quizzical pussy

Watching a guy play with himself fascinates me. But I’m not interested in a long, lingering, self-conscious tease that acknowledges that I’m watching and attempts to give me a show. I like to see how a guy gets himself off normally, without frills. I revel in the businesslike, perfunctory action; I like noticing the parts of his penis he focuses on and the places he ignores. I want to understand what it means for him to possess his genitals, to spy on his relationship with them. And sometimes, I find myself relating to him as much as I’m turned on.

And this is why I bought my Feeldoe. I wanted a cock of my own. Specifically, I wanted to jack off. It did occur to me– casually– that I might want to fuck another person at some point. Also, that it would be hot to slide my pretty purple cock between a set of lips, provided I could find someone to agree to give me a blowjob. But I wasn’t holding my breath or my order for any such opportunities to emerge: they were like the wacky roadtrips you might envision when you get a new car, but you’re really getting it for your day-to-day driving. Basically, I got it for day-to-day wanking.

A few of my male friends have remarked that buying the ingenious strapless strap-on to jack off with is perhaps the purest and most excellent reason to get one. It’s always nice to get unique compliments. I’m pretty sure my reason is simply the most penis-envious. Of course, if I were male I’d likely consider penis envy pretty pure and excellent myself.

I adore my pussy. I love my small-but-mighty clitoris. I write poems about my G-spot. But a cock is a beautiful thing to have, as an accessory, and I picked an especially good one.

About a year ago I was looking at strap-ons online and thinking how none of them really seemed all that tempting. I could see how the act of penetrating someone could be kinky and erotic and all, but I couldn’t imagine any harness/dildo combo feeling all that good from the fucker’s end. There’d be some clit stimulation against the harness, but it probably wouldn’t be all that different from dry humping, would it? But then. Oh, then! Then I saw the Feeldoe.

Naive as I was, to me a double dildo was a long, straight, two-headed phallus used only in porn and Darren Aronofsky movies. But this was different. This was brilliant. “Surely,” I declared to myself, “a woman designed this marvel.” Turns out, yup. It has a bulb that the top puts inside her pussy so she can feel every thrust she makes with the external dildo, and ridges that press enticingly against her clit. I could imagine the Feeldoe propelling me toward real, joyous fucking, compelling me to push faster and faster into my fuckee like a man in the grip of his impending orgasm. I also immediately realized that if I had this wondrous device I could jack myself off, and that possibility made me dizzy with longing.

I tried to reason with myself: there was no point in spending all that money on a two-person toy if I was only ever going to use it by myself. I might not even enjoy wanking like a guy, maybe I just liked the idea. But the image of stroking my own cock kept creeping into my brain, eventually camping out as a persistent fantasy. I couldn’t explain it: I wanted a cock. It didn’t matter if I never penetrated a single orifice with it, I wanted it and I would make my own fun.

So I decided to stop being a jerk and to let me have my penis. And when it came, all my wildest dreams came true. Not about fucking with it, or even getting a blowjob, because none of that has happened yet. But jacking off with my Feeldoe is fabulous. The ridges that work my clit (which I consider the major tell that a woman designed it, by the way) feel amazing when I pull on the shaft, both ends of it feel great inside me, and the little bullet vibe is a mind-blowing enhancement when I want a little something extra.

The only problem is that when I come especially hard my pelvic muscles tend to contract and push out whatever’s inside me, be it warm, pulsating flesh or slick violet silicone. So I have to concentrate on keeping it in if I want it to stay put. But the beauty of a detachable penis is that you can take it out and put it back in with ease. I do so love having it all.

When I started second grade one of our first assignments was to draw pictures of our families. I drew my parents and sisters and hamsters and even my goldfish, but I forgot to draw my brother. Maybe I “forgot” to draw him. I don’t think it was intentional, but he’d been born a year and a half before, usurping my title of “baby”, so it’s possible that I just tacitly edited him out of my picture because I secretly hated him, not even admitting it to myself. In fact, that’s probably exactly what happened.

My parents encountered my artwork at Parents Night, and my dad wrote me a little note that said “Please remember that we love your brother and do consider him part of the family, even if he isn’t as important as the hamsters.”

Whoopsies.

Likewise, I feel like kind of a jerk not having written yet about my most trusty and loyal implement of orgasm. He is the unsung hero of my toybox, and even though he isn’t quite as important as the hamsters (I just made it too weird, didn’t I?) I still adore him and owe him about five billion orgasms that I know I can never repay.

Rabbit-style, or dual action, vibrators are a cliché for a reason. They’re really, really good at doing a really, really good thing: namely, providing clitoral stimulation and penetration at the same time without any outside assistance. They’re an amazing way to masturbate if you go in for that kind of thing.

The Impulse Jack Rabbit is the only one of its caste that I’ve tried, but I think it’s more or less representative of the genre. You’ve got a dildo with an intriguing bulb of rotating beads mid-shaft. The dildo itself also rotates independently of that. And of course there’s the adorable little animal-encased bullet vibrator that stimulates your clitoris delicately (but not weakly) with its ears. Similar vibrators have hummingbirds, elephants, butterflies, dolphins, or more abstract clit buddies, but the idea remains the same as the standard rabbit. The rabbit works well because the flickering ears are almost like two tiny and talented tongues. Rabbits are also cute, and fuck a lot.

The design is meant to be ultimately non-threatening. Although the slightly more badass Impulse Jack is all chrome and red where its cousins are often pink, white, or lavender, it’s still decidedly cute. It mimics the shape of a cock while doggedly resembling one as little as possible. The dildo even has a little smiley face where the frenulum would be. See? Not a scary penis. A happy penis! The animals evoke a simpler time when we all just humped stuffed animals, I guess? I’m not really sure, but this is an approachable sex toy.

But it’s also, as I said, awesome. The first time I fucked myself with it I knew my world would never be quite the same. There was so much going on! In my pussy! Things were happening texturally, vibrationally, rotationally… it was marvelous. The variations were unreal: 6 rotation speeds, 7 vibration routines utilizing three different ear-flickering speeds, the carousel rows of beads whirling inside the spinning phallus. Bliss. We fucked and fucked and fucked like, well… you know. Bunnies. And then, just like that, the honeymoon was over.

One of the very early problems that emerged was the fact that this thing burned through batteries. The clit vibration and shaft rotation functions are controlled by different buttons, and the latter was a huge drain. Like, a four AAs in ten minutes kind of drain. I understood. Relationships are give-and-take, after all. But then, after a couple months, the rotation gave up the ghost completely: there was no more shaft movement whatsoever. It was a sad, sad day. Apparently this is a common issue with this and other rabbit-style vibes of similar design. The same thing has happened to several other chicks I know, some of them not even as insatiable as I.

That said, my jack rabbit is still my go-to toy. I use it so often I should probably be embarrassed. And the orgasms are still amazing. I’m actually not big on insertion masturbation, although I absolutely love penetration as an institution. Clit play is just easier. I tend to start masturbating before I’m turned on, just because it sounds like a good idea (dopamine? Don’t mind if I do!). Can I be bothered with lubing up? Nope. Do I necessarily want to do lots of cleanup afterward? Nope. Generally, day-to-day, I just go for the clit. And for what I like, I’ve never found any clit stimulation that compares to that little bullet in its rabbit-shaped sleeve attached to its smiling, now-inanimate dildo (which still feels good, obviously, but no longer life-changing). I actually tried buying a stand-alone toy that’s just a bullet in a sleeve, but the ears weren’t quite right: too skinny and floppy and insubstantial. Impulse Jack Rabbit, it’s still you.

My jack rabbit is getting older and even feebler. His vibration is less trustworthy as time goes on, and battery efficiency– even without the energy-draining spinner–  is laughable (probably a combination of sex toy entropy and the fact that rechargeable batteries are an imperfect system that may always work best in theory). I know it’s only a matter of time before even his trusty rabbit ears fall silent. I think I’ll end up getting the rechargeable version to replace him, and then his shaft rotation will die, and I will still love him long and well and often anyway. That’s just the circle of life.

I love going to parties with someone I’m fucking because the entire evening is foreplay: rubbing up against each other like animals in heat, teasing each other surreptitiously (more or less) while laughing with friends. It just heightens everything a little, makes it that much more fun. The best part of it all might be leaving at the precise point where we’ve had tons of fun, are both horny as hell, and have just enough energy left for spectacular sex when we get home. It makes it seem like even though the party’s ending, it’s kind of just beginning.

Laramy and I had driven to the New Year’s Eve party separately, so we each took our cars and met back at his pad afterward. The drive was what such drives always are: like in Jurassic Park when everyone’s eyes fixate on the rippling water in that little plastic cup as the T-Rex approaches. Knowing what’s about to happen but having to wait is the best possible way to heighten tension both in movies and in pants.

I like it when Laramy breathes “wanna fuck?” in my ear. It’s not dirty talk. It could be, I suppose, but it isn’t. It’s not waggish or jaded either. It’s just a straightforward question, spoken softly but holding within it something sonorous, clamoring. Oh yes. I really, really wanna fuck.

“Did you bring your toy?” he asked. He’d wanted to get me a sex toy for Christmas and I specifically asked for something that seemed suited for use with a partner. Of course I’d used it on my own, just to make sure it was… um… safe. Yeah, safe.

The Fukuoku 9000 is the best compact vibrator I’ve tried so far. Like eggs and bullets, it makes it easy to incorporate clitoral stimulation into partner sex, but I think that the finger-hugging design of the Fukuoku makes it particularly clever. I find it rather easy to drop things when I’m distracted by a violent orgasm, so slipping this on my finger instead just makes sense. It has only one vibration setting, which is moderate but actually a very good level for me. If your clit can pick up a dramatic difference between the three included textured sleeves then you’re a terribly delicate princess who must be protected from peas at all costs (although I do have a nominal favorite, and it’s the one with horizontal ridges). It comes with a little carrying case that amusingly looks like it’s meant to slide onto a belt. I can’t imagine taking advantage of that last feature, but I certainly want to meet someone walking around with this attached to his or her belt, for both comedic and personal reasons.

…And of course I’d brought it! I quickly redeemed it from my bag, set it on the bed for later use, and took off some clothes. His mouth found my nipples almost as soon as they found air. Then I dropped to my knees. It’s not that I absolutely have to put a penis in my mouth before putting it anywhere else. It isn’t policy or anything. But it’s very fun to do and generally seems like a good way to start things off. Laramy’s belt is ridiculous, frustrating. I’m used to belts that fasten in the front and come off easily. His doubles halfway around his torso, releases with a mighty velcro roar, and can allegedly be used to repel down cliffs or some shit. But finally, the pants were off and his cock was in my mouth. Somehow sliding it down my throat (though I haven’t been able to deepthroat him yet) is both soothing and exciting at the same time, like fingering a cabochon while on a roller coaster. I wasn’t sucking, flickering, lapping at his pretty penis for long when his voice, husky with arousal, stopped me. “I want to fuck you.”

This is when we always seem to get oddly polite. “How do you want to do it?” I ask. “Well how do you want to?” he echoes. Or vice versa. And then there’s this little awkward pause, like neither of us wants to be the bossy one. We tend to do the same thing picking restaurants. Next time we have sex maybe I’ll just push him around into position and have my way with him. But this time I remembered my Fukuoku, and realized that rear entry was a natural choice. “Wanna do doggy?”

The thing you have to realize about Laramy and I is that we pretty much always want to do doggy. That’s not to say that we don’t have fun with other positions, but I think doggy style is the mutual favorite. Although I’m cuckoo for clitoris, there’s nothing in the world like the feeling of a penis catching my G-spot (which exists) just right as it pounds into me. Laramy swears that the angle of doggy style just hits every spot perfectly for him and that it feels excruciatingly good.

We fucked that way for a little while and I came several times, which made me forget that there ever was such a thing as the Fukuoku 9000. Fortunately, Laramy had the presence of mind to remind me. Now, I’ve known for years that G-spot+clitoris=fuuuuuuuuuuuuck, but it honestly never gets old. The Fukuoku, which can get me off on its own in about 15 seconds flat in the privacy of my bedroom, while watching reruns of Oz, suddenly made the actual hot sex I was having almost completely unmanageable. My mighty pelvic muscles tend to force Laramy out of me during an intense vaginal orgasm if I’m not really paying attention. I think I ejected him three times within the first few minutes. I was roiling, collapsing, caterwauling. I had to take periodic breaks from the Fukuoku while we fucked to keep my brain from shutting down altogether.

Cooler still, he could feel the vibrations. And from what I understand, my pussy feels even better when it vibrates. Imagine!

I was sort of slumped over with my eyes rolled back into my head after my kegel muscles had yet again shoved his cock out. He didn’t slam it back into me this time. “I want to fuck your ass,” he told me. It seemed like a very good idea.

It was only our second time doing anal. I’ve just recently started enjoying it. For a long time I’ve liked the idea and I’ve definitely appreciated anal orgasms, but trying anal intercourse without lube is probably not the best possible introduction, and that’s the only way I’d ever tried it before Laramy. With-lube ass fucking is a revelation. We lay on our sides (which seems so far to be the most comfortable way of fitting a penis in my ass) and his finger opened me gently. “You’re so smooth and tight,” he said, his voice a little rough. His breath was hot on my neck. This is the closest Laramy actually comes to dirty talk, and it boosted me halfway into orgasm. Then he eased his lubed cock inside.

“Yes. Yes. YesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesYES!” I just wanted to make sure my point was made. It seemed about five times better than the first time. I suddenly wasn’t concerned about pain…there was no pain; there was just intensity and delirious sweetness. I wanted him harder; I wanted him deeper. I forgot my toy again. Once again, Laramy didn’t. I think he really just wanted to know what my ass feels like when it vibrates. Turns out, kind of awesome.

The fabled hitachi magic wand

This is it, people. The Hitachi Magic Wand, the Cadillac of vibrators, the oldie-but- goody, the sultan of snatch. Das Wunderwerkzeug.

I was ten or so when I looked under my parents’ bed (I don’t remember why, but when you’re ten do you really need a reason?) and found a “personal massager”. It was definitely Magic Wand-shaped, although it was brown and cream colored, a tell that it had probably been purchased in the seventies, when they married (at least it wasn’t harvest gold like their stand mixer). I’m not sure if their device was a knock-off or a previous iteration of the legend; the Hitachi Magic Wands I’m familiar with are always a crisp white and blue.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was dealing with here, but I had a vague feeling that it possibly had something to do with this sex thing I kept hearing about. (No, I had not yet connected that what I routinely did with the hand shower was in any way related. Why do you ask?) It’s possible that my mother, who to this day is a very religious and reserved woman, actually used it to massage her neck or something. But honestly, what are the odds? She used it to get off, right? And good for her!

My point here is not to think of my mother masturbating, or to invite you to think of my mother masturbating, so seriously, stop. My point here, I think, is that the Magic Wand’s reputation for being timeless is well-deserved. It seems to cross generational and ideological barriers. It seems to get the job done for an astonishing range of women, and the fact that my mother had hers well over a decade speaks to its dependability and durability if nothing else.

When I began to get serious about my sex toy collection I was impressed by its reviews and testimonials. Sure, It looked less scintillating than a lot of the other toys available, but everyone agreed that there was not a better clitoral masturbation aid anywhere. It was a perennial staff pick at every major sex toy retailer: women with access to dozens, hundreds of toys always came back to this, the Cadillac of vibrators. Also, I loved that you could plug it in. I burn through batteries like David Lynch burns through crazy.

So I ordered one. Of course I ordered one! I couldn’t wait to have the orgasm of my life, and then follow it up with another just like it. And another. And another. I was going to make it sorry it ever met me and gave me those come-hither product reviews.

It came in a long rectangular box that I appreciated for not being plastic clamshell packaging. The neutral exterior and the carefully worded booklet enclosed seemed intent on projecting a “you just bought a personal massager, not a vibrator, dammit!” attitude. This amused me, because I was all too ready to corrupt the shit out of my new toy. So I scrubbed up the “soft, flexible head” with dish soap quickly, perfunctorily. I dried it off, plugged it in, and…

It was. Sort of. Meh. It wasn’t like I couldn’t get off with it, but that’s really not saying much since I can technically get off with a smoke detector. It just wasn’t very compelling. It has two vibration settings for your pleasure: “boring” and “clitoris-searing”. On low I could have a quick orgasm, but it wasn’t any better than I could do without a toy. On the high setting I would sometimes have a great, gushing orgasm, but even if I braced it against my pubic bone and let the radiant sensations get me to that climax I would still feel sore right after. Both settings left my clit numb every time. All this is better than having zero orgasms, but for me it wasn’t the spiritual experience it seemed to be for every other woman on the planet.

I was the lonely voice of dissent with a numb pussy and a long future in front of her, full of buying batteries.

Yeah, I tried buying the attachments. Yes, I tried using it through my clothes. Honestly, it’s just not my favorite sex toy. I wanted it to be. I was ready for it to be, but it didn’t work out that way. I would still recommend it, though, because every woman I know who owns one loves hers. Then she looks shocked when I tell her it isn’t my cup of tea; it’s like I’ve just told her that her first born child looks like a lamprey.

I’ll admit that in spite of all this, I just used my Hitachi Magic Wand mere hours before writing this. My hips and lower back were feeling tense and I needed to work out some (actual muscle) tension. Yes. Alas, I’m actually using it as a personal massager, and I absolutely adore it in that capacity. I feel like the one guy who actually did read Playboy for the articles, but it seriously pummels the knots right out!

I guess I’ve finally succeeded in downgrading an intimate relationship into a highly productive platonic one. Go figure.