the appropriate thing to say to your fuckbuddy’s roommate’s friend with benefits/girlfriend-without any-commitment when you’re left alone with her while your partners sort out the pizza situation? How forward is it appropriate to be when your friend has just introduced you to her partner, assuming she’s been trying to set up both of you for days? Do you have to say something if your partner has a really obnoxious other partner?

Emily Post never covers this shit.

I completely agree. Someone should write an etiquette book. I am in no way qualified to write one, but I may attempt to do so anyway because I’m always getting myself in over my head and by now it’s a comfortable feeling. It’ll probably just say that when in doubt treat everyone like a friend, and load as much pig onto your pizza as possible.

I’m no Emily Post.

I was talking to my sexy friend whom I really trust, tonight. She was telling me about her hot fantasies that she wish that she could engage in with her boyfriend, my friend. I found the fantasies to be, um, engaging. I asked her, out of loyalty for my friend: ”Why don’t you tell your boyfriend about your secret desire to do this?”

She answered immediately, without a pause, ”Does the phrase ’mutual confidence’ mean anything to you? If I don’t get reciprical trust, I’m not telling him.”

I was touched by the direct implication; I trusted her, so she trusted me.

I was hurt for my friend, her boyfriend. This looks like the beginning to the end. Or, more to the point, that their problems had come to a middle.

I was sort of excited the same way that we all are when we’re told a secret.

Tell her your deepest secrets, boys, else she might share hers with an outside friend, who has no right. No right, I tell you!!

This makes perfect sense to me. If a partner doesn’t share their fantasies with me I don’t feel I have permission to share mine with them. Without reciprocity it would feel like I was just asking for favors rather than getting closer to them. Even under the best relationship circumstances, it’s sometimes easier to be honest about my dirty daydreams with someone who will never feel obligated to fulfill them, like a friend with whom I’m very unlikely to ever get it on. But that last part may only apply to me, keeping in mind that I’m way too neurotic.

But anyway, I have to say that a friend has every right to whatever secrets you feel comfortable sharing. Trust is no small thing.

My wife and I hung out with sexy, fun, flirty friends tonight; got tremendously worked up while cuddling and touching; and spent some time wanking and talking about the sexy times we wish were had. I assume this is why the pilgrims came here!

This is exactly why the pilgrims came here. Of course, they would probably want to burn you or hang you or put letters on all your shirts, but in a more abstract way, it is exactly why they came here.

I hope there was also pie. And cake. And pie baked into cake.

This year at my favourite music festival I hooked up with a guy. It started with dancing, as it always does. It ended in his tent, hot and sweaty and twisted in the sheets. The next afternoon he introduced me to his friends who were sitting outside the tent while we were fucking. At some point he mentioned an ex in a strange way so I asked how recent she was. He got all sheepish and shy and told me that the girl I’d met earlier was his ex of 10 days! Thankfully, I’d been friendly to her earlier and she’d been nice to me, but talk about awkward when I saw her again the next morning.

This looks like a job for Poly Emily Post!

I’m normally cool as a cucumber and unaffected by lewd and crude joking, but my husband’s best friend’s 18 year old brother comes on to me and I can’t handle it. He sort of has a Mrs Robinson thing for me and even just him flirting with me makes me horny enough to rip my clothes off. Sooner or later, my husband’s going to pick up on the fact we have incredible sex after this kid has been at our house.

If there’s one thing I learned from the third confession (and, incidentally, my own cabal of amazingly sexy friends. Hi, sexy friends!), it’s that getting turned on by your friends is a grand idea, and it can enhance your sex life. Friends’ brothers might count too, I don’t really know. But, your mileage may vary greatly, I suppose.

I’ll close with ponies.

I want this outfit almost as much as I want your deepest, darkest secrets.

(image source)

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Here we have a wild ConTuesday in its natural habitat, with a resplendent display of sex confessions from anonymous donors. I have literally never been on a safari with this many dildos, have you?

I love my partner massively (oh dear, does any confession that starts that way end well?), but I’ve gotten into a vicious cycle with him that I don’t know how to fix. We went through a rough patch in terms of his sex drive, so that on the rare occasions he did want it, he’d want it at the most comfortable situation for him (late at night, when we’re both about half asleep) which is the total opposite of most comfortable for me (i am a morning person who really, really likes to talk before/during/after sex). Now, when our sex life is normal, this is no problem–we’ll have that sleepy sex sometimes, and wild, crazy early sex some other times, no problem. But when the former was all I was getting, I found I wasn’t really able to come very much (highly unusual for me), which dwindled to ”not at all” and then to ”it feels tickly and uncomfortable when you touch me sexually.” which I guess is some sort of half-burie d resentment about our sex life no longer being even a little bit about me. And so, to make matters worse, when I try to initiate sex and he goes for it, I only feel turned on for a minute or two before feeling all resentful and…tickly again. I can masturbate no problem, and we’re nonmonogamous, and I don’t have these feelings with other partners, so it’s definitely psychological rather than physical. I’m usually so good at talking out my feelings, but this one has gotten so tangled up (and has gone on so long–months!) that I don’t even know where to begin that might have some small chance of not being incredibly hurtful and unproductive. Any ideas, O Sex Guru of the Anonymous Internet?

Someone mature and experienced in positive relationship communication is going to come along and read this any minute now, I just know it, and they’re going to give some really killer advice.

Until then, I will take a stab. First, if you’ve neglected to tell your boyfriend any of what you described above, you should get cracking on that. He might think the status is quo, when for you it is, in fact, not. More specifically, you need some fully-awake energetic sex that is sometimes about you to be okay with your sex life; this cannot remain ambiguous. Those needs are healthy and okay, I swear.

Secondly, once he knows this you could benefit from a sex reset. Since I just now made up that term, I should probably explain: a weekend or even a day where you guys can make it a point to have a metric ton of amazing sex. Maybe there can be romantic shit too. Just rediscover each other and specifically try to stop taking sex for granted, and see if that helps you feel less resentful and maybe helps him take you less for granted.

Thirdly, you sent this in months ago and I just now got to it and I’m truly sincerely hoping things are better now and all this advice is completely redundant.

Last night I finally got to fuck the guy I’ve been crushing on for the last 8 months. He was hotter with his clothes off than I had imagined. It wasn’t quite up to what I had been fantasising, but man did he give good head.

Internet high five for you!

i keep a glass bottle on my desk. my boyfriend thinks it’s meant to be a bud vase, but i use it as a dildo nigh every night. even though i love with the man, i still need my ”me” time regularly.

See what I mean about dildos?

I have no basis for saying this whatsoever and am in fact just making shit up here, but what are the odds your boyfriend hasn’t looked at that bottle and had absolutely valid and realistic thoughts about what you’re doing with it? The coolest part is if he thought he was being impossibly lewd.

Again, no basis. None.

I’m the person who confessed about the husband and brother in law fantasy, and you’re dead right: my husband would be shattered if I ever told him. He and his brother are *very* competitive, and their relationship, like most siblings (I guess! I don’t have any) is pretty complicated. However, there are a lot of fantasies that are better left in your head, so it’s no biggie to have this lurking around back in my id, where I can safely let it out for a trot now and then, and then safely shut it back up. :)

You are a wise one.

The other day Laramy and I were talking about the “call me daddy” phenomenon (which has never been my thing, but I’m not knocking it) and he suggested I call him my father’s actual full name during sex, just to be really authentic. And while he was almost certainly kidding (I fervently hope, and need to believe), I can’t help but think that little gem would have been better off left in his head.

I recently purchased my first dildo. I’ve always had plenty of toys, I just never thought a dildo would be worthwhile because they seem so single-function… boy was I wrong! Me and Chakotay (as I have affectionately named it) are having a grand ol’ time.

Let me get this straight: you named your dildo after a Star Trek character? That is like a magical sex unicorn playing Holy Diver on an enchanted electric guitar made out of dildos and true love! Or, in layman’s terms, it’s awesome. And it brings us back to dildos.

Want to share a secret? Become the creature.

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It is a reality of chronic illness that some days you decide to get out of bed and conquer the world and your body laughs in your face and tells you to lie the fuck back down. Pain and having all the available energy of a newborn kitten never get any less convincing at times like these. So I was in bed at Laramy’s place on the morning of his day off, idly reading tvtropes¹ on my laptop while he did something or other on his computer across the room. Laramy would swoop down every so often to kiss me and ask me if I needed anything.

I wish I could be a better girlfriend. The kind who takes you on magical adventures and gets you adrenaline drunk hours after last call. The kind who spends energy like tap water, who doesn’t ration out every movement, moment, drive, and task. The kind you can take rock climbing. Not that Laramy climbs all that many rocks, but that’s not the point. The point is, if he wanted to I probably couldn’t go with him.

But today I just wanted to accompany him to the grocery store, and even that wasn’t looking good. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad,” Laramy nestled in beside me after refilling my water bottle. What I didn’t tell him is how normal this is. How often I spend all day in bed. How I have to save up energy to come see him and function at not-even-half his level. I don’t have to. He’s seen me much worse. Instead, we cuddle.

“Were you reading TV Tropes?” he asks me. For someone who ends up reading over my shoulder so often, he maintains that he doesn’t see what’s so interesting about it. But I like it. It’s a glorious waste of time when you’re too tired to do anything useful.

I shake my head and grimace in mock guilt. “No. Not at all. I would never! In a million” kiss “billion” kiss “years!” At least half of our dialog is pure nonsense. Always. But we laugh a lot.

But then his hands were on me. My laptop closed. Our kisses deepened. My hands were on him, stroking his belly, grabbing his ready cock. His fingers found my clit, lingering there and making me wriggle until they slammed into me. For a moment I considered how much energy an orgasm or six would cost me, and then he growled “Come for me,” in my ear. When he does that I always seem to drop everything and comply.

What we had likely approached the most incredibly stupendous sex possible considering one of us could barely move.

I wish I could be a better lay sometimes. The athletic, high-energy kind. The Cirque du Soleil kind who makes you wish you’d set up the camcorder beforehand because no one is ever going to believe this shit. But Laramy still grinned his sleepy grin at me and told me I’m amazing anyway. And I couldn’t not believe him because I was there and he was right: we have amazing sex and dammit, I’m half of it. Or at very least one-third. In your healthy fucking faces, circus folk.

“I’m feeling much better,” I informed him a few minutes after we’d untangled from each other. I got up and started putting on clothes. “Still want to go grocery shopping?”

“Wow, you really are feeling better.”

“I just needed a good rogering all along!” It was a couple hours before I had to tuck myself in again. You can’t possibly know what 120 minutes of functioning is worth to me, unless you are me, but suffice to say it’s not nothing.

Have I mentioned? My boyfriend is my favorite. Endorphins are my second favorite.

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1. Warning: All links in this entry will take you directly to an online time-sucking device. QP Corp is not responsible for any lost productivity. In fact, QP Corp is not responsible for anything. Ever. [↩]

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People send me anonymous confessions, I post them here, and you all read them. But what happens then? Do you get inspired to lewd, unspeakable acts that you can’t share with anyone so you send them to me as anonymous confessions?

Dear God I hope so. Let the cycle begin!

I was goofing off with my boyfriend and generally having a tickle fight, when I somehow convinced him to let me stick a vibrator in his belly button (his prime tickle spot).

I highly recommend doing this. You (probably) won’t get off, but it is hilarious nonetheless.

File this under ”Weird-Assed Things to Do With Sex Toys”. =P

It’s Monday night as I compile this ConTuesday, and I just had a huge dinner of homemade beef shawarma and hummus.  So I guess what I’m saying is that there is no way in hell I’m sticking a vibrator in my belly button right now. But I will have to remember to try this because now I’m curious and it sounds hilarious.

If anyone else wants to send suggestions for weird-assed things to do with sex toys, maybe I will try them when my stomach doesn’t hurt! Maybe.

When I was a wee lass of 18, I had my artist younger brother/bff draw me something pretty so I could get a tattoo. It was a flower, and after careful consideration of where I was and was not likely to gain/lose a lot of weight, I chose to have it done on the small of my back. Several years later this turned into a trend and became known as the tramp stamp. At first I thought ”fuck you guys, I love being a tramp and this is a very reasonable place for a lady to get tattooed.” But, over time, the idea of the tramp stamp has worn on me, to the point where I now feel ashamed to have this thing that I once thought of as a beautiful expression of affection for my brother. On top of that, I feel ashamed for feeling ashamed because I know it’s a sexist and ridiculous way of characterizing a piece of body art. Nonetheless, it makes me feel anxious about revealing my body to new sex partners. Ugh.

I bet it’s beautiful.

My boyfriend doesn’t want to marry me and it makes me so sad.

In other words, I have the most stereotypical girly-girl problem ever. If he found out how much it means to me he’d feel bad but he’ll never change his mind, so what good’s telling him? I don’t have anyone I can confide in. Which of my badass feminist friends, some of whom can’t even legally marry their partners, am I supposed to bitch to about this one?

Straight people and gay people and even badass feminist people are allowed to want to get married to the people they love. It might never happen with your current partner if he really isn’t interested in marriage, and that will either have to be okay or a deal-breaker eventually, but your desire is valid and there is nothing wrong with it. Also, I think good friends have the ability to care about your problems in the context of your life, without needing to necessarily compare situations. They want you to be happy, right? And this is making you sad, so I suspect they’d be there for you on this one.

A while ago I had a crush on this guy who was really into X-men. Wolverine was his favorite. It never went anywhere, but I did have this reoccurring fantasy about blowing him while he was watching X-Men Origins: Wolverine (the movie made to make Hugh Jackman take his shirt off) since that was the closest I would I ever be able to get to a threesome with him and Wolverine. Sadly, I don’t think he would have appreciated my line of reasoning.

I bet a lot of guys would secretly appreciate your line of reasoning. If you want Wolverine in addition to someone rather than instead of them, doesn’t that mean they can, in one sense at least, hold their own against Wolverine? And isn’t that pretty boss? Or is that just my twisted nerdy sex logic?

Tell the world something about your sex life. Who knows what (or who) will come of it?

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I hope everyone had a wonderful, magical, and maybe also sinister Halloween, depending on how you like them. I decided to take it easy and watch documentaries all evening, which is too bad because I had my costume all planned out and everything. I was going to be Sexy Carl Sagan.

But, for the sake of argument let’s say I was Sexy Carl Sagan for Halloween. In fact, I’m probably still in costume right now, as you read this. Pondering the cosmos. Probably. And here are some anonymous internet confessions that are probably mostly, but maybe not entirely, unrelated to Halloween. But they are all related to The Universe. Remember, if you want to confess a sexual secret, you must first invent the Universe.

So, my girlfriend and I had snuck into a park late at night to have some fun. We were in the middle of things when we heard voices from further up the path. We quickly put our respective parts back in their respective holders and wandered back. It turns out that a group of teenagers, fresh from grad had stumbled into the park to hang out. We exchanged awkward pleasantries and went our separate ways.

At least until they were almost out of sight. We were fucking again before they even turned the corner. Public sex is much better when there is a public that might see you.

Our species needs, and deserves, a citizenry with minds wide awake and a basic understanding of how sex in public works.

I desperately wish I could get release. I’ve tried sex with men, women, people I loved, some I liked, some I’d just met. I’ve tried it rough, sweet, and with most every toy you can get in a typical erotica store. Masturbating does less than nothing for me. There’s nothing wrong with my libido, though. I’m pretty much constantly horny. I’m MARRIED, I GAVE BIRTH without ever having an orgasm. I felt pretty ripped off during that. My husband tries so hard, but either it just starts hurting really, really bad after a little while or it doesn’t do anything at all. My mind kind of wanders and I start thinking about whether or not I should go grocery shipping tomorrow.
My doctor gave me a prescription to ramp up my libido. So I was super horny and still completely frustrated. My therapist said it was a medical problem, see the doctor.

Okay, I’m going to stop being Sexy Carl Sagan for a minute and tell you I hope this happens for you. I wish I could help somehow. Not in a creepy way, I swear. Sexy Carl Sagan is never creepy.

I have a really hard time being ”in the moment” during sex. Don’t get me wrong, it feels so good, and I usually have an orgasm (often several) but I can’t stop myself from being distracted by minutia. The weirdest things will pop into my head and I will go down a thought train of randomness, then I will be like, ”shit, he’s going down on me, pay attention!”

I feel like a big fake. This is why I love drunk sex.

We live in a society exquisitely dependent on science, technology, and booze, in which hardly anyone knows anything about science and technology. Booze we have a pretty good handle on.

I was a little depressed about how little sex that I was getting from my wife, so I decided to keep track. I began sending myself emails whenever I’d get any sexual activity, or whenever I was turned down from overt requests that I made to her. I’ll admit that originally, I did it to keep track of the turn-downs (I was pretty unhappy about the situation), but I’ve been using it more to gleefully note the successes, lately. I put the emails into a folder marked ”SexLog,” and note the date of the event in the title. (sometimes it takes a day or two to put it up.) Then in the body of the email, I describe the event. Sometimes they just say, ”Normal sex. Missionary. I initiated. Both came. Quick.” But sometimes I’ll go into explicit detail, and going back to read them, it’s kinda hot.

So it is that my SexLog, which I originally created out of a bit of spite, has actually become a rather positive thing in my sex life. I have several times rolled over in bed, gasping and covered with a sheen of salacious sweat, thinking, ”I can’t wait to write that one up!

Sadly, a count of the last 9 months shows that we average right at one sexual encounter (BJ, HJ, or PinV) a week. That part is still kind of depressing.

When you make the finding yourself – even if you’re the last person on Earth to see the light – you’ll never forget it. You have it pretty damn good, is what I’m saying, I guess. Of course, Sexy Carl Sagan would also like to get laid more than once a week, so Sexy Carl Sagan feels your pain.

Confess your sexy secrets here. Perhaps it will make you feel not-quite-so-small in an indescribably vast cosmos. I mean, at least it couldn’t hurt.

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I’ve been researching lucid dreaming lately. Why? Because sex in space, that’s why. And other awesomely impossible things that I will totally get to do whenever I feel like it.

I read somewhere that the first step is keeping a dream journal, which I always thought sounded all New Age and twee, but the reasoning turns out to be sound. If your brain knows that you’re going to be writing down what’s happening in your dreams it will start paying more attention to remembering them, and attentive dreaming is only a few rungs down from lucid dreaming.

As someone who can barely ever remember her dreams, my dream journal entries so far are each only one or two sentences long, and I’ve only been able to write anything at all for four days in the past seven.

So far, I have:

14 Oct 2011

I had a feeling I couldn’t trust the red blotchy stone.

16 Oct 2011

A snarky commando guy was annoying. Someone was attacking us.

17 Oct 2011

Party planning of some kind, possibly with high school marching band director. I sucked at cake decorating.

And, my personal favorite, this morning’s scintillating

20 Oct 2011

Someone sent me an email survey.

Yes, seriously. So that is the entire week’s dreams as I’ve been able to remember them. Keep in mind that I sleep about nine hours a night rather than, oh, say fifteen minutes. Operation: Lucid Dreaming is going to be a resounding success; I can just feel it.

There is one question for which my infant dream journal provides no answers, though: Why did I wake up with a desperate longing to feel someone’s fingers push inside me and beckon me, coax me into a frenzy? The crush of my orgasm, the spray, the prayerful breath, the deep, deep swoon. The thought was there fully-formed when I opened my eyes, a real and complete thing, indivisible. Not cock, not tongue, not toy, and you’d better believe not my own god damn fingers would do. I wanted this like the day was born to see me want it.

So obviously I’m wondering what was in that email survey.

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I often forget I’m an extravert. Most of the time I don’t really feel like one. I’m normally not very shy, but I can be reserved at times, and I do eventually stop talking once I run out of things I can convince myself are at least the tiniest bit interesting to other people.

But my Myers-Briggs type starts with an E¹, for whatever that’s worth, and I’ve noticed that being social with people I like does indeed energize me more than time alone. In fact, quite often the former can feel like a euphoric drug. Which I suppose makes me some kind of junkie… besides the orgasm kind, which we already knew about.

But, strangely enough, the E doesn’t actually stand for “Everyone love me NOW!” Orientation isn’t skill, and as it turns out, a vowel doesn’t magically make me the life of the party.

For an instance, the people I already knew who attended last week’s poly munch with me all came back with at least one or two new Fetlife friends. In my case, not so much. I’m pretty sure this means I’m doing munches wrong, or at least that E is most definitely not for “makes friends Easily”. Which again, like my continuing addiction to orgasms, we (or at least I) already knew.

But even though I had moments of feeling like I had nothing to say and no one to say it to, the people were awesome and geeky and I’ve probably seen at least half of them wandering around local Sci Fi cons over the years. We’re not friends yet, obviously, but I could see it happening. Eventually.

So that’s cool.

Going back to vowels, Laramy’s a classic I, and wasn’t in the mood to meet a score of new people, no matter how enticingly geeky they might have been. But I think he might enjoy it another time.

A digression: To overgeneralize blatantly, I can imagine downsides and upsides to every introversion/extraversion configuration: Two Es never getting lonely, but also never shutting up, or two Is becoming blissfully happy shut-ins. An I and an E probably balance each other out fairly well, but it’s important to make sure the I’s needs for time alone are respected because it’s easy for Es to overbook their partners in the process of wanting to share the fun, and the Is can get burned out very quickly that way. When really Es can be social with other people while the Is recharge. So it needs to be I before E. Except after C, which is children. Once you have children you don’t get to be alone anymore, ever. Sorry.

(digression ends)

After mentioning jealousy in my last post, I realized that I didn’t make it clear that jealousy is not something I’m particularly struggling with right now. Rather, it’s just an example of a thing I wish I had someone to talk to about. Currently, there are a lot of things like that: my curiosity about kink, navigating my first open relationship, even just figuring out how to make sure my emotional needs get met.

I’m allowed to talk to Laramy about these things, but it’s difficult for me to make the conversations productive because he and I relate to these issues so differently (and in the case of kink, Laramy is more or less just not interested). I don’t know if it’s our vowels or if it’s other letters, or if it’s just that I have a really difficult time describing my wants and needs, but things don’t seem to go well when we try to have these talks. It seems like it’s better to have myself sorted out before I broach these subjects with him, otherwise I just end up making him think he’s doing something wrong.

But sometimes I want emotional support while I process things and explore all aspects of how I feel about them. I want to feel like it’s safe to explore new things. I don’t want to worry about things getting a little messy. It’s no one’s fault, unless perhaps it’s my own, but I don’t feel like I have that. Lately I’m feeling overwhelmed and lonely and frustrated.

Obviously I don’t expect anyone to step in and fix these issues for me. It would just be nice to have someone to talk to, at some point, who could relate to what I’m feeling, not think I’m ungrateful or talking shit about my boyfriend, not blame him, not blame our non-monogamy, and maybe give me some advice. Or, like, a hug. Most of all I want someone to tell me it’s okay– normal, even– to feel things and want things and need things. Right now I want so much. I feel ravenous with it, and it’s beginning to consume me.

Oh, god! I hope it doesn’t start on my ass…

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1. More precisely, I’m supposedly an ENTP, for those who are curious [↩]

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Anyone feeling libidinous lately? I jockeyed myself through about fourteen orgasms yesterday, although to be fair I only squirted three or four times. As my victory lap, I’m posting confessions I find especially hot in some way (or at least inspire me to think dirty thoughts). I actually get a lot of arousing confessions, and they wouldn’t all fit in this ConTuesday installment without the compilation thereof cutting drastically into my masturbation time, so perhaps this will be the first of several “QP’s Choice” ConTuesdays. Who knows?

But seriously. This way lies hotness.

When I was in studying philosophy in undergrad, I would regularly be reading something so interesting that I’d somehow get aroused and have to take a masturbation break.

I feel weird defining myself as a sapiosexual because that implies that I’m such a smartypants I get to decide who and what is intelligent and then use it to satisfy my own sordid desires, but fuck it. I’m pretty much a sapiosexual and this makes me feel funny in my smartypants.

This is Confessor #4 from June 7th: I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he never called. Ah well.

I have this funny feeling it was his loss entirely. Thanks for the update.

This is very very simple. From an early age, I had a terrible crush on a totally amazing older ”father figure” man. He was well-off, well-educated, well-traveled, well-read, well-everything. Tall, slender but strong, blue eyes, darkblonde hair, wonderful voice. He had lost his first wife years ago, married again, had two children with his second wife and I had never met his children because we didn’t live in my hometown anymore. (Actually, we lived in the country, all of us. He had homes in several places.

Years go by, I run into this man, about ten years older than I…and he seemed so familiar and so nice and handsome and sexy and elegant and classy. Ta-da! My preteen crush’s son…over that summer I attended several family functions and parties…the two of them were there. OMG! His father, my serious first crush, had only gotten more handsome, more charming, and he and his second wife were still very much in love. I was considered too young to date this man’s son by my strict father…but I was allowed to go on many family trips and visits.

As if my little mind had a mind of its own, soon, very detailed dreams began of being, uhmm, sexually and romantically involved with one or the other of these two men. And wait. There’s more. Sometimes, the dream revolved around being with the Father…and he and his son ”share” me. Then, it switched, in this dream, the son and I are very very involved and somehow, the son and father began to share me. In incredible and erotic and intense ways. I never really lost my crush on the Father…and I may have seriously fell in love with his son…only our age difference got in the way and then I met my beloved husband.

To this day, we occasionally see this family socially and in and around town. The father’s lovely wife recently passed away, tragically. The son…oh my. He’s very much a chip off the ol’ block. Two more handsome elegant charming and truly kind men, are hard to find.

And I still have vivid dreams and yes, fantasies of belonging to both of these men, and of course, now include in various ways…my beloved husband.

I. Am. So. Bad!

Just for the record, I think it’s really sweet and romantic that your husband now figures into your fantasies. It has to be true love when you share with your lover in even your most hidden fantasies.

I have a cute friend. A cute friend, recently available, whom I would kind of like to fool around with. I think it could be a lot of fun for both of us, probably not too serious, good times all around. Sadly, the cute friend has an extraordinarily crazy ex, and, alas! I am having serious reservations about involving myself in any of it.

Clearly you’re wise beyond your years, ignoring the fact that I have no idea how old you actually are. Too many of us would grasp the shiny and ignore the giant warning signs that we would have to file a restraining order before the whole thing was through.

I feel bad for cute friend, though. One (possibly sustained for quite some time) bad decision could potentially hobble cute friend’s fooling around prospects for years, depending on how scary the ex is. This is why we need to start training and distributing Hell’s-going-to-have-no-fury sniffing dogs (who should all be Papillons because awwwww). Prevention is the best cure here.

But failing adorable toy dogs and time machines, sneaking around can be really hot if you want to start fucking not wisely but too well.

My girlfriend posted on twitter tonight that I had left a pair of my panties at her house after spending the weekend there. A few moments later, she texted my to say she’d just masturbated while wearing them. It’s one of the hottest texts I’ve ever gotten and I just had to share it with someone.

That is insanely hot. I don’t know which of you I want to be more in this scenario, but I’m willing to try either. Or both. Yes. Both. In a “trading off” sense; not in a “both parties are me” sense, because frankly I already masturbate wearing my own panties and while it’s not half bad I think we can do a hell of a lot better if one of us starts being someone else.

Tell me a secret.

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Henrietta Tansy is this girl I know. Young, healthy and comfortable, whip smart. Also the kind of girl who will actually say, out loud: “I’m worried my eyes are just too big for me to ever really be pretty,” knowing perfectly well that they’re “too big” just like they’re “too blue”, or the lashes that ring them “too long”. Then of course she’ll lament for hours how difficult it is to have so many ardent admirers, and confide how deeply she wishes people wouldn’t judge her based only on her (admittedly extraordinary) looks.

In short, hers are Mary Sue problems, and the story never ends. I want it on record that I have never slapped her. I’m not going to insult your intelligence by suggesting that I have never wanted to.

She’s currently in her first serious relationship, with a guy she pursued, something she’d never had to do before. “It’s so empowering!” She made a fist and pummeled the air as she told me this. “I wanted him, and I went after him, and now he’s mine!” To be honest, it doesn’t appear she had to work very hard. As she reminded me, she’s so much better looking than her new boyfriend she’s surprised they don’t get strange looks walking down the street. When he seemed uninterested at first she was indignant. But with a little persistence she seduced him, and she couldn’t be prouder if he were every bit as attractive as she is!

And yet again I was reminded that being the pursuer is something I’ve never experienced. My relationship with seduction has been mostly avoiding mocking laughter by eschewing it. So if it were empowering I wouldn’t exactly know, but it wouldn’t exactly surprise me.

I have this sense that there was once a time, long ago, when people were meticulously taught social graces as part of a well-rounded education, much like children are theoretically supposed to be taught geometry now. They learned how to be charming, how to have presence, how to hold a conversation, even how to tell a story that captivates one’s audience. Of course, this could well be a romanticized version of the past that’s a side effect from getting my working knowledge of old timey social interactions from novels. Dialogue is usually a little snappier when an author’s had the chance to mull it over for months and then edit it a few times. Perhaps these social graces have always been things we pick up only if we’re lucky, with one in a million of us seeming magically born with them like Henrietta was born freakishly adorable.

The one thing I know is that they are skills, and as such can be learned. And pretty much the only group who seem focused on systematically improving theirs are Pickup Artists.

As a community, Pickup Artists are at times awe-inspiring in their pursuit of self-improvement. When I make it a point to observe their process without judging their motives, it becomes clear that what they call “inner game” is largely an effort to build self-esteem. And while beginners learn scripted gambits to start conversations, the ultimate goal seems to be attaining true, engaging conversational skills. It’s only mildly off-putting that having legitimate discourse is often referred to as “improvising” rather than “talking”. The problem (if there is one, and that depends on your perspective) is that for some reason this is all done in the service of getting laid. All that effort to become a better¹ person gets cast in a manipulative light when it’s so single-mindedly libidinous, and frankly dehumanizing for anyone else in the sexual equation. But at least it’s honest.

I’m not honest.

I want what Pickup Artists want. I know what it’s like to feel like a social loser, and deep down, I don’t expect people to overlook that and see that I have a good heart and throw me a great big party with balloons. To be fair, my heart isn’t really all that spectacular. What I really want is to be charming and witty and poised and ever so magnetic. And my motives aren’t just to be well liked and make people smile, although those things are certain wonderful and welcome. I also want to be desired. I want to infect your mind like a melody and stab through you like hunger. It may be weakness telling me this, but I think it would feel empowering.

Even if I never took advantage of it, I’d want to know I had that power to seduce if I chose. It bothers me that the thing stopping me has never been nobler ideas about reciprocity and ethics and all that. Maybe those things factor in somehow, but it’s mostly fear I’d fail and look like a loser.

What makes this even worse is that I’m fairly sure that “Hey, wanna do it?” would work often enough that the question of seduction as art is barely worth thinking about.

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1. …or at least more socially pleasing [↩]

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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. [↩]

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