quizzical pussy

I think it’s pretty well documented that I have no idea when people are attracted to me. They actually have to not only tell me, but also have sex with me for it to (ahem) penetrate, and even then it’s dubious for me. This means that I just go around assuming no one is attracted to me until there’s overwhelming evidence to the contrary. This isn’t because I think I’m ugly, or can’t conceive of anyone finding me attractive; it just kind of doesn’t occur to me one way or the other because I’m pathologically dense about these things.

But I can usually tell at a glance when tendrils of attraction are budding between two people who both aren’t me. That’s easy. They glow neon lilac and my pinkie nails start to vibrate.

At particular times of the month, I find myself inexplicably attracted to male friends of mine who have large families. I can think of a few who are fathers of three or four, whom their adored wives look after at home, with the smallest (it comes out as ‘latest’ in my head) on their hip whilst they pack the others off to school. This is not something I want, at all, and I don’t fantasise about being in that position, nor do I have any of the more typical ‘breeding fetish’ ideals… it seems to be that my hormones just SUDDENLY direct me to be turned on by demonstrably virile men for like two days a month. I can accurately calculate my cycle by keeping a track on when these people pop up in fantasies. It’s most disconcerting.

Hormones are terrifying, dude, and I’m not just saying that because mine make me suicidal sometimes.

I knew for years that we weren’t sexually compatible, but I stayed anyway. I adored her brain. I still do adore her brain. But I’m so not into her body or sex with her, and it’s been an ongoing struggle for me–especially since she frequently professed how hot she thinks I am.

We broke up on new years day, and I feel…awesome. I feel awesome and then terrible about that, because how can I feel awesome when I broke her heart? She’s my best friend, I shouldn’t feel awesome if she feels terrible.

We were nominally poly, and the guy I’ve been seeing hasn’t made a move at all beyond kissing. I kind of suspect I’m never getting laid again. Ugh.

Oh, you’ll get laid again. My pinkie nails are going crazy just thinking about it.

I am turned on by Amy Wong, on Futurama. I want to put my mouth to that cute little bare midriff of hers, and see where things go.

Even more of a turn-on, though, is the character Nani, from Lilo & Stitch. Her strong thighs and broad hips, small breasts, wide-set eyes and non-traditional nose all get to me in ways that I shouldn’t let a cartoon affect me. I have more than once fapped hard to her image on the inside of my head.

I’m sorry your love can never be.

I went from a years-long dry spell to getting flogged and kissed and beaten and fucked and tied up and such on a regular basis, and oh my god, it’s amazing. I was all repressed and sad and lonely for so long, and now people want to have sex with me and do other stuff too! I’m so much happier and more comfortable in my skin now that it’s ridiculous. It’s making me consider going to my 10-year reunion just so I can feel smug about how great my sex life is.

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I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but marriage equality is kind of a big deal in the United States this week. Today the U.S. Supreme Court heard a case challenging Proposal 8, a law that delegalized same-sex marriage in California. Tomorrow the court hears another case challenging the hilariously-named Defense of Marriage Act. If these laws are successfully overturned, the government will have slightly but significantly caught up with the reality that anyone worth their trace minerals already understands: Civil rights are non-negotiable, no matter whom one thinks one’s sky daddy is mad at.

So here’s a ConTuesday all about the manifold ways different people are doing– or want to do– marriage. Can we stop pretending it does– or is even supposed to– mean just one thing?

I don’t want to come out as a lesbian to my closed-minded conservative family until I’m married to my amazeballs girlfriend. Because then they won’t be able to dismiss my romantic/sexual orientation as “just a phase”. Because then they will have to deal with the fact that the government considers my relationship as real and important as my parents’ 25 year marriage. Because it’ll piss them off SO MUCH harder. ;)

At a certain point people are just choosing to be pissed off, and it’s our prerogative to troll the shit out of them by being fabulously, blissfully happy.

About two years ago, I met a man and, at the time, there was some serious flirtation and obvious sexual chemistry. It was a one time deal (meeting him. nothing happened.) or so I thought.

Fast forward about a year and this man ends up being my kids soccer coach. I see him all the time at functions, some of which include alcohol (fund-raisers with no kids present). Conversations have gotten more and more sexual. Flirting has gotten more blatant. Offers have been made. Through the magic of social media and it being socially expected that you ”add” everyone you know, I’ve come to realize our kinks mesh perfectly and he is likely a ”swinger”. I too am in an open marriage, which he is not aware of, although I know he suspects it.

Now the conundrum…what to do? Whenever I meet someone I’m very attracted to my fantasies tend to revolve around pleasing them in very specific ways. It would be easy enough to make the offer and give him head he’d never forget. We’d both love it and I don’t think it would be an issue for either of our spouses. I know it wouldn’t be for mine. However, what if we were found out? To say the proverbial shit would hit the fan would be an understatement. This is a big part of the reason I have resisted telling him that my husband and I have an open marriage, despite the fact that he’s asked.

I know I shouldn’t let it happen. I know it could blow up and be a very bad situation. But, every time we’re together and he catches me alone or we put ourselves in a situation where we have a bit of privacy, I can’t help but think how easy, and how incredibly hot, it would be.

Within minutes we could be alone, making out, then his cock in my mouth, hearing him moan, his hands wrapped in my hair while he forces his cock farther into my throat, holding me there while he shoots jet after jet of cum down my throat. Ten, fifteen minutes tops, and it would be done. We’d straighten ourselves up. I’d leave him to collect himself while I slipped back into the crowd then, a few minutes later, he’d do the same. Mostly no one would notice and, if anyone did, they’d never be able to prove we were together. It would be so easy to get away with but, what if we were found out?

It’s that damn “what if”, and the backlash, even though our spouses wouldn’t obejct, that keeps it from happening.

The situation here is that the four major people involved in this situation would be cool in degrees ranging from “why not?” to pleased as delicious sherbet punch. But they have to worry about what completely other, uninvolved people think. Please stop cockblocking us all, scandalmongers. I’m fucking serious.

I want to keep my spouse as my beloved life-long partner who i share my life and family with. I just want to fuck somebody else. Sadly, this has occurred to me 10 years into marriage, so negotiating it is next to impossible.

Sometimes marriage means you get to fuck other people, and . This is true of more straight marriages than gay marriages because guess what? There are only a tiny fraction of the gay marriages there should be in the first place!

But to shift soap boxes slightly, if we could get non-monogamy to the point of mainstream acceptance I think we’d really have a chance at that sex utopia I keep dreaming about.

Okay, well probably not.

When I got married to my partner years ago, I never never imagined I could fall in love so hard again that I’d want to marry someone else. And here I am–having the best sex ever, looking deep into eyes that are not my husband’s. I am seriously pissed that our culture does not condone multiple marriages. Then again, the whole legal concept of “marriage” is fairly ridiculous. Maybe I will get divorced from my husband now just to prove a political point, and then maybe I will just ask my second (new) partner, a woman, if she wants to be my life-partner too. Then we can all three of us live in happy bliss…this is my dream, quizzicalpussy! This is my dream!

My dream too, quizkids. In my lurid sex utopia you’d be free to share legal rights, benefits, and social status with any family you built in its entirety. You wouldn’t have to pick a legitimate love and a secret (or secondary) one. Your life could reflect your heart, and mine could reflect mine, and Charlton Heston’s could reflect his. Shocking and tawdry, I know.

I love my husband so very much. He really has been a wonderful force in my life and I would have never been able to start my own business without his support. But I’m feeling like I love my boyfriend more and more, more than my husband.

I know a lot of it is that Boyfriend is better at reading my moods and not overly pressuring me for anything. The husband is completely oblivious 95% of the time.

Thing is, if I say anything, then everybody feels bad. Husband’s last wife left him for her boyfriend she had while married to him. Boyfriend’s been married twice and both women left him for women they were seeing behind his back. He would also feel horrible with even the slightest idea that he was “stealing” me.

So I say nothing. I remind myself often that I’m lucky to have two men who really do love me. And I count the days between visits to the boyfriend.

Sometimes parents have favorite kids. Sometimes things like that are just temporary. Things happen. Love is a weird thing to try to quantify.

I got married for the financial security and health insurance, and I will get unmarried if the real thing ever comes along. I’ve never explicitly told my spouse the degree to which I’m using him.

This has been happening for millennia, basically, except we really have made exceptional strides in healthcare in the last couple centuries. It’s amazing, really.

I think that getting married may have been a mistake. Ostensibly, there’s nothing wrong. My husband is kind, funny, a good person, and one of my best friends. We even have an open relationship so I can have other relationships – I have a boyfriend that I’m intensely in love with.

The problem is that loving my boyfriend this much has made it very obvious to me that I don’t love my husband in the same way and sometimes I don’t think he loves me that way either.

My husband and I haven’t had sex in weeks and weeks. And even when we have have sex in the last 6-8 months, it’s been spotty and not very good. He’s gained weight and is depressed about it so he has been having trouble gaining and holding an erection (but never wants to talk about it or see a doctor and has forbidden me from saying anything to anyone about it). So, anytime we have sex, it’s this rush to take advantage of the erection before it’s gone which leads to sex being a routine of me getting him hard with my mouth or hands and then him sticking it in. I couldn’t tell you the last time he went down on me or tried to please me in any way. So, why bother? Funnily enough though, he still has sex with his girlfriend.

On the opposite end of this spectrum, my boyfriend can’t get enough of me, tells me I’m beautiful all the time and finds me so sexy that even being near me gives him an erection. Sex with him is multiple orgasms, epic oral sessions and him teasing me until I’m begging to be fucked. Spending time with him is him actively showing me how much he loves me and making me feel cherished.

I’m trying to keep in mind that I’m caught in the middle of a lot of NRE, but I’m finding myself so ambivalent about my husband and marriage and this is not the first time I’ve struggled with feelings like this, which is why I’m starting to think that marriage was a mistake. Sometimes I think we’re still together simply because we never had a good enough reason to break up. At the same time, I don’t know that I necessarily want a divorce and the upheaval that would cause, plus I don’t believe in just walking away from that kind of commitment. I’m finding myself fantasizing that he’ll leave me for his girlfriend though.

I don’t know what to do, but I haven’t been able to fully tell anyone how I’m feeling so it feels good to get this out.

On one hand, if you don’t actively want to be in a relationship, and this feeling persists over time, that’s something you should take seriously. You see, if we’re lucky, we have a handful of decades to have the most vivid and magical experience we can have here. If your partners disrupt that journey for you, you are making a daily choice to waste 24 hours while joy lies dormant. This is how I see things.

On the other hand, NRE is crazy and can make us crazy, and it might be a good idea to wait until it subsides before making drastic decisions. Comparing a mature relationship with the frenzy of new love isn’t really fair, is it?

On the every hand, I’m not really qualified to give relationship advice, and I’ve never been married. Not even for like a second.

My relationship with a very nice, pretty, gentle, utterly straightlaced and almost asexual man ended recently.

As the relationship was coming to an end, I stopped fantasizing about getting married, and started fantasizing about finding a dominant, kinky man that would fuck me until I was sore, then do it again the next day.

FOUND HIM! More confessions will be forthcoming, definitely.

First thing: ::internet high five::

Marriage isn’t for everyone. It should just be up to the people involved– and only them– to decide whether or not they are among the people it’s for. Go go gadget equality!

Confess here.

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Are you ever pottering around the internet and find yourself wondering what kind of things and people and naked people QP likes to look at? I mean, yeah, probably not. That’s fair. But I still feel like it’s weird that I forgot to mention I have a tumblr where I keep that stuff.

Fap to what I’m fapping to. Laugh at what I’m laughing at. Squee for what I’m squeeing for. Guess which is which. I dare you.

Sexyfriend revealed to me that he was kicked out of boy scouts for being caught naked and fooling about with another scout. No regrets on either party’s side, and I found it adorable!

Cosigning the adorability. I think of consensual, non-exploitative, regretless sexual exploration as one of the most innocent things there is because the moment we learn shame and guilt is when we actually lose our innocence. And when we unlearn shame and guilt maybe we get it back.

And I just think we should be getting badges for that kind of thing.

I am the confessor who was afraid to have sex in this ConTuesday. At the New Year I met an amazing man and being with him has helped me move past a lot of my issues. We haven’t had intercourse yet but I actually feel ready this time, like I really, truly want it. We have had amazing sex and I love him. Oh also he’s bi and he wants me to fuck his ass someday. Sometimes we pretend, and I bend him over with his face in the pillow and it’s amazing too. Yay!

I am so fucking happy for you! ::internet high five::

I was in his bed. I was on my period. His fingers were on my clit…through three layers: pants, panties, pad. It felt great, but what I needed to make me come that night was bare hands on bare pussy (sex and even dry humping weren’t options for medical reasons).

So I said, “This feels really good, but it’s more like you touching my breasts than my clit–I’m not going to come tonight, but it’s not your fault.”

I was so afraid I’d disappointed him.

Later, as we cuddled our way to dreamland, I asked him to ‘tell me something, anything.’

The anything on his mind? “I’m really glad you told me what was up when I was touching you earlier. I would have sat here feeling guilty all night.”

For some unknowable reason, I keep feeling the need to dial back on enthusiastic/explicit consent stuff, emotional communication, emotional and sexual needs with this guy–afraid of seeming too girly, too feminist, something. But every time I ask for explicit consent, initiate emotional communication, or share my needs, it turns out to be even more necessary than I thought it was, and the results are much better than my best-case scenario.

And he thanks me, every time.

I still have my own issues with communicating about sex; I think most people do. I’m better than I used to be, but there’s still a part of me that feels unworthy of wanting things. And there’s another part of me that feels like I should just go with the flow because I’m so easy to get off anyway. And yet another part of me is pretty certain that sharing my desires will result in very bad things. But those parts of me are stupid, and on a more fundamental level every atom in my body vibrates with the understanding that talking about sex is  important and utterly wonderful when we do it right. So I squee for you.

You are awesome.

Not just for your posts (wonderful as they are), but especially for your confessionals. You claim to judge, yet you sit in wonderful care and ‘I’ statements. I have an incredible amount of respect for you for this. And not a little inspiration for striving to be a less judgmental person.

Much love for you

I sometimes feel weird about posting confessions like this, but they make my day, and you know what? I’m posting this anyway. Thank you so much for your kind words.

I just had an amazing sexting session with my former Mistress of two years. She nervously mentioned the idea of playing again … maybe with roles reversed and I soon had her begging for permission to masturbate.

After six orgasms for her and one for me I made her stop fucking herself before she got to seven. She was nearly in tears with frustration and “hating me” for how much it was all turning her on.

I’ll call this a success.

Yes. Yes, I would feel safe saying that it’s a success.

There has to be a word– perhaps in another language– for the exquisite naughtiness of being turned on by something we don’t strictly want to be turned on by (because shame and guilt and loss of innocence and lack of merit badges or, I don’t know, lots of reasons).

A couple of nights ago, we tried intermammary sex for the first time in years. I found it amazingly hot — way better than I remembered it to be, probably in part due to being in a good headspace and partly due to her being on top — and the dynamic for both of us was all smiles and gasps and goodness. Afterward, my wife said that she doesn’t see what the appeal of intermammary sex with her is to me — her breasts aren’t huge and she wonders why it’s so fun if they don’t ”grip” my cock. I told her, and now I’ll share with the QP readership: sternum on underside of cock is hot. Breasts brushing by, gently or frantically and nicely in reach, is hot. Eye contact and gasps and goodness are hot. Doing something a little different that we’d last done years ago before kids and mortgage and greying temples is hot. No change of breast geometry or cup size would change any of that.

The term “intermammary sex” would generally sound more like an antidote to hot if we were going by me (which we’re not anyway), but the fact that you had so much fun completely neutralizes that. Fuck yeah intermammary sex!

Fuck yeah sex confessions!

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Check it out, you guys! It’s ConTuesday! It’s like explosions of badassery! And soup.

I need a cock in my cunt SO FUCKING BAD right now, I can’t fucking concentrate on anything. This is freaking ridiculous.

I swear I don’t remember typing this, but are we sure this isn’t me?

I was having a really lovely time in the shower -by which I mean I was having an orgasm- and I came so hard that I bit my shoulder without realizing it.

Three days later, I still have my self-inflicted hickey. I’m a lil proud.

Showering: you’re doing it right.

Speaking of shoulders, not many people I haven’t been in a relationship with know this about me, but I kiss shoulders. They are my go-to “casual, affectionate kiss” spot more than any other. I also sometimes kiss my own shoulder when I feel like I don’t have anything better to do. I don’t really pay special attention to them during sex or anything; just like to place what Daphne calls “decisive kisses” there.

So, I mean, are we sure this isn’t me?

I can’t decide which I miss more while my lover’s away… fuckings or backrubs…

This is how I know this isn’t me. Always fucking. Always. This is independent of the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever had access to a lover who actually gives amazing backrubs, which is unfair because I am quite good at giving them.

FUCK YOU I DON’T WANT YOUR PITY.

I’ve been in a long distance friends-with-benefits sort of relationship (labels are difficult) with one of my absolute best friends for a couple of months now. We’ve only been able to get together to hook up a handful of times because of the distance, and for a few of our visits recently we were having trouble getting me to reach orgasm. I’ve thought about the significance behind that wording a fair amount, that WE were having trouble together: it’s not just his fault that I wasn’t finishing. We hadn’t had that much practice having sex together, his last partner was into things that are really different from what I’m looking for, and I hadn’t had enough practice knowing and communicating what I wanted to help him be better for me. We had one awful visit a little while ago where I felt like I was never going to have another orgasm I didn’t give myself – that was a super shitty night for both of us.

Through continuing the difficult work of having as much sex together as we could fit into our schedules, I was finally able to articulate in my head some specifics about what gets me off. And then a few days ago, he patiently listened while I (at least temporarily) got over my embarrassment and insecurities of talking about my lady parts and shared my discoveries with him. Then he did an abso-fucking-lutely amazing job at carrying out my requests. And then I broke out my vibrator and we did it again. It wasn’t just that the orgasms were great, because they were, but the buildup to them alone was rocking. Like he just touched me and I stopped breathing (this might sound dangerous, but don’t worry, my body is usually good at starting to breathe again before I pass out, although at one point I did have to ask him to stop fingering me because I was feeling dizzy from hyperventilating… in like a totally awesome way).

Everything about that visit was wonderful – not just the orgasms. We spent so much time in bed cuddling and kissing and sexing, and then we showered together, and we cuddled for a bit on his couch, and then we went back to cuddling and kissing and laughing and talking and sexing in bed. I’m still so happy thinking about it.

This is a really good illustration of how communication can absolutely make sex. Results may vary, of course, but it’s a thing. Talk about sex more. Talk about sex a lot. Experiment almost as much. Don’t stress about orgasms or other goals. Enjoy each other. Then talk more.

Congratulations, you’re awesome in bed. Or something like that.

Hey QP!

So my girlfriend and I went out and shopped for a vibrator a couple of days ago and tried it out on her when we got home. I controlled it and she laid back and enjoyed the ride, giving the occasional direction to stay put or move, that sort of thing. After a while I noticed she was starting to orgasm, full body tension and all. She kept closing her eyes or rolling them back but I kept growling at her to look in my eyes as she came. When she was done she called it the “best thing in the universe,” and apparently her first full body orgasm. Plus the looking into each others eyes bit was very hot. Win?

Total win! ::Internet high five:: because obviously.

I tell people I have a thing for werewolves. This is not technically a lie. Werewolves are hot, I enjoy reading werewolf-themed porn, etc.

What I don’t tell people is that frankly the “were” part is completely optional. Wolves are sexy, end of story. I wouldn’t fuck one in real life because, you know, wild animal, teeth, claws, probably a bad idea. But I pretend I have a werewolf-only policy because if I claim I’m only into shapeshifters, it gives me an out. It’s not bestiality. Because if I thought bestiality was hot, that would be Icky and Wrong.

And I’ve recently realized that if I was alone with a Husky or similarly wolf-resembling breed of dog, and said dog initiated activity that I perceived as sexual… I don’t know if I’d stop it. I have no idea whether this is inherently fucked up or not.

In my opinion, the worst thing that can come from thoughts we don’t act on is guilt. It’s either guilt for not acting on well-intended thoughts, or guilt for having thoughts we perceive as bad, normally because we were taught to believe they’re bad. Guilt is one of the more destructive, useless emotions. Eradicate it whenever you’re able, is my advice.

I guess what I’m really saying is that if someone fantasizes about wolves I feel like that’s their business, and if they have consensual¹ sex with a husky, I feel like that’s between them and the dog. I have no idea whether that view is inherently fucked up or not, but I’m finding it hard to find two fucks to rub together on that one.

I took emergency contraception a few days ago. Since then, I’ve been ultra-mega-horny. My nipples have stood up so much they’re in pain, and I’ve masturbated twice as often as usual despite having a cold (usually a huge libido-killer).

Someone tell me I shouldn’t be using EC as a damn aphrodisiac. (I’m not, but if I had the money, I’d be tempted.)

The things I learn here! I took emergency contraception once and cried a lot. Which is like reverse masturbating, kinda.

Give me secrets! I hunger for secrets!

1. This can be dicey, but I’d say that when the dog is the aggressor and, if applicable, the penetrator, it’s probably consensual [↩]

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ConTuesday, whom I think of not as anything I do myself so much as a willful little monkey creature, decided to take a holiday sabbatical. Of course, besides Groundhog Day, Twelfth Night is the only wintry holiday ConTuesday actually celebrates, but willful little monkey creature see, willful little monkey creature do. Should be back in full force next week.

So I guess in the meantime I’ll just write about myself.

I’m not much of a holiday person because although I’m loyal to my family and will cut you if you hurt any of them, I don’t actually enjoy spending a lot of time with most of them. But this was one hell of a holiday season for chosen family.

Christmas Eve was one of my best in memory. I spent the evening with Oren Regardie and his treasure of a wife, Poppy. She made a completely delicious holiday dinner that I could actually eat with all my dietary restrictions (a gesture that no one else in my life has ever even attempted), we exchanged gifts we were fairly vibrating with excitement to give one another, then crafted and watched hilarious things on a screen while our toy dogs placidly ignored amongst themselves.

New Year’s Eve with them and a few of our newly shared friends was also amazing. We have some kickass eves, we three. I don’t throw around the phrase “living the poly dream” lightly, but there it is right there in the first clause of this sentence.

In other news, I’ve recently figured out how gravely I need to get back on hormonal birth control. This has nothing to do with any distaste for condoms and everything to do with how much time I’m spending per month in abject misery. The ten pounds of water weight I carry before and during each period is annoying but whatever. The intense uterine pain is a little more untenable, and seems to be getting worse every month. The thing that’s really getting to me, though, is the fact that for about half the time I irrationally believe (or part of me does) that everyone hates me and I secretly wish I could set myself on fire for no clear reason. I spend so much time and energy reasoning with myself and talking myself down from acting on stupid, baseless impulses that I’m pretty sure no one else even notices what’s going on, but it is exhausting. And the last thing I want to do is feed into the “irrational hormonal female” stereotype, but despite my excellent willpower and self control, that is the actual problem and it’s getting kind of scary.

So I’m starting to think that hormonal intervention is a literal necessity for me right now; just need to figure out how I can afford it. I wish Santa had brought me robust health insurance coverage, but my period starts in a few days so I’m pretty sure he hates me and hopes I die anyway.

(image source)

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There are three schools of thought about today. Some people flinch against some impending catastrophe where we all die a lot. Others have been meditating all year in anticipation of ascending to the fifth dimension or other various kinds of laser lotus malarkey. Then there are the people who believe deeply and fully that today will provide a temporal bridge between Thursday and Saturday. I’m of the third type, myself.

But it could be the end of the world, you know.

When I was eighteen I swore I’d plan a big party in a cave somewhere on this date. Even then, however naive I was (and oh, I was!), this would have been a joke. But I think I thought at the time that future me would really go through with it, and maybe I would. But I’m not doing that, so I guess I wouldn’t after all. It’s not worth the trouble just to thumb my nose at people who largely don’t affect me anyway.

But it could end today. It could. Although this process will have already started yesterday in Australia, come to think of it.

As 1999 flipped over to 2000 I was in Reginald’s bed. He said that the moment when everyone was holding their breath, mine stopped too. One of the little perks of being a perpetual orgasm machine is that magical climactic timing very often works out. It is a sweet memory, though. It was before we were utterly swallowed by dysfunction. That was when still laughed together, and he called me the girl with the rocket launcher eyes. Before our little world decayed, then finally ended.

Dr. Manhattan says that nothing ever ends, but in exactly the same way everything ends, and the world can end today. I promise you. We can make it end. In fact, we may be the only force that can.

What if, on this day when urban legends and misinformation stir up expectations for old things to pass away, we all rode on that just enough to really change things and remake the world? Our world is currently more than a little dysfunctional, you may have noticed. What if we decided that we have new priorities: caring for one another, respecting love and compassion more than power and greed, forgiving our enemies, family, friends, and ourselves, and letting go of fear and prejudice… really just being truly excellent to each other? These priority shifts could be achieved in a day if we really wanted them to, couldn’t they?

Why can’t today be the end of a world where murder and rape and exploitation and the myriad other fucked up shit we humans come up with are normal? Why can’t we choose today to stop being assholes to each other for good and all? Why can’t it be the beginning of getting really serious about cooperation and mutual acceptance and problem solving?

Is it because then all the people who are wrong would get all smug and say “See? I and the Mayans told you everything was going to change on December 21, 2012, and it totally did!” Is that why? Because once the future gets here we’re not really going to be interested in being all petty like that, you know.

(image source)

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ConTuesday initiated.

Hey there. So I have a bit of a problem. Not a relationship one thankfully, I’ve been with a great girl for a few months and I’m loving it. The problem is, I worry.

See, I’ve got some scars, emotional and physical (and not in places I can show the general public) that’s left me feeling really tense and jumpy when I’m touched, especially if it’s unexpected. Sex can just become awkward when girls think you have endurance when really your body’s tense with the desire to jump off and just run. But with this girl, I’m not feeling that way nearly as much. Hell, she even likes scars so that’s a perk. But seeing my body being better around her makes me worried that if something happened and my body really was just playing nicer specifically around her that I’d have to go back to the tension.

So really I think I just need someone to tell me to quit worrying and enjoy the awesome time we’re having. Or something around those lines.

Quit worrying and enjoy the awesome time you’re having together. You deserve it. Seriously.

I nicknamed my lover giggles because she giggles when she cums. It’s the cutest thing ever :-D

I love cute things!

I really do.

Finally broke down a mental barrier and admitted to myself that I have an intense sexual attraction towards my best friend.
Promptly began fingering myself and fantasizing. It was DIVINE. Probably also aided by the fact that I switched back to using my right hand after a long spell with lefty.
I came somewhere around the neighborhood of twenty times, and now have wrinkly raisin fingers from all the juices!

Twenty orgasms. There is only one way to respond to twenty orgasms.

::Internet high five::

I told a guy that I’d been sexually assaulted a few months ago, and that was why I couldn’t hook up with him.

I wasn’t assaulted. I just didn’t want him standing that close to me.

I’m pissed that we live in a world where certain people will only stop being creepy if someone plays the survivor card. Whether that was true or not in this case, I’m pissed off that it’s no stretch for me to believe it was.

In general, though, I think it would be great if people wouldn’t lie about being sexually assaulted. Ever. It just gives apologists traction.

I am a bi-curious guy with a nice long-term girlfriend but for a few months now have been having penis-play fantasies. I had long ago a few tepid experiences with guys and decided to explore some more. So, I decided to try a local gay bath house for some (safe) play. I was able to have a guy’s nice balls in my mouth as I brought him off with my hands. In return he gave me a great blowjob. I will certainly be returning.

Hey, bi-curious guy. I’m glad you’re having fun and exploring your fantasies. Just in case, though, I’m going to leave a sentence about hoping your girlfriend has signed off on these bath house encounters right here, and you can pick it up at your convenience.

Here to brag and feel generally awesome for being an out poly person at my university!

I was afraid to come out at first, but my school is very accepting, and not a single person has given us a hard time about it. My girlfriend, my other girlfriend, and her boyfriend, are confusing to some, but nobody has been hateful or told us that there’s something wrong with us.

If you’re worried that people will judge, you’re probably right. They will judge. But probably not that much/that negatively. Most people probably won’t care that much, and will be perfectly happy to let you be as you are, and be somewhat confuzzled about your relationship(s).

My one wish is that people would say what they mean when they ask me, “So how does that… *pause* … work?”

This is such a happy thing to read, and I hope you experience acceptance like this post-university. I hope we all do someday.

I seem to hallucinate when I have a particularly intense orgasm (I’m the one who confessed to thinking I had seven toes once)!
During a rather good session last night, I believed that it was Christmas… not like ’ooh, this is amazing, like all my Christmases come at once’, more like I would go downstairs to see all my decorations up and a turkey in the oven… then momentarily lost my fear of spiders. For those couple of minutes, I totally accepted the horrible little abominations in all their extra-legged scuttleyness and was at peace with the idea of them being in my house or even on me. Now I’ve come back to earth, I cannot stress enough how NOT okay with that concept I am, nor how not-Christmas it is.

I often have visual hallucinations when I’m climaxing, but there’s never been a narrative, I don’t think. But I’m really quite okay with spiders even in mundane reality. All I ask of them is that they eat as many earwigs as they reasonably can.

My ex and I are friends. Legitimately friends. We only broke up because of distance (about 7 hours drive time). So when we occasionally hang out we will usually hook up.
This past weekend we had rough hotel room sex in a multitude of positions for a good 2 hours before continuing in the shower. It was amazing. While my friend doesn’t have the biggest penis I have encountered he has the best technique. It was so good we had another shower “quickie” the next morning.
I was sore and tender until Tuesday.

Sore ’til Tuesday. It’s the new American dream.

Confess!

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A few people in my life have recently called me out on being a pessimist. This was strange to me at first because in general I’ve a natural knack for spinning things in positive ways and finding the good in things. However, I’ve realized that’s not true across the board. In fact, it’s likely that the average quizkid may not be aware that I’m optimistic at all because my optimism absolutely doesn’t extend to my love life.

Something that people in successful, committed relationships seem to forget all too easily is that most romantic relationships don’t work out. They mostly end– and many are even maintained– in some degree of agony. If you’ve had little-to-no experience with long-term joy with another person, it becomes harder and harder to expect to find it. You get cynical. Something inside you keeps flinching, waiting for the next blow.

And I’ve had blows. I’m not going to say my experiences have been exceptional in their blowsiness because I’ve never lived anyone’s life but my own, but blows fell early and often, and they’ve affected me. I’ve been hit, raped, and sexually abused and coerced in other ways. I’ve been manipulated, lied to, neglected, and told I was worthless. I’ve been used and discarded when I was no longer convenient. These things came from the people I was theoretically supposed to be able to trust the most.

What I’m saying is that I’m emotionally damaged. I don’t want to be, but that’s the truth I have to acknowledge while doggedly trying to get past it. And I do want to get past it. I want at least one of those successful, committed, long-term relationships I keep seeing all over the place. I get that they’re a lot of work, and that they’re never perfect, but I want it anyway. I want to have at least one partner whom I trust and love and plan things with over the long haul. Who shares adventures, spoils, and space with me across decades. Whom I tell to make a diamond out of my ashes after I die, not because I even care but because I want to make it clear I expect them to survive me; life without them would be so disappointing and bland after life with them. Wanting these things is embarrassing, but it’s very simply true. I can pretend to be badass and roguish tomorrow.

So I half hope, half wait for the next blow. I play a game where I anticipate why exactly the people who love me now will leave me. I stay ready, always, for them to tell me it’s not working or wound me. It’s not central to my consciousness, not the beast I’m trying to feed, but the pessimism is always there. And while a part of me drinks it in like elixir, another part of me scoffs when anyone tells me of their feelings for me. Wait, it says. Just wait.

Daphne Miel and I were listening to Regina Spektor in a moment of profound sweetness. The song Samson came on, and we both sighed and we each knew it was because the other loved it. “But oh, this song is so sad,” she said.

“Why sad?” I asked.

“Because they lose each other.”

“I don’t think they do,” said I, Sunday school graduate and pessimist. “Not in this song. I think it’s about how they both chose loving each other over living out all that drama in the Bible. They said fuck it, we’re staying together, and she didn’t betray him: they cut his hair together, sapped his strength on purpose, and he wasn’t a hero. They never made it into the history books because they just lived a normal, happy life and loved each other.” Daphne’s wildflower face lifted, and I could tell the song would never be the same for her again.

Maybe I just need a moment like that, where someone explains to me why it would possibly be possible for me to have a story that continues kindly and graciously toward something stable as a crystallized carbon. Maybe I need a thousand moments like that. Maybe eventually it will sink in.

(image source)

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“They say Hunter S. Thompson typed out the entire text of The Great Gatsby just to get the feel of writing a great novel. That’s why I yell your name when I masturbate.”

I can honestly say this is the best terrible pickup line I’ve thought up in like a week, and I can also honestly say that I have too much regard for myself and the rest of my human family to ever use it. But seriously, I sometimes wonder if I couldn’t have been a work-of-art level douchebag if life had gone just a little differently.

No regrets. Steady now. Breathe.

Last semester, I did the grad school application and visiting dance, and ended up visiting quite a few schools. Not surprisingly, in the small academic community, I ended up seeing quite a few of the same people visiting these schools with me. Well, one person in particular.

He was tall, dark haired, and slightly unconventional looking, but damn did I love flirting with him, and flirting my way too! Not the silly coy flirtatious eyes, or telling him that he’s attractive. No, I like to flirt in the most egregiously insulting way possible. I think I told him he was literally the worst human being I had ever met. And at the last visit, after a great party, we ended up back at the hotel, standing outside his door, and he pulled me close to him, and holy shit I have never felt such a concentrated urge to kiss/fuck/entangle myself with someone in my entire life.

But I was in the ‘breaking up’ stage with my bf at the time, and it would have felt like cheating. So I pulled away, I apologized, told him he was freakishly attractive, then went to my room. We ended up going to different schools, and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

Even though I know (I think) that I made the right decision by not cheating on my then-boyfriend, I regret that good decision ALL THE TIME. And there’s still this little part of my brain that brings up a fantasy- we’re both at the same academic conference, I attend his talk, we meet for drinks after, he invites me up to his hotel room and this time we’re both deliciously single.

I think it’s probably accurate to say that most of us are going to lie on our death beds regretting, if anything, the things we didn’t do more than the things we did do. But that could be wildly inaccurate because I guess there’s always the possibility that we’ll all die in broad daylight because of a natural disaster or a Mayan calendar¹ and not even have proper death beds.

Nevertheless, you’ll have sacrificed potentially great sex for not being a douchebag, and I think that’s entirely valid. Noble, even. I’d say you  definitely deserve to run into this guy at an academic conference soon and pick up where you nobly left off.

I wanna sex up my man, and he’s just sitting there watching Naruto. All sitcoms but Married with Children have lied to me ;___;

One thing I’m sure of is that no one is going to lie on their death bed thinking “Damn, I wish I’d watched more TV…” All you people watching TV instead of sexing each other up, I respect your choices, but please make sure those are your actual priorities and you’re not just being lazy. You’ll thank me when we’re almost dead.

I’ve just realised that I like it in the ass. Like, I feel like I’m much closer to a g spot type orgasm from anal sex than vaginal, the few times I have tried it.

Weirder, I’m a mostly dominant woman, I’d say 90% top, but once a partner made me eat brownies and toffee sauce from a pet bowl whilst he fucked me in the ass, and that was amazing.

My man now, who I sincerely hope to be with forever because I truly love him, is very submissive and I very dominant of him, so I’m not sure how I’m going to work this in but I WILL think something up. Perhaps order him to assfuck me, in a sort of ’you’re mine and I’m using you for my perverse pleasure’ sense? That might work.

I’m going to be slightly douchey and quote myself. “Are you submissive to the food you eat? Is a canteen at the mercy of the water inside it? Eclipsing, holding, consuming, overlapping, absorbing aren’t words of weakness to me. We choose to think of the partner who welcomes the other into his/her body in such passive terms, but that’s choice, that’s perspective. It’s not innate to the nature of sex; it’s a commentary on our social paradigm.”

I got my Much Younger Lover back. Things didn’t last with the girl I set him up with so we started seeing each other again. He does the most wonderful things with his mouth on my pussy. The last time he went down on me he told me I came for over a minute. I had no idea it was that long, I just knew I couldn’t breathe for ages afterwards. He’s away right now and I haven’t had sex in weeks. I’m so horny that I’m climbing the walls.

You know that “if you love something set it free” shit? You did that. Turns out if it comes back you get minute-long orgasms. Now here is a picture of a butterfly:

QP, I’m so excited, and wanted to share. I am a straight girl in a long-term monogamous relationship, but recently I’ve been having thoughts about kissing this girl I know. There’s clearly interest on her part but I found to my surprise that the interest goes both ways! I thought I’d never have the chance to pursue that but I spoke with my boyfriend about it and he gave me the green light to pursue makeouts with her! So now I get to have cuddles and makeouts with this freakin’ awesome chick AND an awesome, supportive boyfriend. How lucky am I?

You are basically living the dream. ::Internet high five::

Last night my room mate / semi girl friend gave me the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had!

Tied to the bed, clover clamps, and the most amount of fingers I’ve ever had.

I was so high after. It was so good, this morning I was questioning if I’ve ever actually had an orgasm before.

“Some orgasms are more equal than others.”

Another horrible pickup line, admittedly, but also rather true.

Confess here.

1. Okay, admittedly not the Mayan calendar one. [↩]

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What? This is not romantic?

One year for Valentine’s day I did a very strange thing. I tried. I spent the entire day not playing turn-based strategy games, but instead cleaning Reginald Sleeth’s entire apartment, making delicious food from expensive ingredients for a bedroom floor picnic, and carefully arranging presents for him to find, one of which was a portrait I’d drawn of him looking very dashing. I had a lighting scheme. My bra matched my panties.

He said he’d have preferred takeout, we had zero units of sexual contact all night, and I probably ended up crying from disappointment and sexual frustration. Predictably, he loved the picture of himself. Don’t date miserable narcissists, people.

Elaborate gestures of love don’t come particularly naturally to all of us. For me, trying to be romantic feels like when you’re at a club and everyone starts doing one of those horrific line dances, and you don’t want to get off the dance floor so you try to follow along but you can’t quite get the moves right. Trying to be sexy feels like basically that, except the dance floor is full of landmines.

I actually really like to do thoughtful things for the people I care about, maybe even verging on cute and affectionate. If I adore you, you’ll know, and I’ll probably even make your heart melt occasionally. However, I don’t do production. I tend to shrink from the ostentatious displays of emotion, and I’m positively stunted when it comes to anything that could be interpreted as seduction. This is partially because I’m not wired to be particularly sentimental. While my perspective on life is essentially a romantic one–being deeply in love with the Universe, seeing wonder in pretty much everything I can comprehend and absolutely everything I can’t–the people I care most about are the ones I want to adventure and marvel with, not moon over. So it doesn’t always occur to me to brainstorm how to expose my pulsing heart to loved ones in novel and impressive ways. This is probably a shortcoming because people seem to like that.

But there’s also the whole complicated reaction-fishing angle. When I was planning the Valentine’s day thing for Reginald I was doing it to make my then-partner happy, yeah, but I was also doing it because I hoped it would get me laid and maybe even transform the relationship from the unhealthy, scary beast it had become. My efforts were not selfless and loving so much as desperate. As someone who isn’t fluent in romance, I’m not sure that I could disconnect the desire and expectation of a specific reaction from whatever thing I was planning. Like, if I planted a garden in the shape of your favorite pokemon, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t squee. Realizing that I’m doing something and trying for a reaction that will get me sex or brownie points or reciprocal gestures or whatever feels calculating and manipulative to me. For some reason I’m scared to death of being manipulative. I understand that this isn’t how these things normally work, and that most people can hold boomboxes blaring Peter Gabriel aloft without feeling like slimeballs, but I get stuck in a “whom is this gesture really for?” loop whenever I think about it. Because I’m neurotic in the strangest ways.

This? All this? Is just background for why I’m not qualified to give advice on how to plan a romantic/sexy gesture. But someone recently asked for ideas on exactly that. And this woman has brought her A-game in proffering adorable, sexy gestures to her male paramour so far.¹ Actually, this is so far from being my area of expertise that it literally looks like a job for Opposite Me. So I’m asking you to consult your memories and imaginations and rumor mills to come up with jaw-droppingly awesome ways to make someone feel aroused, cared for, and lucky beyond all reason all at once. What say you, Atreyu?

(image source)

1. This is how you know it’s not secretly me. [↩]

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