quizzical pussy

Whenever I get even the faintest whiff of myself trying to be sexy I get that feeling you get when you introduce your most embarrassing relative to the coolest people you know. Just. No.

Oh god, no.

This…

…is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

I’m so sorry, guys. I cannot take her anywhere.

This feeling informs very little of my behavior during actual sex (I have convinced myself, and dearly hope is true), but it dramatically influences–nay, dominates–the way I flirt, or even interact with my friends and the people I fuck. A great example of this is that fact that I do not, will not, can not send anyone sexy/risque/flirty/myspace profile/whatever pictures.

No part of me projects these self-judgments onto other people who take, send, and share sexy pics of themselves. Oh, not by any means. Please feel free to test me on this.

Over the weekend I went to a party at the local goth club. Objectively speaking, I can get pretty tarted up as long as I’m convincing myself that this is “just for fun” and not anything remotely close to trying to be sexy. I do tend to give myself the benefit of a doubt when it comes to dressing. It’s similar to my completely sense-making habit of enjoying wearing cute underwear but being terribly embarrassed whenever I’m found out. This particular night I put on a short skirt, high (as I can manage with my walking issues) heels, a t-shirt I assaulted with a pair of scissors, and these adorable striped thigh highs. And a good time was had by all.

Laramy wasn’t able to come out, having had kind of a shitty day. So as I got home and started to strip off my sweaty clothes, he was on my mind and I had a dramatically uncharacteristic thought process:

1. These thigh highs are kind of cute…
2. Laramy’s mentioned a couple times that he likes my legs…
3. He’s had a super bad day…
4. I never send him pics of me…
5. Ergo… maybe it would cheer him up if I emailed him a picture of my legs in aforementioned thigh highs!
6. I’d better hurry up and do it before I think this through any further.

And I wasn’t even drunk or anything! I’m not going to say that what I produced in the following moments using a camera phone, specialty hosiery, and an inexplicable lapse of inhibition was a “sexy pic”. It really wasn’t. The whole thing was supposed to be a silly “thinking of you” gesture, I guess. But after I sent it, I realized that it was hazardously close to a “sexy pic” attempt. The more I thought about it the more I started neurotically wondering if it was going to come across as entirely pathetic or just mostly pathetic, and by the time I got up the next morning I was grimly expecting the worst.

To his great credit as a gentleman, Laramy’s reaction via instant message was a lot more “I like the thigh highs” than “You preposterous creature, what’s with the flailing abortion of a jpg in my inbox?” But it was a bit of a struggle to resist asking, “So like, that picture is pretty much an embarrassment to everyone involved, right?” I felt kind as if I was watching myself in horror as I proudly brought roadkill pie to the cool kids’ sushi and sake party. My stoicism through all this was an inspiration to both of me.

Mere minutes later, I kid you not, a friend sent me a genuinely super-sexy pic of her amazing bare breasts, asking me to forward it on to Laramy. Which I did, gladly, content that I had actually found a way to at least help brighten up his morning in a much more productive way than my previous attempt.

A friend asked how long Laramy Fuquerton and I have been together now.

“Well, I mean…” I tilted my head thoughtfully, “It really depends what you’re counting as ‘together’…” We started fucking about a year ago, but we’d been making out for a month or two at that point. We sort of sauntered casually into “seeing each other” and lingered there a while until we finally admitted we were “boyfriend and girlfriend” about six-ish months later (our friends-in-common were all pretty amused when we finally figured that one out.) But we still didn’t say “I love you” until months after that. And we started being “in a relationship” on Facebook a while later.

It’s possible that we have commitment issues. Either that or he’s just been incredibly understanding of the ones I know I have. Which really aren’t that horrible. It’s just the swift, jarring kind of commitment that scares the shit out of me, so my tendency is to take it to the other extreme: the laughably obvious kind of commitment that gets lapped by molasses-flavored glaciers.

As a result, Laramy and I don’t really have an “anniversary”. In fact, anniversaries confuse me for the reasons stated above. They’re so arbitrary. I understand wedding anniversaries. A wedding is a finite date that you can point to and say “something started here”. But short of that, it’s murky: the kind of relationships I have don’t have inaugural ceremonies. I have never, in my life, thought I was on a “first date”. Of course, you don’t need a first date. You can use any of the following milestones as your anniversary:

• first awkward pat/hug
• first kiss
• first grope
• first manual sex
• first oral sex
• first intercourse
• first penetration with produce (not advisable, btw)
• first fight
• first time you met each other’s friends
• first time you met each other’s parents
• first time you had to apologize for asking to meet your new paramour’s parents because s/he’s an orphan

…and the list goes on and on. If a bunch of these things happened to occur on the same day, that makes it easy (note: I did not just call you easy), but otherwise it ends up being, like I said, pretty arbitrary. Then, some people have the grand idea of celebrating anniversaries for every little progression in their relationships, which for me would feel much like the:

• first time I wanted to die.

Seriously, that would suck.

Edwin Pomble, my boyfriend previous to Laramy, was more pro-commitment and pro-fanfare. To give an example, he told me he loved me the second time we had sex, when we’d known each other for a month, tops.  (I’m not saying that’s a bad idea in general, only that I sure as goddamn found it alarming.) He and I were together for four years, and I never quite got the hang of when our anniversary was (or what, precisely, it commemorated).  I was pretty sure it was in a month ending in “ber”, but I never advanced beyond that. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t very happy in that relationship and it’s possible that I actually just didn’t find it particularly worth celebrating. So my brain passive-aggressively refused to remember the date, which was a dickish move. And it bothered him that I couldn’t be arsed to keep track of which day in which “ber’. It should’ve been a clue to both of us that it was time to move on.

So I don’t know exactly how long I’ve been with Laramy. A year-ish. A really great year-ish, during which I’ve gotten to get closer and closer, at my own pace, to a person who amazes me and complements me and tolerates me and makes me happy. I’m incredibly lucky that way. And we’re worth celebrating, but I honestly think we do, constantly, in our own ways.

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So I’m pretty sure Laramy’s penis kicked me in the balls.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking: “Silly Pussy, chicks don’t have balls.” Well, you haven’t seen me sing karaoke, then. It takes serious stones to belt out Sister Christian by Night Ranger when you haven’t had a sip of alcohol since last October.

I guess you do have a point, though. Maybe I don’t literally have balls to be kicked in, and maybe Laramy’s cock doesn’t literally have feet with which to kick. But what did happen resulted in some crazy sensations that seem roughly parallel.

For a long time I’ve likened having my cervix pounded into to getting kicked in the balls. This was based only on the fact that it hurts and cramps and makes me want to stop having sex (I’ve met very few men who want to soldier on after I’ve accidentally taken out their artillery, if you know what I mean. Boo.) But one thing I pride myself on is my ability to understand proportion. I knew all along that it wasn’t a perfect comparison. There seems to be some sort of blinding nausea that comes into play in the balls scenario. As someone mentioned on twitter, it’s “like someone dropped a load of cement on your guts.” Also, there appears to be a profound full-body weakening that skates past mere pain and into the realm of horrifying comic book vulnerabilities. My cervix has never worked this kind of alchemy.

Until, perhaps, recently.

Laramy and I were in agreement: we were damn well about to fuck any minute. First, I thought I’d put on some music to drown out my caterwauling so I was bent over my keyboard, ass presented. Laramy came up behind me, my pants collapsed to the floor, and suddenly I found it incredibly difficult to concentrate on pointing and clicking anything. His cock slid in and I gasped as it split me. I’m not sure what it was: my pussy gripping harder than usual in ever denser and more furious orgasms, or some slightly altered angle as he fucked me from behind, but the intensity was blistering. I either had roughly 300 orgasms in rapid succession or one incredibly long one. I honestly couldn’t tell.

After a while like that, I was starting to feel crampy enough that the mad orgasms weren’t dulling it anymore. It was really starting to fucking hurt, actually. But I have these priorities, see. When one position is bringing pain, you don’t throw the baby out with the sexual bathwater (…it got weird, didn’t it?), you change position. So I switched to an even lazier posture: missionary. And then we fucked some more. The pain seemed less urgent. I pretended I didn’t see it sitting there, watching us fuck. The orgasms (orgasm?) kept coming in, crashing. Laramy was pounding harder now, building. It suddenly occurred to me that when all that climaxing, analgesic of the gods, stopped I’d probably have something unpleasant to deal with. But you know how when you’re in the throes of passion you just don’t care?

But, as they ever must, the orgasms eventually came to an end. And sweet leaping Odin, a singular and absurd pain broke across my body. It was rather like the feeling one has during and just after a spinal tap: blasted with weakness and nausea and an inexorable pressure. I was shuddering and hysterically panting/giggling, though I assure you it didn’t seem funny at the time. I wanted to get to the bathroom in case I had to throw up, but I could barely move at first. Just shake. And laugh. Then I tottered semi-successfully to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I felt right again within 10 or 15 minutes.

I think I traumatized Laramy a little. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt me, but I was so set on ignoring everything to keep having awesome sex he ended up not getting much of a choice. It was so totally not his fault, but I know he felt pretty bad. Probably because I looked so wrecked from it. Fortunately he wasn’t so upset that he’s refusing to have sex with me now or anything.

But you know, it did kind of feel like someone dropped a load of cement on my guts, so I’m wondering if somehow we fucked at an angle where his penis kicked my cervix, and that I experience the female version of being kicked in the balls. Either way, I’m going to recommend you go ahead and not try it.

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The day I had committed to shave my head for charity I was so nervous I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t figure out where the nausea was coming from, because deep down I believe that I’m fearless. Deeper down– like in my stomach, I guess I know I’m not.

Outwardly, I was blasé about losing all my hair. It would grow back, I told people, myself. It didn’t matter. But really I was quite attached to my hair. For years I’d been bleaching it out and dying it outrageous colors: orange, pink, purple, blue. It was the first thing people noticed, and most people loved it. Little kids thought I was a muppet; old women thought I was brave. For me, crazy hair took no courage. I can honestly say, even looking back and in the searing light of day, that I was never rebelling against anything, and I wasn’t after attention. I just wanted to dye my hair crayola colors: it felt comfortable, oddly natural. It was me.

There were several reasons I decided to shave it off, but the main one was that I knew the only reason not to do it was fear. Fear wrapped up in vanity, which is perhaps the most repulsive kind. My philosophy supports doing anything that you’re afraid to do when there are no good, logical reasons to back up that fear. A dread of being unattractive just doesn’t count, especially up against raising money for charity. But I couldn’t help being scared that losing my hair meant losing a huge part of my identity. Maybe without awesome hair I wouldn’t be me anymore. Even worse, I might be really fucking ugly.

So my stomach was a mess underneath my cool “What is hair anyway, in the grand scheme of things?” exterior. But I didn’t back out. I sat through the dull-clipper-tearing-my-hair-out-instead-of-cutting-it stage, the these-replacement-clippers-hurt-much-less stage, the oh-dear-I-have-a-mohawk stage, each of these taking roughly five minutes. And then, after all that, I had a really short crew cut, more a faint suggestion of hair than an actual hairstyle.

Oh, frabjous Buy A Sex Toy day! It’s here at last! Can you stand it?

Some (highly cynical) people suggest that our purchases can be far more valuable than our votes. I wouldn’t go that far, but I agree that the choices we make as consumers can drastically affect the way society evolves. Money molds policy, and purchases set priorities.

So when we spend our hard-earned money on something that gives us sexual pleasure, we’re making a statement. We’re saying that sexual freedom and expression are worth something concrete. We’re voting that the pursuit of orgasms is healthy and wholesome. We’re insisting that lascivious satisfaction is important enough to shell out for, and that’s a powerful coup in a culture that too often frowns upon pleasure.

Or, I dunno. Maybe we’re just trying to get off, right?

Maybe I forgot to tell you, I love sex toys. I think they’re grand, from the earliest Greek olisbos to the newest, fanciest vibrators that do mad things like plug into your ipod. While I only marginally get why people can’t be satisfied with their fucking 6-month-old phones just because a slightly better model is coming out, I utterly connect with the fundamental human need to own every possible orgasm-producing device in existence. I don’t even care if they’re meant for penises, I’ll make them work!

And I just love the idea of a whole heap of people all around the world buying and celebrating sex toys once a year. It’s a hell of an excuse to buy a dildo, if nothing else. And now it’s really, truly here. Today is Buy A Sex Toy Day.

I decided to buy the Njoy Pure Wand, partly because my comments came down on the Wand’s side 2-to-1, but also because a) I started questioning the wisdom of getting partner-dependent toy right now, considering Laramy and I have a long list of toys and other experiments we still haven’t gotten around to trying and b) I’m interested in exploring more insertion during my masturbation sessions, and my pussy seems enthusiastic about using the Pure Wand in that initiative.

So how about you? Are you celebrating BAST day? You don’t have to spend a lot or even buy something you wouldn’t otherwise. Your BAST day purchase could be a simple as a bottle of lube you’re going to need in a couple weeks anyway. Or you buy that Real Doll you’ve always wanted. Or anything in between.

If you’ve bought/are buying something in honor of the first annual BAST day, tweet about it, blog about it, comment about it here! Spread the word! If you just like the idea but don’t want to buy anything, spread the word anyway!

If you don’t like the idea at all and can’t wait for me to shut up about it already, come back Mondy when I’ll have gotten it out of my system… you know, until I start ramping up for next year. Because BAST day is every June 4th from now on, dammit, and it’s only going to grow mightier.

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People come up to me all the time and say, “Quizzical Pussy, I was so entirely sorry to learn of the demise of your Jack Rabbit.”

At this point I always give my little funereal grimace/smile that I practiced when all my grandparents were dying off; I nod gravely. “Thank you for being here. It means so much to the family.”

But the conversation doesn’t end there. How could it? The next question is only natural, and it comes as surely as dry-humping appears at your first unsupervised high school party: “So, if you don’t mind my asking, Q.P., what are you doing for orgasms these days?”

It’s an excellent question. It deserves a good answer, and thorough. Of course sometimes I get orgasms from my boyfriend, Laramy. You know how solo orgasms can be every bit as satisfying and powerful as those you experience with an ultra-hot, highly-skilled partner? Yeah, me neither.

If I could work out a way to do this feasibly, I’d probably want 97% (with a 3% margin of error) of my orgasms to be partner orgasms. But guess what? That isn’t likely to happen, ever, given any logistics at all and my cartoonish desire for more and ever more orgasms. So masturbation is still eating up huge swaths of my sex life.

I love jacking off. It’s one of the coolest feelings ever, but putting something (like, say, a Feeldoe!) in my vagina is a big masturbation commitment for me. If the person I’m fucking doesn’t put something inside me I feel like I’m going to go insane (not in anything approaching a good way). This sort of treatment elicits a whimper that clearly says, “There are no fingers, toys, nor penises inside me right now! Heavens, why not? And did your mother know you were diabolically evil while she was carrying you in her womb or did she come to find out later? Also, still nothing in my pussy!? Hate you. Hate. You.” … I mean, all that’s in the subtext of the whimper. But on my own I can’t be arsed to penetrate myself. Clit work is clean and powerful and entirely satisfying when I’m fucking me, and (let’s face it) not really all that turned on in the first place, compared to when there’s real lust and attraction and all that.

I’m not sure if it’s normal, pathological or quirky that sex with someone is a related-but-entirely-different animal from sex with myself. I’m guessing it’s fairly common.

Anyway, for my purposes, jacking off with my Feeldoe isn’t going to replace my rabbit (whose shaft was barely ever used–especially after all the fancy rotation functioning died, but whose little bunny ears gave me more orgasms than I can possibly even try to begin to count) as my sexual staple. And clearly my Hitachi Magic Wand was not going to step up from its glamorous life of pummeling knots in my shoulders to meet the challenge. No, my new mighty mighty foot soldier of love isn’t even from the glamorous side of the I’m-a-personal-massager-not-a-vibrator-dammit tracks. Indeed, these days I’m getting most of my orgasms from the humble Wahl 7-in-1 massager.

I rode horses when I was younger, so for a long time Wahl was synonymous with the roaching of manes and the clipping of bridle paths. Much like Hitachi makes everything from automatic teller machines to elevators to sex toys, Wahl makes animal clippers, soldering irons, and… fucking magic, baby.

I’ve had my Wahl 7-in-1 (also known as the 2-Speed All-Body Massager) for years. It isn’t flashy, it isn’t sexy, it definitely wasn’t my first choice when I had those amazing flickering jack rabbit ears at my disposal, but it is solid and reliable and profoundly good at what it does.

Looking at the utilitarian, clunky, blow-dryer/glue-gun-esque form of the 7-in-1, I defy you to muster up an ounce of surprise when you learn that the design hasn’t changed since the nineteen-smumblies. It’s heavy for its size, made of hard gray plastic, and comes with little rubber-like attachments that slip over the peg at its muzzle. You use a little trigger at the handle to turn the thing on and adjust the speed from ooooooooh buzzy to aaaaaaahehehe jackhammer! and back again. It’s whisper-quiet for the power it’s packing.

It comes with seven exciting(!) attachments. I don’t really like them all, but they end up covering a lot of bases and I could certainly see how someone might have entirely different favorites than I do…

General Body kind of looks like a megaphone or the bell of a brass instrument. I have never figured out how this attachment is a good idea. In full disclosure, I think this attachment is floating around in my closet because I accidentally-on-subconscious-purpose lost it, so maybe it never got a fair shake. Still, I tried it several times and blah.

Deep Muscle looks like a pierced nipple with a barbell and two concentric nipple ring-shields. That’s the sexiest thing you’ll hear about this attachment all day, I bet. Or at least I never really use it, because I find it insipid.

Spot Application is kind of just this huge nipple thing, and it’s definitely my go-to attachment. I cannot use this on high, but it’s glorious on low. If I had to pick just one attachment and throw all the others into a volcano (or my closet), I’d be surly about it but there would be no question. Spot App, it was always you.

Scalp has lots of roundish-but-still-pretty-pointy teeth arranged in three circles on a big dish. It has an “Oh god I’m not putting that on my genitals” look to it. Of course for you people, I tried it. It’s quite lovely on one’s scalp (as you might hope), but really much nicer on my pussy than I thought it would be. Like lots of little fingers with a light, tickling touch. Don’t press hard, obviously, unless you have a special interest in lots of little fingers with an ouchy, stabby touch.

Facial…Hehe. Facial. This attachment looks more or less like a satellite dish. It feels roughly awesome, and mellows/spreads out the vibrations. I have it gently cup my whole pussy, one edge hovering over my clit and the other poised at my perineum. On the highest setting, this is just shy of “way too intense”, and it feels amazing. The Wahl’s high setting actually feels like it pummels you a bit rather than just vibrating politely, so if you follow my facial attachment method, there are some funny labia-slapping noises that you will not regret if you have any sense of humor (and/or are getting off like mad). You’ll also feel an interesting breeze, which is all part of the “Wahl facial” experience for me.

Knuckle-Joint looks like a rounded roof off a tiny toy house. This one is pretty good for applying direct pressure to the clit: you can use the rounded edge or corner to maximize intensity or a flat plane for a more dissipated effect.

Muscle Kneading is a deeply ribbed rectangular attachment. This one is a little better at actual massaging than getting me off. If this got misplaced somewhere in the depths of my closet I probably wouldn’t notice.

…If you have a super-sensitive clitoris, both high and low settings could be too intense for you, especially if you’re using an attachment that provides direct stimulation. But some of these attachments do diffuse the vibrations a little, which affords Wahl wider appeal than, for instance, the Hitachi Magic Wand enjoys. That is to say, I like the Wahl better and I suspect that many woman might feel the same way.

Did I mention that the Wahl is a plug-in, so you’re not burning through batteries? The cord is under 9 feet long by my measuring tape, so you don’t have crazy range to play with, but it’s serviceable. Also, extension cords exist.

Add to all that the Wahl 7-in-1’s durability and versatility, and the fact that you can get one for under $15 if you know where to look*, and you’ve got an absolute gem of an orgasm-giving machine. Oh, and I hear people use it for muscles or something too.

*It’s good to patronize sex-positive companies that promote sex education and all that, but most sex shops that don’t overcharge for most things still overcharge for this particular product. I have no idea why.

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So, realistically, how many sexing-me related injuries can my boyfriend sustain before he refuses to fuck me anymore?

Please say it’s at least in the triple digits. I’m not even sure what I’m doing to cause it, but he usually ends up in pain somehow. Eventually his penis is going to start calling me “the mean lady”.

To be clear, I did not break his penis or anything (this time), but two threatening pops came from his hips while he was thrusting in missionary, and I’m pretty sure that’s bad. At least he let me climb on top and continue. He’s a champ, that one.

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Ancient Egyptian Deities <3 sex toys. Ask anyone.

International Buy A Sex Toy Day is fast approaching (it’s June 4th!), and I’m contemplating what to buy. I want to make this sex toy purchase count (toward mad orgasms). I’m not above buying cheap-ass sex toys, no, but in honor of the first annual BAST day I want to get something special, something I’m sure I won’t regret. So I’ve narrowed my current wishlist down to five top contenders. And here they are…

1. Sqweel The way oral sex simulators are described always irks me. For instance, the marketing copy for this toy on most sites says: “Luckily, the Sqweel won’t give you any excuses. No tired jaw, no early meeting the next morning, so it’ll keep going as long as you need.” Ooh baby. Nothing makes me horny like thinking about how much people hate to go down on me! Nevertheless, this toy looks like fun, and completely unlike anything else out there. In partnered sex, I tend to prefer oral sex with hard fingering right on my G-spot, so I’m curious as to whether I’ll feel the need for some penetration while using this.
2. We Vibe 2 The We Vibe is made specifically for wearing while fucking, in the sense that it’s supposed to go inside you (and also outside you) while a penis is also inside you. That promises like a million and seven standard units of stimulation for everyone involved! A while back, Laramy and I visited a sex toy shop and the We Vibe 2 was sitting there all coy on a glass shelf, begging to be picked up and fondled. Once we figured out how to turn the damn thing on, the vibration patterns were mesmerizing, and my imagination was captured: I wanted to put it in and fuck him right there on the floor immediately. Unfortunately, it was not that kind of place. Two misgivings: I don’t really know if the added friction against something shiny and silicone (even though it is, as advertised, quite soft) is going to be a problem for my partner’s penis, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep up with the plot of the sequel without first seeing We Vibe 1.
3. Njoy Pure Wand This is the G-spot toy, apparently. I want it both for personal use and for its great potential in the realm of girlfucking. It should come with a t-shirt that says “I will make you squirt”. Or wait, would that be tacky? Oh wait, don’t care.
4. Lelo Ina So my Impulse Jack Rabbit all kinds of died. It’s pretty much a mere shadow of its former, bliss-giving self. We had a good run so I’m not mad…I’m just disappointed. But if the rumors are true, Lelo has taken the winning Rabbit vibe formula and elevated it to high art with the Ina. I feel like that might just help me through my mourning process.
5. Eroscillator As a huge fan of clitoral masturbation, ever since I read Epiphora’s review of this technological marvel I’ve been consumed with desire. I burn, I pine, I perish. For reals. Plus, this is the only vibrator ever recommended by Dr. Ruth Westheimer, and you may recall that BAST day is on her birthday. It’s fate or something, I swear. Of course, the package I want goes for $240.90, so I’m starting to think that fate is cruel. Realistically, I’ll probably start saving up now so I can buy it for BAST day 2011. Still, it’s a beautiful dream.

Honorable Mention: Fleshlight Ice I can’t emphasize enough how dearly I want to fuck a Fleshlight with my Feeldoe. It would feel so deliciously postmodern. And the Fleshlight Ice is the clear favorite for this activity because of the visual treat of seeing every inch of my beautiful cock as it slides in and out. The only problem is that I mostly want it for novelty because I’m not sure it’ll beat jacking off with my Feeldoe one iota sensation-wise.

So there’s my shortlist. Each of my top five occupies a different sex toy niche, which makes the choice both more interesting and harder. As always, your input is welcome.

I hope you consider going online or visiting your local sex shop to buy a sex toy on June 4th, or at least spreading the word about BAST day! Blog it, tweet it, whatever! I think it would be wicked fun if it caught on.

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One of yesterday’s confessions referred to a certain pornographic video clip. The confessor remarked that she was sad she’d lost the clip; she also mentioned that it featured anal golf ball shenanigans and sports puns. Would you believe that a reader took pity on her plight and found the clip?

…Okay, if I told you it was Laramy, then would you believe it? I’m pretty sure it’s the same one. It fits the description (oh yes, I’m going to) to a tee.

If you’re reading, confessor, this is for you. It’s also for the rest of us, because I suspect we all wanted to see this clip. I know I did!

The following link is a VERY NSFW clip of an anal golf ball threesome (it took me a minute to decide what order to put those words in) with all sorts of elements that might offend you. If you think it might be objectionable, don’t click it. NSFW Here it is! NSFW

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Laramy and I had a brief conversation recently about fucking other people. We decided early on that we’d keep our relationship fairly open, but it’s always good to communicate and check in about these things. Yep, still open. Glad we cleared that up.

I was thrilled when I first learned that Laramy wasn’t the jealous type, not just because it potentially meant MOAR SEX for little nympho me, but also because it was so new and completely divergent from my relationship history. I had dated guys who ranged from forbidding me to have male friends to being uncomfortable when I wanted to play wingman for my single friends but stopping short of  attempting to forbid it. This is the first time I’ve ever dated someone who didn’t even seem to be on the jealousy spectrum. It’s pretty neat.

The question of whether we as a species are capable of monogamy doesn’t capture my imagination. It’s just not all that mysterious. Some people seem to do fine with it, others fail every time they try. I think the more intriguing question is why it’s important (or not) to be monogamous today, and what motivates the choice to be or not to close a relationship.

When my dating adventures began, I was almost comically oblivious as to why I should mind what a guy was doing when he wasn’t with me. I now realize that it drove Reginald Sleeth crazy because he kept trying to make me jealous and it never worked quite like he wanted. Of course it was gratifying when he told me (obviously true) stories about how throngs of modelesque girls threw themselves at him and he told told them, “Narp, I’m in lurrrrrve!” but beyond that I didn’t really give it much thought. It didn’t occur to me to feel threatened or affronted that he was chatting up girls. Later, when I found out he’d cheated the deception wounded me, but I didn’t feel jealous, exactly.

But after some time, I found he’d trained me to be jealous. It was the weirdest thing. He’d pick huge fights over my lack of reaction when he talked about his run-ins with aggressive women or when he mentioned that female friends had propositioned him. He expected some kind of explosive sturm und drang from me, so I learned to provide it. And, just like how you automatically get happier when you force yourself to smile, eventually my displays of jealousy became more and more genuine. Of course I never came close to his impressive pyrotechnics (e.g. throwing me to the floor, holding me down by the neck and strangling me when a completely platonic male friend called me on my phone to see if I wanted to come hang out with him and his girlfriend), but in a few years I’d become about as jealous as the average monogamously inclined person.

Having been out of the hell that was my relationship with Reginald for almost seven years now, I’ve left a lot of those learned behaviors behind, and I’m much closer in a lot of ways to who I was when I was 17 than who I was when 22, or even 24 and still dealing with the aftermath of all the fuckwittage. I’ve come to realize that for me, jealousy is a direct product of insecurity. When I’m feeling down on myself I tend to feel like I’m inferior to everyone else on the planet, and in that mindset of poverty you really don’t feel much like sharing. But that happens less and less as I get more emotionally healthy. Go figure.

When it comes to someone I care about, I’m not wondering anymore how best to stop him or her from touching any especially fun body parts that don’t belong to me. Why the fuck would I want to stop someone that special from wringing every drop of joy out of life? As Laramy put it once, life is too damn short. There might be some remnants of “…does this mean I’m obsolete?” feelings when my boyfriend shows interest in someone new, but they’re manageable, and I’d much rather overcome them than entertain them.

This is not to say that if you value monogamy you have low self esteem or don’t want the best for your partner or anything like that. These are just things I’ve noticed in myself. Some people are wired for monogamy, some people excel at nonmonogamy. People like me, we can go either way. I’ve never cheated on anyone and I don’t need to sleep with multiple people, but I do appreciate and enjoy some freedom. The total lack of the control and pressure I’ve known in the past is one part of why I’m so thrilled with my current relationship. So, like, wanna do it?