quizzical pussy

I’m pretty disgusted by politics. I very likely disagree with you politically, and I definitely disagree with just about anyone who could realistically get elected to public office. The two-party system in the United States makes me grumpy, as do corporations holding more sway in the government than my vote or yours ever will. Voting depresses me. Hate it. Hate it.

I do it anyway. What we have now is not what I want, but until I’m ready to invest all my energy, and my very life, in revolution, I am tacitly complicit in the current system. I can’t justify turning my back on one of the major processes in that system that might– might!– make a positive difference for all of us.

So it’s election day where I live, and I just voted for a bunch of assholes. I hope they were the better assholes.

I watched the presidential debate last night with my partner. We had sex the whole time. It was probably the best debate I’ve ever seen, and made listening to Romney’s political positions bearable. Mostly because it was difficult to hear him while moaning.

Sex may not be the only thing that can get us through this difficult time. Maybe booze would help too, but I don’t drink and I’m all out of bubblegum.

I’d been in a slump. Like six months with no partner. I was getting horribly upset, because I’m attractive, confident, and willing, but no chemistry was happening with anyone, anywhere… I resigned myself to the fact that if you’re looking, it isn’t likely happen. I gave up. I quit trying to look sexy, act sexy, put on any guise of needing or wanting sex. Going places with your Mom does that to you.

BUT! When I wasn’t looking for a mate, wasn’t even shaving my legs, someone caught my eye. And by luck, perhaps, I had caught his! Sat and talked for a while and realized it was on. Within 15 minutes, we’d both given into the idea that yeps, we were going to have sex!

So, the secrety part of this all? He’s homeless and broke… I can’t tell my family or friends (small circle) that I’m fucking a homeless, jobless man. Firstly, they’d be likely to tell me he’s using me for whatever it is he can get, be it food, warmth, sex. I don’t think this is the case. He knows he’s not coming home with me, nor does he want to, as far as I can tell. I’ve too many children and animals to make it feasible, anyway. He hasn’t asked me for anything, food, money, supplies. Nothing. Not begging, in the least…

We meet once or twice a week, and I either sneak him home to my place (past the children and my disapproving mother) or I rent a hotel room.

And, his idea of sexy is me. And my idea of sexy is me. Voluptuous, red-headed, and tart. He’s pretty fine looking himself, even staying at a church and looking for work, with a big red beard and untamed hair. Kinda viking-ish…

The sex is great, too. Repeated performances in one night, multiple orgasms for me, and he’s got great stamina, and doesn’t mind using it to pleasure me, repeatedly.

We’ve got wicked chemistry even when we’re not in person. Good e-mails, phone calls, and texts.

I’m keeping him all to myself for now. I don’t even want to share my marauding viking lover with anyone around me. Perhaps when he has a job and is doing for himself again, I won’t seem unstable for taking on an unknown quantity like a homeless hiker, I can introduce him to some of my people, so I won’t be disappearing into the night, mysteriously.

And, I feel a wee bit guilty for even thinking of him as someone I need to keep secret. I don’t want to think of myself as being ashamed of my lovers. That just seems wrong… Fuck you, guilt! I’m happy with it…

I think it’s time for us all to acknowledge that being homeless is not that unthinkable a thing (partly because of assholes), and to stop blaming people who are living in that situation. And to accept that, as real human beings, they might even be sexy. I can confidently state that I am a couple ill-fated turns away from homeless, personally, and I hope there will still be people who would unashamedly fuck me should that happen.

So, I’m staying with a good-friend-and-sometimes-sex-partner while I’m working on finding my own place (housing hunting sucks, btw, and NOT in the good way!)

Things had been pretty awesome for a while, but last week she went to the ER with appendicitis, and on her post-op care instructions it says ”your doctor will tell you when you can have sex again.” They told her it may be a month or more.

We’re both extremely horny; she’s down the hall with her life-partner sleeping night after night and I’ve got my choice of ”right hand or left.” Neither one has done great at keeping up with my libido — 2 or 3 times a day masturbating, which is up from my typical frequency of once every 2 or 3 days… it’s really wearing on me!

Maybe someone out there can send quick-healing wishes her way (or an Adamantium skeleton! Wait… then again, maybe not…) and/or sex-partner-discovery wishes my way?

Would a single-payer healthcare system bring us closer to Adamantium skeletons? I guess it doesn’t matter because in the U.S. both things are fictitious. But you and she, my friend, have my best wishes.

This past weekend, out of the blue, we reconnected in a way that ended up in bed. We started off cuddling and kissing and then I remembered how much fun he is to go down on and we agreed that clothing was expendable. Hours later, we snuggled and talked about how our sexualities have changed since we dated, then continued fucking until we ran out of condoms and energy. I know it’s not likely to happen again, but the next morning I woke up deliriously happy with a vivid memory of his incredibly expressive orgasm faces, some lovely bite marks on my shoulder, and renewed determination to find another partner who I am that sexually attracted to.

This just reminded me that I hope I wake up tomorrow morning deliriously happy that the Patriot Act has been repealed.

Also, ::internet high five:: for obvious reasons.

Two days ago I told two friends about some shit that happened when I was younger, including being raped by my first boyfriend. When I told them, I sounded SO CONFIDENT and chill and like it was no big deal that I told them, but it really really was. I’m still rather terrified that somehow, for some reason, they will judge me for it or won’t want to be friends with me anymore. I know that’s crazy, but I can’t help it.

It was a big deal, and you are awesome for your honesty. For showing people that a rape survivor isn’t some abstract stranger, but someone they know. I go through something very similar to what you describe when I talk about–well, a lot of my past– but particularly the rape stuff. And I think people have judged me, to a point. I think knowing that what I’ve been through does affect people’s views of me, and colors their perception of who I am. I don’t know the details how it changes their views of me, but I assume it does somehow. I’m academically interested in whether it’s for the better or worse generally, but really, if it’s for the worse, they are welcome to just fuck off.

Vote NO on Proposal Rape Culture, everybody.

I accidentally slipped and told my fuck buddy I love him while we were having sex. I would be less embarrassed if it weren’t true.

Really, though…

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Pushing, testing, annihilating your own boundaries can be awesome. Not so much when someone else– anyone–decides you need this done for you. Whether it results in irritation, full-on trauma, or something else, I’m not sure it ever ends well.

I have always had lots of rape fantasies, especially date rape scenarios where I’m too drunk to make a decision. I also really like getting fucked while I’m asleep. A couple years ago I did get date raped while I was asleep and I woke up halfway through (side note: I still don’t know whether to consider it date rape since the guy was as drunk as I was… although he did have to be sober enough to move, while I didn’t). It was traumatic for a bit but I still have the same fantasies and they’re better than ever! They never involve that incident and I don’t think they’re even connected…

The boundaries between fantasy and reality can be really difficult to resolve for rape survivors. Giving up control voluntarily is totally different from someone taking it away, or from being in a position where you had none.

The more I reflect on being semi-kinda date raped, the more confused I get. Yes, I was too drunk to consent; but he was too drunk to realize that and stop. And I did get too wasted to go home at his house knowing that he might wanna fuck me. Isn’t there any space between blaming the victim and accepting responsibility? Does putting all the impetus on men make women seem passive and pathetic (at least in my situation, where there was no threat of violence)? Is there a way to think about this without secretly wanting to feel like a victim, or conversely feeling like I’m too tough to be a victim? And how does being penetrated change it? If I had secretly sucked his dick while he was passed out would he have felt as violated as I did? And does any of this matter since it was a long time ago and I’m not traumatized? Most of all, is it wrong that we’re still friends (I yelled at him about it at the time)??

Although the details and the experience of being raped can vary widely, I think most survivors grapple with these questions. I can’t answer them. I really can’t. I can tell you that I tried to be friends with the guy who raped me afterward. I don’t think it was wrong, but in my case it was kind of more a way to punish myself for what I “let happen”. It wasn’t because I actually wanted him for a friend. But that’s me, not necessarily anyone else.

We’re going to deal with slightly less devastating boundary issues for the next couple. Because damn.

I’ve been following a blog for months, thinking that the person writing it was just another friendly sex blogger. Today I suddenly realized that she’s actually someone I’ve known since high school, and I’ve been reading about her sex life all this time without realizing it! I feel awkward…

I’d like to officially not apologize to anyone I’ve ever met in real life who has stumbled across this blog. You’re the ones reading it, you perverts.

So, I recently found out two things about a friend: she probably has a crush on me, and she has supremely deft fingers.

Item #1 is seriously putting a pit of dread into my stomach. I don’t know how to deal with it and I feel like I shouldn’t have to.

Item #2? Well, let’s just say I’ve rediscovered an old favorite from literotica. Super-butch masseuse blackmails seduces/rapes femme girls through blackmail and the power of her hands. It’s so poorly written. I cast myself as the poor hopeless girl and my friend as the rapist.

So while I’m coming to the thought of her hands on me, I’m also ignoring her texts: “night sweetheart,” “come to the park and read poetry with me.” Cognitive dissonance.

Okay, really we most of us have some cognitive dissonance percolating in the shadowlands between our fantasies and reality.

A few years ago, I decided I liked not wearing a bra during the steamy summertime. I have small, rocking’ tits, so it’s totally comfy to do so. I began to like being proud of my AA boobies, hanging out, free.

I was walking into a Big Boy, one afternoon, and this middle-aged guy held the door open for me. As I walked past him, saying ”thanks,” he said, in a very loud voice ”Damn, those are THE biggest nipples I have ever seen.” He said it to nobody in particular, just the air, and just the bunch of people within hearing distance. He said it with a very obvious tinge of disgust.

Mortified, I ran to the restaurant bathroom before even getting seated. I stared into the mirror for about ten minutes. I didn’t want to go back out there. I didn’t want him or anyone else to see me.

Yes, those nipples were huge. But did it need an announcement?

And…until that moment, I had thought that the silhouette of my breasts looked beautiful. I suppose if I had been in Manhattan or some other spicy, Cosmopolitan place, nobody would have shamed me like that. But I live in Northwest Ohio. But the real questions were and are: Why was I so surprised? Why was I suddenly so afraid? And how could some overweight sloppy man in overalls make me feel, suddenly, so dirty?

As long as we have bodies and people have eyes, loved ones and strangers alike are going to have opinions about our bodies. It would be nice to get to the place where one didn’t give a shit what anyone thought: compliments are nice, but they feed nothing; comments that shame or sexualize us are as the quacking of ducks or the susurration of a distant freeway.

It would also be awfully nice if people kept the latter category of comments to themselves.

Something squicks me out about actually having sex with someone who does unusual things with gender. A woman with a dick won’t do it for me. Nor will a man who wants to wear frilly underwear. I like macho men and femme women, and anything in between kills my ladyboner.

This makes me feel incredibly mean because I have a trans friend, love her like a sister, and she complains about not being able to find partners. And I’m thinking, guiltily, “maybe most people are like me, and just can’t get over the the gender thing.”

We each get to have our own boundaries of whom we’re attracted to. It’s actually good to know what these are. It’s not so good to be hurtful toward or dismissive of people who don’t match our orientation (and as a suggestion, I probably wouldn’t use the word “squick” when talking to them), but we owe no one our attraction. For what it’s worth, I don’t think most people are necessary oriented as you are. There are a lot of people who are attracted to trans women, and I suspect there would be a lot more if we could collectively manage, as a society, to stop being horrible to them as a general policy.

A while ago, I shared a bed with a friend, who touched me in ways I didn’t really want him to when I was half asleep.
It took me a while to say no and stop him, partially because I was too tired/dozy to work out was going on, partly because I felt awkward because we were good friends, did he feel I’d lead him on, did I for some reason owe him this? But also because my body was responding to the touches, even though my mind did not want it to happen. When I snapped out of it and realised I had made it clear that we weren’t that sort of friends, and then he did it again even though I said no, I stormed out and we didn’t make up for a long time. I felt used and like our friendship had been chucked away because he thought I’d be easy.

I don’t know, anymore, what I feel worst about – the fact he took advantage of me in such a weird situation, or the fact I was so angry with him for it considering I semi enjoyed it.

As much as we owe no one our attraction, a thousand times more do we owe no one our bodies. He was violating your boundaries. Your reaction gets to be as complicated as it is, but it doesn’t change what he did or how fucked up it was.

Which is VERY.

Confess things here.

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There are some confessions that come dressed in lemur-themed wrapping paper with matching bows and ribbons expertly curled at the ends. Some appear in grease-stained paper bags, still warm when shoved hastily into my waiting hands. Occasionally– so seldom it barely bears mentioning– they’re hurled at my window like tomatoes.

Sometimes it feels like they got splinched¹, or have ellipses dangling from them. They feel unfinished; there’s more to the story. This is not a bad thing, but add the fact that there is some not insignificant delay in posting some of these, I often wonder about them months later.

There’s this guy I work with – he’s handsome and scruffy in all the right ways, always has that twinkle of good-natured mischief in his eye, and the way he handles a guitar makes me want to rip his clothes off and throw him up against a wall. Come to find out he is 17(!) years older than me, when I wouldn’t have put him a day over 35. I can’t lie, honestly, the fact that he’s a sexy silver fox makes it even hotter. To be continued (I hope).

I don’t think it was, to be honest, and I also hope this went very, very well for both of you!

The first time I came with a partner, it was a slightly older, solid butch with beautiful eyes. I wanted to marry her. We played sexual games in the field behind our high school for months–touching, taking off, kissing here, kissing there. An hour a day every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, when we had an extra long lunch break. I remember how long it took us to think about lying down–we’d always stand up and grind against a tree, against a wall, switching dominance and submission, tying each other up with the ribbons I looped through my hair. But the lying down was even better. We didn’t have to worry about gravity, and it felt like proper sex. She’d growl, “I’m going to fuck you” or suddenly, sweetly kiss my neck till my legs buckled. So many feelings, QP. So many feelings. None of them–as far as I could tell–orgasm, but a huge portion of them better than any orgasm I’d ever had. Maybe they were actually orgasms. It’s hard for me to define them.

But then? One definitely was. Definitely. This time it was in the apartment she shared with her sister, on her mattress (no bed frame). We’d been fucking for hours. She’d lightly scratch my ass when we recovered from the strenuous bits, like she thought it was beautiful. We played a sexual hide-and-seek under the blankets. I think we took a break at some point to watch Best In Show, with much handholding and cuddling and flirting. And then we went back to bed. She knew, QP, that I adored having my waist and stomach nibbled and licked at; she knew because she was the one to find it out. She licked up the sides, pressed her tongue into my bellybutton, had me screaming. Then she nestled her mouth and very sensual nose into the softness just between my pubic bone and my navel.

QP, did you know I stutter when I come? I didn’t. But as I tried to tell her she was giving me goosebumps, all that would come out was ”G-g-goo-goose–” I remember being worried she’d be like ”what the fuck is up with this geese talk?” so I tried to start the sentence again. But–again–all that came out was ”G-g-goo-goose–”

Because I was distracted. I was distracted by the fact that my vagina seemed to be shaking. I did not know what the fuck was up; my masturbatory orgasms were all clitty. But this was different. Her weight on my legs and her tongue on my belly and all the sunlight and suddenly the blanket was velvet and there was an earthquake inside me–and what was happening? This did not feel like any come I’d had before.

QP, I was sort of raped when I was little. It’s okay now. It was with an object, and by a woman. I really don’t like being penetrated. I am not going to try it again. I know. And not ever having a g-spot orgasm seemed like a fair tradeoff for not being penetrated.

Fortunately, the universe believes I should never do anything I don’t want to, and I should get everything I want. Because several months later, reading “I…

Okay, this one makes me sad. You sent in this beautiful, vulnerable, open confession, and I’m pretty sure my Sex Confessional form cut you off. And I’m sorry for everyone involved.

I join the universe in wishing all sorts of happiness for you.

I’m going out of town to visit a friend in a couple of weeks. I’m tempted to ask if he and his girlfriend will have a threesome with me. I don’t think he’d say no.

This could be an erotic story prompt, I suppose…

i met this woman several years ago through a video game we were both playing at the time and we became good friends and continued to talk after we had both left said game, we were both married at the time but have admittedly fantasized about each other ever since, she is a high school teacher and i have always had this fantasy about being punished by the hot teacher for be a bad little student. we met in person a few months ago after my wife left me and we had the hottest most earth shattering sex every day of that week. i cant wait to see her again after i get home from the army.

In my personal experience, the first sex with someone is never the best sex I’ll ever have with them. So if you already had the hottest and most earth shattering sex with this woman, what the fuck next? Galaxy-shifting sex, I’m guessing, so enjoy that.

oh god, QP…oh god. my other half found us a playmate and she’s literally quivering with antici…pation. i’m terrified and excited and dripping and horny and oh god, what if she hates me?

i had to share this with you. i can’t share with anyone else. by the time you read/post this, our date will have happened, and hopefully i’ll be able to report back with good news. she might just be the unicorn we’ve been looking for. cross your fingers for us?

Your date has most assuredly happened, but my fingers are so incredibly crossed that you, um, got to ride the unicorn.

…I can’t believe I went with “ride the unicorn”.

 After five months of involuntary abstinence, I came home and booty called an old friend as soon as humanly possible. His response? ”I guess I might be able to find some time tonight.” Fuuuck that, mate. When he texted me again four hours later I was lying in a naked, sweaty, sated heap with a delightfully skilled, endowed gentleman with six-pack abs.

I have closed today’s ConTuesday with a confession that’s wrapped up nicely in a reportedly delightful package. I would never leave you people hanging. Unless I would…

Confess things to me!

1. Yep, totally rereading Harry Potter. [↩]

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ConTuesday confessions are go!

I would love to read one of your ”sex journal” type entries on here involving you, Viola, and your Feeldoe.

Viola and I were just hanging out the other day, and she mentioned she wished I’d brought my Feeldoe with me. And believe me, so did I. I think I should probably start carrying it in my trunk at all times, just in case. More importantly, I think we can make this happen.

I’ve never even dated a girl with tattoos, but I find them incredibly sexy. I like to look at pictures of women that have large and elaborate tattoos. I don’t know that I would want my wife to be all tattooed up, but maybe we should go to a tattoo convention sometime. I think it would be a huge turn-on.

My personal opinion on ink: it can be beautiful and sexy and add to a person’s attractiveness, or it can be meh. This all depends on design and placement. I wonder if people more tend to fetishize the type of person who gets tattoos, which might have once been “rebellious” or “alternative” or “adventurous”, but at this point seems to just be “a random sampling of everyone with skin”.

Not trying to talk you out of your tattoo fetish, friend. Just riffing.

I’m afraid to have sex.

My first sexual experience has a lot of awfulness and misery attached to it. And I had this weird sort of assault-y experience at a party. Since then, I haven’t had sexual contact with anyone. Besides making out. But it’s gotten to the point where just the idea of making out alone (even though I used to love it!) has gotten too scary because it might lead to other things that feel even scarier. And it’s starting to inhibit my romantic life too. I don’t know what to do.

Please, please do not take this as snarky or rude in any way, but my advice is to get counseling. You can often even find it free or very low cost, and though you may not find the perfect fit for what you want that way, it will be better than nothing.

I say this as someone who went through about two years of free therapy through a local university with various counselors who changed every semester. Even in that non-ideal situation, I still made a lot of progress working on my issues with past abuse and sexual assault. Shit used to be horrible, and now it’s getting better every day.

Another thing that helped me was starting this blog. I have written so much about being abused and being raped, and doing so helped me process a lot of things I had previously chosen not to examine, not to confront. You don’t have to do it publicly– although the supportive and amazing comments I’ve gotten have helped me too– but maybe journaling will also help.

I hope this helps. Please keep in mind that you’re not messed up; what happened to you was messed up.

I’m a top and I’m REALLY kinky, but humiliation is a hard limit for me. I’ve tried poking around dominant groups on Fetlife, but almost all the ones I see for female tops are anathemaic to me. I see a lot of people talking about how what the bottom wants isn’t really important, and how men are too cowardly to play with them, or some really awful verbal abuse that makes my skin crawl. Whenever I read it I feel out of place because I’m not masquerading as a sociopath. I actually CARE about my bottoms and whether or not they’re having a good experience!

Am I really so strange for thinking the people I top are people and wanting them to have as much fun as I am?

People who say they don’t care what their bottoms want are either posturing or just straight up dangerous. Those are the only two options, and even the posturing is dangerous in that it sets a terrible example even if the top is privately doing everything right.

That being said, some bottoms are actively into humiliation. It’s not for everyone, and clearly not your thing, but some people want it. If it’s consensual and negotiated, the person doing the humiliating is performing a service. As you probably know very well, sometimes kink isn’t what it looks like from the outside. So I understand your concern, but I feel like you’re at least partially conflating humiliation as a fetish and actual disrespect.

So, just discovered just how amazing my vagina con be. Masturbated for maybe ten minutes, soaked my panties, my nice skirt and the bedsheets, without even noticing until I was completely finished. The only downside is I can’t figure out how to explain to my mum that I need new sheets without a really awkward conversation…

Dear parents of the world: Please never ask why your post-pubescent kids are washing their own sheets. You probably don’t need to know.

P.S. Yay squirting!

i am 26 years old. i know how to do sex but i have a secrete whenever i do sex in that situation i want to put my penis gentaly to my girlfrends nose i want she just wipe her nose on my penis but she dont like this .but i never force her to do so. but my sexual attraction is her nose.i do normal sex also .but this is my sex secret..am i mentally sik ?…please send me some solutions

People with nasal fetishes usually learn, through using it early and often, the correct spelling of “secret”, but I’m not going to get hung up on whether you’re trolling me or not. I’m going to answer your question.

You’re not mentally sick, but you’re with someone who doesn’t share your fetish or want to indulge it. You may some day get someone to wipe her nose on your cock, but it’s probably not going to be her. Oh, and if you stay in this relationship and do nose stuff with someone else, I’m pretty sure your girlfriend would consider it cheating, but you would have to ask her. If you don’t ask and just do, that’s definitely cheating.

I think your solution is ultimately the internet. You can find people into anything on the internet. But use spell check.

Confess things here!

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ConTuesday is a certain cure for a clean mind. Don’t even take my word for it…

I finally anted up and got a Feeldoe!

I love having a cock now!

And so does my boyfriend!

Yay! And I cannot stress this enough: it never gets old.

Both my roommates were out, so I decided to engage in some old-fashioned hedonism.

What resulted was a forty-minute long INTENSE fuck session with literally all my toys. At one point I was rolling around on the bed with four sperate vibrators going at once, combining and alternating them all like some sort of Mad Dildo Hatter.

It was awesome.

Okay, so obviously I’m picturing this in my mind’s eye. There’s no way that’s not happening. But there’s also no way I can picture it without you cackling maniacally. I just thought I’d let you know.

I have this aunt who has low-level but persistent biphobia of the “they don’t really exist” kind. She also happens to be a lesbian. When it comes up (which, in fairness, isn’t THAT often), I feel like I should maybe talk to her, but as a straight (cis, white, etc) male I feel weird about confronting someone who is actually gay (not to mention 20 years older) about social justice and sexuality.

I understand your reluctance here, since you’re coming from a place of privilege, as they say. But speaking as a sexual orientation minority, I wouldn’t mind you saying “My bisexual friends think they exist,” or something like that.

It should also be noted that I’m not exactly Yo, Is This Racist, so I don’t know, I’m not an expert on confronting people sight unseen on their xenophobia. But no matter how many times I’m wrong about shit, bisexuals will still exist.

I had what I’ve been calling an “incident” two years ago. I told friends about it, but they never characterized it as rape, so I didn’t either at the time. I’ve been uneasy about it ever since. What happened was, I sought out and had casual sex with a guy one night. A few days later he came to my place, presumably to talk to me, and began pressuring me to have sex with him. Typical fore-play activity ensued, but I kept insisting I did not want to have sex with him, and he kept asking for it. I eventually gave in and let him have sex with me, and the thought process was, “If I have sex with him, he will leave me alone.” So I guess I said yes, but it was a complete internal NO which I feel a more intuitive person would have picked up on. He had my verbal consent, so I’m sure there’s no way he would ever feel as if he raped me. But I don’t know what to call it, or how to feel about. I just don’t talk about it.

What your friends said about the situation doesn’t define it. What I say about it doesn’t define it. What he thinks about it sure as hell doesn’t define it. Only you can know if this man pestered and harried you into manufactured false consent, and if you slept with him just to get him off your back. I can tell you that coercive rape is absolutely a real thing, and what you describe sounds like it could very easily be a textbook case.

If you didn’t give your consent willingly, the sex should never have happened. Period. I’m sad that you went through this.

My boyfriend is a chemistry major, and I would really like to fuck him in his lab coat.

Really badly.

Okay, so obviously I’m picturing this in my mind’s eye. There’s no way that’s not happening. But there’s also no way I can picture you guys fucking like this without Thomas Dolby’s “Blinded Me With Science” playing in the background. I just thought I’d let you know.

It saddens me that every time i watch a tentacle hentai it is always rape, because if it were me I would love it. Just the idea of having something large, muscular and that have COMPLETE MANEUVERABILITY just sets something off in me. Also the idea of it holding me down (or up) gets me wet.
I am a straight female. I like boobs I do, but anything below the belt…not so much. i feel like its weird and cant discuss it with any of my female friends.

You might want to check this out when it’s finally published. Also, check these out:

octoboobs!

Hey, so tell me about stuff.

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Remember that bra color meme on Facebook? Okay, actually, I’ll probably have to back up for some of you. Remember when Facebook was a thing?

Early last year a bunch of people started posting random colors as their Facebook status, and it turned out they were referring to what colors their bras were. And it turned out that was for breast cancer awareness! Surprise!

I don’t know how effective this exercise was, mostly because I’m pretty sure most people are aware of breast cancer and are more or less against it. If it caused just one person to donate to breast cancer research, or prompted one person to start doing regular self-exams, or started one person on the path to learning potentially life-saving facts about early diagnosis, or anything along those lines, though, I’m all for it.

But something occurred to me the other day when sex education activist and Scarleteen founder Heather Corinna tweeted this link, an article from the Duke Journal of Gender Law & Policy that covers sexual harassment/assault, and what survivors were wearing. From the article (also quoted in Heather’s tweet): “While people perceive dress to have an impact on who is assaulted, studies of rapists suggest that victim attire is not a significant factor.” In fact, it may even be the contrary. The article goes on to say, “Instead, rapists look for signs of passiveness and submissiveness, which, studies suggest, are more likely to coincide with more body-concealing clothing.”

The cliche, of course, is the woman in the tiny skirt and the low-cut top who, essentially, sickeningly, people seem to think got what she was asking for. Now, I don’t think anyone is about to run amok with the above quoted statement and start telling women not to wear long skirts and Cosby sweaters lest they appear like they’re looking for trouble. That would be preposterous. I think the key takeaway here, for anyone missing it, is that whenever you’re tempted to blame someone for getting raped, you should shut your fucking mouth, take your fingers off your fucking keyboard, and think again.

Repeat as needed.

This is the awareness I’d like spread. And as I was thinking that, I remembered the bygone bra meme, and I wondered something. What if all the rape survivors with access to social media did something similar. What if we all posted what we were wearing when we were sexually assaulted? Would the world learn anything? Would people finally realize that in all the jeans and hoodies, microdresses, niqabs, soccer uniforms, Comme des Garçons couture, vinyl bra sets, three-piece suits, pajamas, and polo shirts, there is really only one constant: there was always, always a rapist nearby.

I’m not suggesting we actually do this. On most social networks it would mean potentially letting all your family, friends, and acquaintances know something very personal and raw, and I’m not sure I’m up to that myself. But still, I think it would be interesting, and I wonder what would happen, if it would make any difference in the way people see sexual assault. I’d like to think it would. I’d like to think that when faced with enough truth people eventually have to stop being assholes. But, you know, you’d also think that when a sex blogger is faced with enough truth about assholes she’d eventually stop being naive, and that might never happen either.

Still. Jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

(image source)

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You always hear that rape isn’t about sex, it’s about power. And that probably holds true if you look deep enough, but why in the world would a rapist do that? On more casual reflection, I think that dictum has the potential to allow people to easily deny that what they did was rape. A lot of times, in their minds, it was completely about sex. They weren’t paying particular attention to consent, but they think they probably got it, more or less. And besides, they weren’t trying to take anyone’s power away. They weren’t being violent. They were just trying to get laid, man.

I believe that it’s easy for people to think “Rapists are monsters. I am a person. Therefore, I must not be a rapist. IT’S LIKE MATH.”

Piers Vitiard liked to bike and play lacrosse. He knew about Classical mythology and was good at Soul Calibur. He thought everyone should see Donnie Darko and the entire Godfather series. He was a pretty nice guy. He also raped me.

Reginald Sleeth dreamed of being a filmmaker. He always wove intricate stories in his head, but rarely wrote them down. His voice got louder when he was self-conscious, and he spoke in a fake Scottish accent when he wanted attention. He worried about getting fat. He thought that orange striped cats were the best kind. When he gave you a compliment you tasted it for weeks afterward. He was emotionally, physically, and sexually abusive.

They weren’t monsters, they were just people who did some fucked up things. And people don’t let themselves feel like abusers or rapists. They might have moments when they realize that they’ve done some fucked up stuff, and even feel guilty, but the homeostasis of the mind demands that our thoughts move on from there. We need to justify, rewrite history a little. We need to slant events in such a way that allows us to be the heroes of our own stories.

And along a similar vein, I’m no righteous, innocent victim. The choices I made were monstrously wrong, if I really examine them. I played into Reginald’s abuse, responding to his manipulations as if he’d scripted them and I’d memorized my part. I let our dysfunction teach me what it meant to be in a romantic relationship. Every chance I had to stand up to him, I folded; right up until I found the strength to leave at the very end. I excused Piers after he violated me, and made a point of trying to make it seem to both of us like what had happened wasn’t a big deal. That was unfair to me, to him, and to the next woman he got alone in a room. He learned nothing from what he did to me.

I got it all so wrong. I denied myself the protection and respect that were mine by right. I told them it was okay to disrespect me, harm me, use me. I allowed myself to become inhuman. Maybe I didn’t feel human in the first place. I do now, though. I know better now.

You can be a real person, even a normally decent person, and fuck up big time. You can be weak. You can collude against yourself in the sickest ways imaginable. You can be a rapist. You can be an abuser. Maybe you didn’t mean for things to happen that way, but motive isn’t everything. Sometimes what actually happened is important too. And you’re allowed to forgive yourself, but that really sort of requires admitting it to yourself first.

(image source)

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I’m a slut. Maybe. Honestly, I don’t even know what a slut really is.

Identities that are defined by the opinions of others are weird, aren’t they? If a slut is someone who’s considered promiscuous or lacking sexual morals, that’s exactly what it means. Considered by whom? Who knows! I think my sexual morals are just fine. But I’m relatively sure your grandma would disagree (although grandmas can be sluts too).

But if we’re going to define slut as someone who enjoys sex and possibly has a more relaxed than average attitude about it, that’s me. I’m a total slut.

That just doesn’t mean I’ll necessarily sleep with you.

This is why I like the concept of Slutwalks. Because I feel that’s more or less what they’re trying to say. There’s a big difference between someone wanting sex and “asking to get raped”*. But you know who doesn’t realize that? A rapist. Also, to an extent, rape apologists.

There’s a Slutwalk being planned near-ish to me and soon-ish to now. I think it’s where I belong.

1. Must start designing a clever sign ASAP.
2. May also will coordinate a slutty outfit. Or not. My most debaucherous moments usually don’t begin with me in a sexy little outfit, oddly enough.

(image source)

*Which, just to be crystal clear, is a thing that DOES NOT HAPPEN.

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Warning: This post contains description and discussion of rape and its aftermath, including victim-blaming.

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While you’re being raped, you don’t get to feel like a person. Your personality, your history, your passions, your mannerisms, your interests, your pleasure, your protests: everything about you gets shoved to one side so your rapist can get to a hole.*

The violence is eloquent: you’re meat. People get to decline sex, so you must be something else. You realize through the fear and the horror that in that moment you’re nothing more than a flesh frame for negative space.

And hopefully one day that feeling goes entirely away.

When people say that rape is dehumanizing, that’s usually what they mean. To rape is to perpetrate an inhuman act that denies a person human dignity. But that only scratches the surface of what it’s like to survive a rape.

After you’ve been raped, you don’t get to be treated like a person. Your experience, your story, your anger, your grief: they’re all messy and unpleasant for everyone to deal with. Won’t you please put them away?

You’re going to be a statistic now. You’re going to be a cautionary tale. If you speak out or press charges, you get to be “the accuser”, whom people will likely suggest is trying to ruin your poor rapist’s life. Above all, you’re going to be a case to study and analyze so everyone can explain to each other why you were victimized. Because that’s more important than anything else.

See, if people can somehow figure out a way to blame you for being attacked, they feel safer. If rape is a crime of two wrongs, it can be prevented by scrupulously making rights.

You? You were asking for it. Or unprepared to defend yourself, or maybe your lifestyle put you in danger’s way. Or whatever. Something like this just wouldn’t happen to everyone else, or everyone else’s loved ones. It happened to you for a reason. Had to. Otherwise things get uncomfortable!

Apparently this time-honored system of rape aftermath management holds rock solid even when the person who was raped is an eleven-year-old little girl.

A little girl can be gang raped by at least 18 men and boys, and people will point out that she dressed provocatively to look older than her age. They will comb her Facebook account trying to prove that she engaged in transgressive behavior. The men who raped this little girl can take video of the rape and share it at school and on the internet, and some fucked-up woman will have the gall to comment, “These boys have to live with this the rest of their lives”. I want to believe that she’s referring to the soul-rot and gut-burrowing guilt that should encroach after committing such a vile act, but I don’t. I believe she’s referring to their reputations and the legal fallout. I believe she genuinely feels more compassion for the rapists than the eleven-year-old girl they brutalized. And I feel sick about the human race.

The New York Times and other news outlets repeated this victim-blaming bullshit without comment. NBC news invited someone to come on a TV program to say that this child was a willing participant in her rape. The way this story has been treated isn’t atypical, it’s only more dramatic because how can you blame an eleven-year-old for getting raped ARE YOU INSANE??

When people say that rape is dehumanizing, do they realize how much we as a society help it stay that way? Can anyone truly be surprised when rape survivors choose to remain silent?

We couldn’t protect and care for a little girl. We couldn’t work together to keep her safe. We couldn’t create a world where those young men would be sickened at the mere thought of hurting her. That would’ve been too much to ask, certainly. But why in the goddamn can’t we admit that she did nothing wrong, and they did?

Are we fucking animals?

*The mechanics of rape do not always work this way. I want to be very clear about the fact that I’m drawing from my personal experiences to express a feeling I believe may be communal, or close to. I’m not saying that my specific experiences are universal. Not all rape involves penetration. However, I believe it always involves some level of being involuntarily reduced to a body.

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ConTuesday! Time of secrets, great and awesome!

I found my G-spot and fapped furiously. My mother was in the other room watching television.

You see, science? The G-spot is true!

I *really* want to get a realistic dildo – specifically the VixSkin Johnny – but I’m worried about intimidating my boyfriend. We have a long-distance relationship, and our sex life consists of camsex on Skype. I typically use vibrators when we do, and it’s amazing – so much better than when I’m by myself, because he’s watching and getting off too. Thing is, he’s got a cliche fragile male ego about them. He frequently talks about how when we’re together, I won’t need them anymore – which is absolutely not true. I enjoy masturbating on my own and I intend to continue to use them regardless of my relationships. But for some reason, it’s so much better when I know he’s watching me do it. I’m afraid it’ll bother him a lot if he sees me fucking myself with a cock that isn’t his. I don’t want him to think I’m replacing him with a hunk of plastic.

Insecurity is really to blame for 90% of sexual issues. And obviously I made that statistic up completely, but it feels true. If a guy told me I could get rid of my sex toys because I had him I’d be all “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA your sense of humor is what I cherish most about you, dude.”

Now, this is probably like suggesting you buy a Kia when you’re looking at BMWs, but have you thought about cloning his willy? Maybe he’d be more comfortable if it was his cock you were pleasuring yourself with.

So I was dating a guy that for some reason I would eventually marry (and then divorce, because I later realized that I’m a lesbian after all, but that is a totally other story! With a happy ending even so don’t worry!), and it was still very early in our relationship, and for some reason during a very late night cuddle session he decided it sounded like a really good idea to wait until I was apparently sleeping and then hump me. This was extra bizarre because he was a preacher’s son and SUPER HUNG UP about sexuality entirely, and we’d never even gone past French kissing. I had such a hard time even parsing what the fuck was happening that I just shut down and barely even tried to stop him…I just pretended to be asleep and waited for it to end. Somehow it got vaguely apologized for and years later I still wonder off and on if it was rape but you know what, why wouldn’t it be? A guy did a sexual thing to me I didn’t want him to do and it made me feel awful and totally skeeved-out and so ashamed that I couldn’t even tell anyone for so long that I only finally told one person. Except the real reason I haven’t told anyone is I dealt with it and I’m fine now, still angry but using the anger pretty productively to set and enforce boundaries and be assertive, and I don’t want people to go “oh poor thing” and freak out and think of me like a victim. ‘Cause dammit, I’m not a victim. The only reason I would tell everyone is so they can know just what a dickbag this guy has been even though he’s always such a saint in the public eye, and the only reason I’m not telling is because I don’t want to give people the power to tell me I’ve been broken when I’m not at all. (That and I can’t think of any way to actually bring it up in conversation other than “SO YEAH, ONE TIME THIS GUY ASSAULTED ME, WHAT A DOUCHE, JUST THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW, LOLOLOLOL” and somehow that just seems way too out of the blue to even bother with. Such social graces I have!)

I understand you’re not asking for my opinion or anything, but just to make this very clear to anyone who might be reading, that was absolutely, completely, 100% rape. I’m glad you have a happy ending and honestly can’t help hoping he does not.

Send your secrets here.

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