quizzical pussy

I posted this last year on Independence Day, and it still basically sums up how I feel about my country. We’re not as free as we think we are, and I often wonder what it would take for us to make the commitment to change that.

That being said, I live somewhere I can be my transgressive, wacky self without being killed, maimed, or contained by my government, and that’s pretty fucking fantastic, if you’re looking at things from a historical perspective.

I hope wherever you are, you’re enjoying whatever freedoms you have and plotting ways to get more.

I love kissing. Fucking love it. Human mouths may well be little cesspools, but I floss my cesspool every day. So, um, wanna make out?

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My sexual stomach is tolerably strong. There’s a lot I want to try, and there’s even more I’m willing to try. And even if it’s not my kink, I try to be accepting. You like to make your partner bleed? If your partner likes to bleed, that’s beautiful, my friend. Want to have sex with your sibling? If you’re both over the age of consent and into it, I’m certainly not going to try to stop you. If you’re into the whole scat thing I really don’t want to know about it, but I wish you joy. From way over here at the other end of the internet, I wish you joy. And I know I’ve made it clear that I’ve had severe aesthetic issues with anthropomorphizing animals, but I’m even working on my furry acceptance. I hugged a high school mascot last week and only had to take one panicked shower afterward.

I believe I’m within limping distance of sex positivity, inching slowly from “I’m scared to put a penis in my mouth” ten years ago toward the Platonic ideal of open, loving acceptance of all safe, sane, and consensual human pleasure.

But for some reason kissing grosses me out.

It’s everywhere: people gently brushing lips, tongues crawling into one another’s mouths like great, glutted worms. It’s disgusting to look at. I know they’re having fun, and it’s just about the most socially acceptable form of romantic/sexual interaction. Still, my entire body revolts just seeing it.

Try finding a movie where they show tits but skip that moment of body horror. It simply doesn’t exist. Every sex scene has a nauseous distraction. To me, PDA at the mall is more obscene than porn. Clearly I missed my calling as an old-school, by-the-rules prostitute. Well, by one of the rules, anyway: No kissing, lots of coming.

The human mouth is a cesspool. Simple fact. We all know this, right? Is it unreasonable to not want to cross-pollinate my filth with yours, no matter how fond of you I might be?

I’ll put my mouth lots of places. Oral sex is fine (it’s amazing how much cleaner genitals are than pie holes), as is mutual kissing from the neck down. Maybe even the cheek if I really, really trust you. But mouth-to-mouth? Save it for when you have to resuscitate me, and then hand me a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

As you might imagine, this quirk isn’t an easy sell for most people. I realize that kissing doesn’t squick most people out; quite the opposite. It’s a lot to ask, wanting someone to forgo their primary avenue for expressing affection in favor of, what? Hugs? Nuzzles? Conversation hearts?

Still. I just can’t. I can be sex positive, but kissing positive? That just isn’t me.

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Steak and Blowjob Day

Let it be known: I like steak. I like blowjobs. There can be no bad here, right?

Kinda.

The thing that gets me about Steak and Blowjob Day is the connection to Valentine’s day, the suggestion that “Welp, last month you ladies got yours, so pay up!”

This assumes a great deal about Valentine’s Day. Hell, before it even gets that far it assumes that relationships are heterosexual male/female dyads where the male has a penis. And likes blowjobs. And thinks romance is poppycock.

Valentine’s Day, therefore, is for the ladies. Women like to feel appreciated through expensive gifts, sappy poetry, and portable music players held aloft. Men, on the other hand, like to feel appreciated through sexual favors and red meat.

If people spend Valentine’s Day making small, appreciative gestures and fucking one another’s brains out, or ignoring it entirely, I’m not sure if the system breaks down or what. All I know is that it’s definitely not manly to crave or enjoy romance. A warm mouth and a bloody steak? That’s manly.

(I hope I don’t have to point out here that lots of guys– manly guys– want to feel romanced from time to time, lots of women prefer sexual attention, and the love of a good steak knows no gender.)

See where things get a little creepy? I hope? Of course it’s all in good fun, but it’s also operating on some stereotypes that I wouldn’t mind killing dead. I mean, if you want to have a steak and give and/or receive a blowjob today, that’s awesome, but don’t fall prey to the idea that it’s any sort of payment for romantic services rendered, or that all women prefer candy and a bear dressed up like a gynecologist to oral sex. Also don’t cook the steak well done. That kinda ruins it.

Pi Day

Is the winner. Full stop.

I can find no logical fallacy contained therein. Pie is delicious, and it goes well with everything with the possible exception of diabetes. Including steak, blowjobs, cunnilingus, and other pie.

Anyway, you know how if you make a special day for something how it can actually end up happening less throughout the year because it’s already been assigned, completed, and taken care of? Kind of like those people who go to church just on Easter?

That’s certainly never going to happen to pie.

Happy Pi Day!

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So, today is International Women’s Day. It’s also Fat Tuesday. You know what that means, right?

Everybody eat pussy!

…As long as that doesn’t mean that we can’t again until Easter, of course.

Happy Valentine’s day, everyone. May those currently with a partner be ecstatic with your choice, and may those currently without one flirt your little asses off. Above all, may there be orgasms aplenty for everyone!*

I have a feeling I’m going to be spending the evening in bed.**

*If you’re into that sort of thing. Otherwise I just hope you or someone else is treating you very, very well today.
**Sadly, probably not in the fun way. But I’ll make up for it later, trust me.

Last year I did a whole list of sexual resolutions. In a textbook QP move, I pretty much forgot about them as soon as I typed them. I did, however, accidentally adhere to a few of them. Let’s check them out one by one, because there’s no possible way that could be demoralizing for me!

1. Flirt with strangers: This one still sounds like fun, and I still don’t do it, except sometimes by accident. I barely even make eye contact with people on my bad days. So FAIL.
2. Initiate sex with my boyfriend: Not. Really. I think I did that all of once, then we got interrupted in the middle of fucking and I felt like a loser. FAIL.
3. Admit when I’m attracted to someone: I’m getting much better at this, though I’m still not at the point where I admit to that person. DEMIWIN.
4. Fulfill three new sexual fantasies: I’ve had a fuck-ton of fucking fun this year. I had a lot of great sex. I discovered that Laramy is awesome at spanking. I got to have a foursome and a FMF threesome (both featuring the earth-shatteringly hot Rowan and Viola Sharqtipus, with my sexy Laramy in the former), but I’d have liked to have been more proactive and adventurous in general. Still, WIN. And you would totally agree if you saw the pretties I got to play with.
5. Perform in a drag show: I did this. I need to remember to tell you about it. It was amazing. WIN. So much win.
6. Try out new sex toys! With an emphasis on sharing toys with others. While naked: I tried a few new toys. I still suck at bringing them into partner play. DEMIWIN? I guess?
7. Feel okay wearing the sexy stuff in front of partners: FAIL. Just fail. I’ve realized, though, that Laramy couldn’t care less if I wear sexy underwear (he seems to think that lingerie is a superfluous middleman between clothed and naked), though he does appreciate when I wear clothes that prove I have boobies.

So, considering that I didn’t really maintain the eye of the tiger on these, at all, not a super bad showing.

Upon rereading these, I realized that most of 2010′s resolutions dealt with insecurities, which is pretty fair. So this year I’m going to keep it very, very simple and just work on confidence. In I’m going to start thinking I’m awesome or die faking it.

Damn, this is going to be hard.

Do you have any New Year’s Resolutions that involve orgasms in some way, shape or form? Or even if they don’t, I’m always curious. You can even tell me anonymously if you like.

Happy New Year! I hope this year is far better than the last for each and every one of you.

I’m not a fan of Christmas. Christmases are my Mondays.

Things were not always thus. As a child, I’d spend wakeful nights and gun-jumped mornings wondering what lay beneath all those garish reams of wrapping paper and spangly bows. Even after I learned to sleep in, I loved the family gatherings. I loved shopping for people (still my favorite part of the holiday by far). I loved singing Christmas carols, even though I didn’t really buy into all the Jesus stuff. I even liked the candlelight services on Christmas Eve.

I think the turning point was when my Grandma died on Christmas morning a few years ago. I didn’t consciously change my mind, but Christmas lost a great deal of luster after that. Like with a restaurant where you’ve gotten food poisoning, the menu never looks the same again.

I play along, and I enjoy that other people enjoy The Winter Holidays, but I no longer feel the magic. While I consider it an insult to everyone involved to fake an orgasm, I’m not above faking a holiday here and there.

On a seemingly unrelated subject (but I bet I tie it all together by the end, don’t you?), I started following The Bloggess when Lilly generously compared me to her on this review I wrote, and I’ve since learned what a compliment that was.

(Of course she wasn’t on my radar until someone made it about me, why do you ask?)

She is funny, witty, snarky, interesting, and very successful as a blogger, so please compare me to her whenever you get a chance, even if it makes no sense. You can even say I have her eyes; I’ll take it. But recently her blog has transcended comedy, incisive commentary, and slices of her clearly awesome life. Now all of a sudden it’s making me think that maybe these Holidays we insist on having every winter really are a little magical.

And this time, it’s not grandma-killing magic.

Earlier this month, The Bloggess offered twenty $30 gift cards to commenters in need (itself an incredible gesture) in the spirit of holiday warm fuzzies, and when she got more than twenty people asking for help, her readers stepped in and started offering. And offering. And offering: gift cards, paypal donations, toys for kids who otherwise wouldn’t have any presents to open this year.

How big did the orgy of giving get? According to this tweet, over 600 gift cards have been sent as of sometime today. Everyone who asked for help has been matched with a donor. The Bloggess wasn’t trying to organize this; she and her readers are just that awesome. She started out just trying to help twenty strangers, and that one act of giving exploded into a great big gang bang of human kindness.

This doesn’t mean I love Christmas or anything, but Holy Baby Mithras do I love people.

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…because it doesn’t fucking matter?

Today, the Senate voted to repeal Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. As I understand it, this repeal needs to get certified by the President, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and Secretary of Defense to actually mean something, but things are looking good, if you don’t count the 17 years* of prejudice and systematic oppression.

I read this the other day, a letter from a gay soldier about to leave for Afghanistan. It’s very worth reading whether you’re for or against DADT. He is gracious, he is polite, he is angry, and he is absolutely right.

To members of the United States armed forces, of all sexual orientations, genders, races, religions, and political beliefs: Thank you, thank you, thank you for your service. To those of you who have suffered the most under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (because I’d argue that it’s done damage beyond its intended victims): I’m sorry we made you choose between serving your country and living authentically, without fear of exposure. I’m in awe, grateful, that you chose the choice you did. I look forward to the day you can serve openly, if you decide to do so.

Today was a good start.

*Meaning the 17 years when DADT was law, not the 17 years since people started being assholes to gay people, because that’s been going on for approximately 17 bajillion years.

I’m not a big Thanksgiving person. It seems a holiday devoted entirely to food, and if we’re going to have one of those shouldn’t the food in question be sushi or pizza or homemade macaroni and cheese? Turkey isn’t really my cup of tea until it’s thin-sliced onto exceptionally delicious fresh-baked bread with a generous application of cheese and honeycup mustard. And I’m on a fuckload of dietary restrictions, so I can’t have anything else that’s on the traditional Thanksgiving table.

What I can do is what I do at Every. Single. Family holiday gathering: listen to my extended family rave about how beautiful and successful and amazing my siblings are. To me they’ll be more like “Why are you still sick? This is booooooooring,” and “Guess you’re not going to end up having much of a career any time soon, now are you? Or be pretty.”

Or I could stay home and make myself a steak with a side of quinoa, bake an apple for desert, watch some Dr. Who in bed afterward, and be truly, truly thankful for the people and things who make my life better because they’re in it. I’m looking at you, Laramy: you make me smile every single day, and I love you metric tons. And my friends, who are the awesomest, sexiest, smartest people I have ever lucked into meeting, and yet they still talk to me, the silliest. And my internet peeps, who literally keep me sane and make me think even on my worst days. I’m thankful for you, not so much turkey.

I wonder which of these options I shall choose?

I will also masturbate, because I want to deserve to keep calling it Wanksgiving, and because I’m not quite as awesome as Holly, who is living the motherfucking dream.