quizzical pussy

This week my confession about not being able to masturbate properly because of roller derby was posted and quizzical pussy said I was one of her fetishes. This made me insanely proud.

On a related note, if anyone happens to want to send me pics of themselves in derby gear or maybe kicking some ass on the track, I’m not going to lie… I will probably masturbate to them.

I get turned on by awful (lyrically, musically awful, that is) sexually explicit rap songs.

I have experienced this as well, so I think I get it. What I’m really trying to figure out is why Japanese rapper Ilmari’s voice makes me feel so funny in my pants whenever I hear it despite barely ever even knowing what he’s saying! It has to be a resonance thing.

That’s how the pyramids were built, you know. Resonance. (Okay, probably not really.)

I want 2 have sex with u ladies

Despite looking like Prince lyrics, this is turning no one on. Maybe it really does need to be rap.

How many retractions of secrets do you get, where someone, immediately after a secret, enters in ”OH GOD DON’T USE THAT ONE?”

It’s gotta happen.

Oh, it happens! Not often, but it happens. Far more often I write an entire, non-ConTuesday post, then think “Oh God, I’m going to let people read that!? How can I live this down?” And then I inevitably do.

I think I’m falling in love with a long-distance guy.

The guy’s going out on a date with another girl in Friday. Intellectually, I want him to be happy with or without me. Emotionally, I want him to want to be with me.

My plan? Thursday night I’m going to strip for him over webcam, then stick five fingers up my pussy while begging for his cock. BEAT THAT, actually present girl!

You’re an evil genius. (Okay, probably not evil. Mostly just hot.)

I don’t think I can get myself off just using my fingers. I always need something more, like a vibrator or a shower head. Somehow this makes me disappointed in myself.

Don’t be intimidated by the evil genius webcam fisters out there. Or anyone else. If you’re working with a vulva/vagina combo (which you didn’t specify, so please excuse me if my assumption is incorrect), needing something extra doesn’t exactly put you in the minority. If you’re getting yourself off in a safe way and having fun, I think you should be the opposite of disappointed. In fact, I think you deserve a theme song with driving base and triumphant guitar licks, but that’s just me.

My wife bragged that she’d submitted another confession. I asked her what it was and she flirtatiously said that I’d have to wait and see it and guess that it was her. I have this sneaking suspicion that when you publish it we’re going to have some freaky, nasty, wonderful sex. HURRY UP AND POST IT ALREADY DAMNIT!!!!!!

Here is the deal, people: If sex is at stake or time is of the essence for any other reason when it comes to posting your confessions, let me know. I know a guy. I can make things happen for you. If there’s one thing I don’t want to avoid doing on my blog, it’s facilitating freaky, nasty, wonderful sex.

Communication is key. Speaking of which, tell me a secret!

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.

I don’t know if it’s sheer laziness or a priceless secret I must have known at one point but forgot, but lately my favorite way to masturbate is through my underwear, strumming my clit with the very tip of one finger. Back and forth: the soft smooth flesh and then my short, rounded nail, and back again through cotton. Delicious.

It is profoundly stupid how quickly this gets me off.

I spin through no sexy scenarios in my head, I tweak not my nipples, I employ none of the tricks that sometimes seem necessary when I’m all alone and not particularly turned on. Sometimes it’s a little harder to get off when your motivation is a vague urge that’s frankly first-cousins with boredom. But through my underwear like that, gently but not too gently, nothing else is needed.

It’s easy and comforting and uncomplicated and lets me ride orgasm after orgasm floating between them like a wish, which is exactly the opposite of how I feel about my broken body right now.

And what about my toys? My poor fancy toys, my pretty toys! My buzzy, soft, my steel toys. I love them so, but they’ll get neglected with a vengeance at times. Sometimes I’m just too smitten with my finger to bother with them at all.

It’s strange: sometimes the highest setting on my favorite vibrator just frustrates me, but a gentle strumming through cloth unlocks my entire body.  I can never decide whether my clitoris is too sensitive or not sensitive enough. And compared to what?

(image source)

One of the first survival skills you learn when you have a chronic illness is how to flake out on people. If you go to every social event or honor every commitment, you are sure to run yourself straight into bed for an uninterrupted month. Hope you enjoy bedpans.

Last night I was supposed to go to a friend’s house to help her watch Heathers, which she’d never seen. Now, there is no valid reason I’m aware of to want to miss a showing of Heathers. But I knew if I went I’d pay for it with more pain and exhaustion than I was willing to handle. So survival skill #1 deployed and I flaked.

My friend and the rest of the viewing party decided I was bailing in order to get laid. Not true. I was bailing in order to lie in bed alone, exhausted and pathetic. But there may have been some masturbating.

Indeed, often there’s masturbating. Observe…

I am female and right-hand dominant, but I can only make myself come with my left hand. Isn’t that strange???

My head once fit through a human cervix (admittedly when it was smaller, but still). Nothing should ever really be strange after that.

Sometimes, when I’m having trouble getting motivated to write a paper or clean the house, I’ll just pop in my little dildo, which gets me hot and bothered, and won’t let myself masturbate until I’ve finished my task. I have, however, been interrupted in the process and only realize I forgot to take it out when I sat down on my grandmother’s sofa.

I stand in awe of your ability to focus on writing papers while there’s a dildo inside you. Seriously.

When ever the house is empty, I grab my secret, specially bought electric toothbrush and loudly masturbate until I’m too dizzy to stand.

Sometimes I think electric toothbrushes were created by kind sex sprites in order to make sure no genitalia is left behind in the orgasm wars.

Tonight I felt decadent and I was home alone… I read your blog and got a bit stirred up. I went into the bedroom, put in my vibrator and that felt really nice. But I’ve always craved DP. Then I thought about the dildo in the drawer, and how neglected it has been since I got this crazy-making vibrator. I lubed up the dildo and slid it in my ass and came like nobody’s business. Now I’m sitting, bare-assed back at the computer and drinking a bottle of champagne. I love you, QP. You and your commenters make me so damned horny.

It’s wonderful knowing that I, along with a far-off vibrator and dildo, have made someone’s day a little brighter. Thank you!

There’s something amusing about the fact that lately, sometimes when I orgasm alone my sacrum realigns. I feel powerful when it happens.

If this ever happens to me I’m going to start telling people I have skeletal orgasms.

Understandably, I think, I really hope it happens.

Now, reader, why don’t you tell me something?

So, I’ve been thinking. ConTuesday has, to my knowledge, never posted a confession featuring ghosts, werewolves, or Indiana Jones. Am I to suppose, then, that these things don’t exist?

We’ve had one or two about unicorns, though. That’s reassuring.

This week’s confessions:

I had an affair with a married man on a business trip. Emotionally he was just a friend with benefits (I don’t miss him or want more than friendship), but the sex was some of the best I ever had, and I can never tell anyone about how good it was, how sexy he was, how incredible that two-month affair was. God, it was good. I still see him at work, but we mutually agreed it was over and never to be spoken of again.

The most ironic part? He introduced me to his wife after the fact. She’s my best friend. Some days this bugs the shit out of me.

All that guilt, (possibly one-sided) awkwardness, potential drama, and no more best sex ever? Ethics aside, this is why cheating sucks.

So there’s this guy I met online– he lives about half the country away from me, but we really hit it off. We’ve been talking a lot– most of the day– and he’s been really nice, flirtatious, talking about sex, telling me I’m pretty and there aren’t a lot of girls like me. But he’s more experienced than the type of guy I usually go for (i.e. he’s hit on girls before) so I think if he REALLY liked me he would make some kind of move, and maybe he thinks the distance or the fact that we met on the Internet or my polyamory is a dealbreaker. Or maybe he’s this flirtatious with everyone and I’m building it up to be a big deal because I have a crush on him.

I know, I know, just fucking say it, what’s the worst that could happen, right?

He also mentioned a while ago that playing hard-to-get gets one more dates. Is this some kind of hint or something that he wants to chase me? Or is he just making conversation? I suck at hints, why can’t people just talk to each other?

I’m also stymied by the proper asking-someone-out method via the Internet. Do you send an email? Do you do it in chat? Maybe over Skype? (Does he even have Skype?)

Sorry for the marathon confession…

I bet I have a reader or six who have been in this situation, more or less, and perhaps they’ll have suggestions for you.

But really, email, chat, or Skype seems fine for confessing a crush. If I were into you too, I’d get all melty inside no matter which one you used. I doubt I’m alone in that.

So far the only thing I dislike about Roller Derby is that after practice my muscles hurt so much I can’t masturbate properly.

The sacrifices you make for being one of my fetishes! Thank you. A thousand times thank you.

I was watching a documentary featuring animator Nick Park creating a Wallace and Gromit film. It shows him working wtih the clay figures for the stop-motion animation and one little blob of clay was not quite doing what he wanted it to do. He sort of growled at it to ”do as you’re told” and I was instantly *wet*. ”Ooh, make me, Mr. Park. Pretty please?”

I like the way your mind works. That is all.

Have a confession, secret, boast, or lamentation? Give it to me.

I should go see my doctor, and soon. I think my thyroid levels are starting to slip. The major clue is that my indomitable sex drive seems to be, well, domitting¹ a little.

How do I know? Same way the world knows a Uew Boll movie is going to suck: Experience.

Starting about four years ago I stopped having periods for ten months. Once I stopped freaking out over whether or not I was with child, which took at least two or three months, I noticed that my orgasms– usually so delicious, volatile and true– had vanished into thin frustration, and eventually I became pretty much indifferent to having sex at all². Blood tests, when I got around to them, showed that my thyroid hormones were stupid low. It turns out that those are important for non-sexual functions as well. Like, being alive and stuff. Oops.

Recently, my periods have been, to use the technical term, wonky. And my sex drive has seemed a lot more, for lack of a better term, normal. I still want sex. I still masturbate. I’m just less fixated on getting off than I usually am.

Having a lowered sex drive is actually a good thing right now. I don’t see Laramy all that much, so we don’t get a chance to fuck more than a couple times a week. Sex outside of my primary relationship only happens occasionally. I have not yet turned down sex. I wouldn’t even say that I’m entirely satisfied with how much I’m getting, but I’m much more content with my libido this way than the gnawing, snarling sex-hunger I’m used to feeling. It’s comfortable. It’s manageable.

But it’s not healthy. I’m almost sure the cause in an actual medical problem, and I’m fairly certain of what it is. There’s every reason to believe it’s going to get worse if I don’t run the blood tests and adjust my medication as necessary. There’s the actual health stuff to consider, as well as the risk that I might stop having orgasms if I’m not careful. I also don’t feel like me unless I’m a nympho.

If mad horniness is my superpower, kryptonite is happening right now inside my glands. And being the flawed character I am, I’m conflicted about it, but I’m going to do the right thing. For great justice.

(image source)

1. Don’t bother looking it up, by the way. It’s not a word. [↩]
2. At least with my boyfriend at the time, honestly. [↩]

There is an art to giving a handjob. You will notice here that I don’t claim to have mastered this art, simply that it exists. I’ll admit that this is one of my weaker points when it comes to sexual skills. To me, a handjob is usually an entirely pragmatic maneuver: I’m trying to get or keep a penis hard until I can put it somewhere more exciting than between my hands. Handjobs, however artistic they have the potential to be, usually end up being transitional for me. I enjoy the penis touching, of course, but I can’t help thinking about what parts of me it could be touching forthwith.

And I have to admit, that sort of bugs me about myself.

I’m not a big fan of downtime. I would prefer that every moment with me be mindblowing for my lovers. In a perfect world my lips would vibrate, my cervix would have a tongue, and my hands stroking a penis would be as Aphrodite’s hands. In a perfect world. As it is, they are regular hands, and I sometimes worry that my handjobs are boring. There. I said it.

This is not why I gave my boyfriend Laramy the Tenga Egg Babeland sent me. But it’s part of why I offered to help him try it out. Also, though, sex toys are a hobby of mine, and you’re supposed to share your hobbies with your partner, right? It’s what couples do. Astoundingly, Laramy seemed much more eager to explore this than my equally avid interests in yoga and belly dancing.

The Tenga Egg is a cute, clever disposable masturbation sleeve. You can wash and reuse it if you’re careful, but it’s not the most robust sex toy ever made. It’s made of soft, flexible silicone elastomer, and available in six different textures. The cute, clever part is really in the packaging: these sleeves come in little plastic eggs with colorful labels. You can buy a fairly adorable single egg for $8.50, or you can save money and get a set of six in a crazy adorable egg carton! I haven’t seen a men’s sex toy presented this whimsically since some wag made it suddenly seem possible to fuck Yoda Yaddle.

I was excited to see how Laramy liked the Tenga Egg, and maybe even get to feel like a handjob goddess. Why should my mouth get all the accolades? I mean, seriously!

The different textures include: what seem to be twisty vertical ribs, wavy horizontal ribs, a spider web (clearly the most erotic pattern known to man), knobby polka dots, thin spun thread patterns, and, the one Laramy ended up with, the “Stepper”, which looks– just to put this in the sexiest terms possible– like semicircular flaps arranged like scales. Or something. It seemed promising… stimulating.

We tore open the little packet of lube that comes with the Egg, applied it to both toy and tool, and took turns stroking. The sleeve is kind of like a looser, thicker, stretchier condom. Laramy said it felt good and the material was pleasant, but he didn’t seem to feel transported, as you might be if you were getting a handjob from, say, a goddess. Gradually, two problems became  apparent:

1. The lube provided was more sticky than it was at all lube-like.
2. The textured part of the Egg was concentrated around the sides, instead of the tip. All that exciting, scaly sensation was focused on the less sensitive parts of his penis. When fully stretched, the sleeve was completely untextured around the head of his cock.

The first problem is easy: inferior lube tends to get sticky. I would generally recommend someone use a lube they know they like when playing with a new toy anyway. But the second issue? Made no sense to either of us. Why would anyone design a toy with an emphasis on interesting textures and make sure those textures only touched shaft?

“Maybe it’s having to stretch too far because your cock is too big,” I suggested. Laramy did not hate that postulation. I think that might actually be what it was, though. Laramy does have a formidable dick, and otherwise we’re looking at just a glaring design flaw. Whatever the issue, the Tenga Egg didn’t work for him, although he thought it was promising in concept. He actually asked me if it was okay if he threw it away.

We ended the session with Laramy washing that horrendous lube off his cock and fucking me, which is usually exactly what I’m hoping to get out of a handjob.

Thanks, Babeland!

 

(image source)

Happy Tuesday, party people! Read on for some anonymous confessions from internet friends and strangers.

sometimes when I want to get in the mood, I read your blog. It gets me ready every time:)

Happy to help out! Sometimes I’m tempted to try my hand at posting a bit of erotica to make this sex blog, you know, sexier. But I don’t know. I’d have to cut myself off if I used terms like “throbbing manhood”.

After a night of heavy drinking and smoking marijuana, I had sex with a girl. Nothing too special about that. But after the first hour of foreplay and then penetration, I blacked out. I think that I fell asleep, being so drunk and all, but she told me the next day that I shouldn’t worry that I didn’t remember anything, because the three hours (!) we had sex was great for her.
That threw me off, because normally I can last for an hour or so…now I can’t stop thinking about it, because I’m not sure if she’s messing with me for some odd reason or am I really a drunken sex god who is forever cursed to not remember when he lasts over an hour or two.

I think at some point there has to be a “No, dude. Not really. Just messing with you.” or “Yes. Seriously. Hand to God.” moment when it comes to stuff like this. You can only keep up a sex god lie for so long before it just becomes cruel, after all. I hope you hit that moment and find out what happened for sure.

Next time you get drunk and screw, consider stopping the drinking part well before you’re in danger of blacking out. Maybe you’ll achieve godliness without amnesia.

And in general, readers? Can we all just keep in mind that drunk “consent” isn’t always real consent?

At a public campground recently, we started making out on the picnic table. It was dark, and no one could see us, but people walking our campsite could have, if they had really looked hard or used a flashlight. I got on my knees to suck her clitoris, and my feet dangled off the concrete pad behind me. I wanted to put my cock inside of her so badly, but the table was covered with camping gear, and the ground was dusty and rocky.

I ended up having her kneel on the bench, with her elbows on the table, with her ass in the air, while I entered her from behind. I came quickly, but wasn’t able to bring her over. I had her sit beside me while I manually stimulated her, bringing her to sharp orgasm, using my own semen as a lubricant. We worried that we might have awaken people in nearby tents.

Well, she worried.

I like to think that anyone who’s reasonably outdoorsy has done roughly the same, and therefore should be understanding about it. I don’t know if this is true or not, but it’s what I’ll continue to tell myself to keep from worrying about bothering people in tents.

I want my partner to be a little meaner to me during sex. I would love it if he called me a slut or a bitch. The thought of being degraded a little is a turn on.

I’m afraid I would have to turn in my feminist card if I asked him to do this.

Feminism is being able to ask for what you really want in bed. Oppression is having other people try to tell you what you’re supposed to want in bed.

Have a confession to share? Do tell!

When you work as a phone sex operator, you are often essentially being paid to pretend you believe bullshit.

Yes, of course your penis is the exact dimensions of a foot-long meatball sub.

You’re talking to me while a Victoria’s Secret model is sucking your cock? Wow, Mister. That is really something!

So let me get this straight: You have interacted with real, actual people before? In public? Unsupervised? Oh, baby, that’s so hot.

I was uniquely suited to this task because I am naturally straight-off-the-bus gullible. When I was younger I somehow didn’t grasp the concept of lying to impress people. I loved to invent stories with fictional people, and I’d lied for self-preservation before, but it had never in my life occurred to me to prop myself up with false claims, and somehow that left me blind to it when others did it.

This led me to marvel at how that nice Mormon girl I knew in eighth grade had managed to join a gang of drug dealers. It also left me wondering how Reginald Sleeth, my first boyfriend, had managed to ghostwrite so many songs for indie bands without ever getting paid for it!

I have since learned to be a bit less credulous, but it’s still embarrassingly easy to lie to me sometimes. And this serves me well when people are lying to impress me and I’m supposed to seem duly impressed.

But this one guy took the cake.

I think one customer was single-handedly keeping the struggling phone sex company I worked for afloat. He called in almost every night I worked, and the dispatch ladies told me it was far more often than that.

As far as I could tell, he really did just want to talk.

I never heard any panting, quickened breathing, or sloppy slapping sounds. He never wanted to talk through his fantasies, he never wanted to talk dirty. He just wanted to talk.

Sure, it was usually about sex. He liked it best when I was playing a naive, innocent character and he could explain things to me. He’d tell me about his countless sexual exploits, and his preferences in women, and almost shyly describe his prowess. He loved to make a woman come over and over.

And I might have believed him, too, if it weren’t for the train story.

He’d traveled extensively, he said, in the days when that was as likely to mean great trains gliding across the country as airports and flying machines. And he had found women everywhere he went. This is a potentially true thing, since women are indeed just about everywhere. I have heard that scientists recently found a woman in Antarctica.

Once he was on a train and made his way through the observation car to the very back, where he could cling to the rear railing and get some fresh air.

As he took in the scenery of the tracks unraveling behind his mount, he smelled an unknown but intoxicating ladies’ perfume, and felt someone approach behind him, close, closer, pressing lightly against his back. He felt warm breath play at his freshly barbered neck, and then a soft kiss: a flutter, really. Lips on him, and then a gloved hand covering his eyes.

He felt his meatball sub of manhood stir, as the mystery woman’s hands reached around to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants.

And then they had sex, he told me. He never saw her face.

“Wow, that must’ve been really hot for… wait, you couldn’t see her face through the whole thing?” Trying to keep my voice giggly and shrill.

“She was behind me the entire time,” he told me, wistfully.

“But you had sex? Like, penis-in-vagina intercourse?” Completely breaking character now.

“Oh, yes. It was,” my customer concluded, “the most erotic experience of my life. She was the most beautiful woman I never saw…”

Oh god. Anatomy. Mechanics. Just… impossible. Hand over mouthpiece. Cackling. Gasping for air. Deep breath. Smile. Now. Give him what he’s paying for. Give him buoyant.

“Wow. That is really, really hot. You have had such an exciting life!” Give him brainless.

(image source)

Saturday, June 4th is Buy A Sex Toy Day! It’s so exciting you could just gag, isn’t it?

The idea behind BAST is simple. Imagine a world where no one’s ashamed of buying sex toys. Where you only hide them because you don’t want other people to steal them. Imagine feeling free to compare favorites with your friends and safely share with your partners without worrying about threatening them.

Imagine thinking of sex toys as a healthy, normal part of life, and using them is no more pathetic or deviant than using a toothbrush. It’s just more fun.

That’s the kind of world I’d like to live in. That’s why I started BAST day. Because if you buy a sex toy and you brag about it, on the internet or elsewhere, you will almost certainly make at least one person think, “Well, if normal people are doing it, maybe I’ve got the wrong idea about sex toys…”

And from that moment, with that epiphany, that person has a chance to be a little happier. Orgasms have that much power.

So if you’re with me, blog this, tweet this, social network the fuck out it, whatever you kids are doing. And treat yourself to something special this weekend. You deserve it.

Then don’t forget to brag about it.

(image source)