quizzical pussy

I started this blog determined to never apologize for not posting. The main reason for this is the sheer hubris of the idea of assuming that people care all that much whether I put a thing on the internet or not. But also, I didn’t want to put myself in a situation where I felt I had to do something as non-vital to anyone’s survival as type naughty words. The very idea is silly.

But then I made an express commitment to post the things you send me once a week, so I owe you this explanation for the recent two-week ConTuesday lapse: There was just no fucking way, you guys. My health has been a bitch, then I moved to a place that has required a great deal of work to make even borderline habitable. Then came a massive shift in my personal life. I love you and I love this blog and I love ConTuesday, but there was no fucking way.

But here I am, back, as you always knew I’d be. Typing naughty words.

Cuntodactyl.

To come, I need a narrative; so much so that I’ve got a major hobby in writing smut, and much of it reflects the stuff that I invent and refine trying to get my rocks off. That can be tiring and time consuming, so normally it takes me a while to get there.

But it turns out, I can also come just fine while watching hentai. And very, very quickly, since I don’t have to hold the narrative all by myself. w00t! who said girls don’t like visual porn, again? :D

People who say that girls don’t like any particular thing are necessarily wrong. Some people look down on using equivocal language, but I’d feel so horribly inaccurate without it! Also, though, yay for getting off! I quite like it myself.

I waxed to please my partner and now I’m disgusted by my body, have zero sex drive, and am grossed out that he thinks it looks good. ….help…..

You tried it, and waxing is clearly not for you. It grows back eventually, and I hope it does so swiftly and decisively. If your partner is making huge deal out of it, I would think a conversation about how much you hate being bald is in order. If he’s just enjoying it but not pressuring you, try to remember that he’s used to seeing naked genitals as much more sexualized than natural ones. Doesn’t mean your genitals have to fall in line with that or that he can’t tweak the common societally ingrained fashion-based reaction; it’s just that it’s not necessarily personal. But of course, neither is getting turned off by the fact that he’s turned on by something. Maybe that’s a deal-breaker, and that’s valid.

I’ve been reading your archives, and I masturbated to your descriptions of abuse by your ex-boyfriend Reginald Sleeth. (I’m really heavy into D/s.) I’m absolutely horrified by it and for that reason it turns me on like crazy. Sorry. (I’m a young woman, if that matters.)

You know what? I’m really just happy that that stupid, senseless farce of a relationship is now doing something useful for someone.  Everyone has my permission to masturbate to my horror stories as long as you promise not to abuse your partners. I think that’s fair, right?

So I hope it isn’t terribly terrible (but only rather terrible) of me to make this about me, but thank you for your writing about Reginald. Even though my own experience didn’t involve physical violence, I feel validated in calling it abuse. I also feel less alone in how fucked up I am because of it. Also maybe a little less convinced it makes me a terrible person, because you seem pretty awesome, so.

I’m posting this as a companion confession to the one above because I feel like they’re two sides of the same silver-lined coin. It isn’t terrible at all. I mean, it’s terrible that you’ve had to deal with abuse– I really hate that part. But if reading about my experiences has helped you come to terms with that abuse (which doesn’t reflect on you as a person whatsoever, just so you know) in any way, that is quite honestly the best reason I can think of for continuing to write about them.

When I write about things like my ill-advised soda bottle dildo experience I sometimes forget that the Reginald parts of the story are horrifying. I’ll think, hey this is kind of a funny story, and what about that wacky Reginald acting in typical douchebaggy Reginald ways? Classic Reginald! And I don’t concentrate much on how fucked up the whole thing was. This may be part of the reason I’m still not amazingly good at relationships and trust and stuff. Because it was fucked up. Incredibly fucked up. And just because that was how I learned to relationship doesn’t mean it was or is acceptable. I want us all to learn that.

I’ve just started seeing a guy who can push all my buttons in the best possible ways. Orgasms of a frequency and intensity I’ve never experienced before. Internet high-five, right? Not quite so much.

See, I was raised with”good girls don’t”. My brain wants to think that’s total bullshit, but I can’t quite seem to stop believing it. I enjoy the sex while it’s happening, but afterwards I feel self-conscious and a little ashamed. I hate it and I want it to go away so I can enjoy my sex in peace!

Good girls are mythical creatures who are born to embody parental wish fulfillment. People are multidimensionally good and bad and fucked up and strong and ecstatic and silly and getting closer every day to ending this go-around. People deserve–and are enriched by– amazing sex. I could not care much less what good girls do or don’t do any more than I care what manticores eat for breakfast. (Okay, I care a little what manticores have for breakfast, and I think it’s probably Special K in warrior blood.)

In my long-standing tradition of giving advice where it isn’t expressly asked for, I think you should keep in mind that you’re people, and no one is a good girl, and you are worth more than having to try to be a mythical thing that doesn’t–and will never– exist.

And I’m just going to fucking ::internet high five:: you anyway, so deal with it.

I am in school studying for a career in the medical field. Recently I ran into another older student I recognized from last semester and asked her if she’s studying to become a nurse. “No.” she tartly replied. “Bodily fluids. I can’t do bodily fluids.” I managed to rein in my urge to blurt “Shit. I must’ve drunk GALLONS of them by now.” I’d hate to freak out a future colleague, now, wouldn’t I?

Gallons, huh? I think I’ve fallen behind somehow…

I bought my first vibrator, a cheap one from the drugstore, a couple of months ago. It’s been much appreciated but it’s at the end of its life. While before, I was hesitant, now I am super keen for more toys. I was browsing the internet for toys and now I want more than I can afford! Do I get a cheap-ish bullet and kegel balls first and then a better set of varied vibrators or the set of vibrators first and then the kegel balls?? Do you have opinions on Leo Luna Love Balls? I could do with more reliable orgasm (sometimes it just doesn’t happen :( ) and I’ve heard good things about them. Plus the idea of walking around in public, going to classes and for drinks with them inside me is super hot. Too many decisions.

I haven’t tried the Lelo balls, but I have the Fun Factory Smart Balls, and they’re lovely, especially to wear about town to make yourself a little crazy before a hot date (with lover or toy). Careful, quizkids, sex toy collecting is a serious addiction and I totally suport it.

Memo to self: stop jerking off right after taking anti-depression meds, at least if you’ve already jerked off once that day. Twice now the 45-minutes-of-trying-without-relief-before-giving-up has happened, you could really stand not to experience that again ever.

I don’t think that sounds like much fun, no. I wish I could donate orgasms to people. Not in a creepy way!

Hey QP! My girlfriend (and fellow QP reader) and I are in a long-ish distance relationship, with us going to universities in different cities. While it’s a bit tough being apart a lot of the time for school, every time we get together it is just absolutely awesome. Just this last weekend makes for an awesome example…

The two of us had just done some sexy times and in our pleasant state decided to snuggle up and just enjoy holding each other. My hands started to get a bit antsy so I started softly caressing her back, hearing her sigh and moan softly as I moved them along her skin, paying attention to any spots she seemed to especially enjoy having my hands on. We ended up going for over 20 minutes of just being next to each other as I caressed her. Felt so damn good and I think she’s inclined to say the same!

Long distance relationships are tough, but those times when you do get together are so worth it.

And this week we close on a most triumphant ::internet high five:: because that is what we like to do here.

Confess!

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I wouldn’t say I’m proud of this, but for a short time in my feckless youth I used to use a Ramune bottle as a dildo. I know I just got finished telling you I seldom introduce penetration into my masturbation routine, but seldom isn’t never, and yes, I put a soda bottle in my holy of holies.

Note: It was an old one I’d kept from my even earlier youth when they’d had a slightly slimmer-at-the-top bottle design, but even that was still uncomfortably large for vaginal insertion¹. I’m telling you this in case you’re curious because you should NEVER, EVER try it yourself. And I will tell you exactly why not anon.

I would usually use it while on the phone with Reginald Sleeth, my long-distance boyfriend. The little marble inside the bottle would clatter around while I fucked myself with it and he purred in my ear. Masturbation sounded very distinctive in those days. This is exactly what was happening when it broke inside me while I was on the phone with him.

I heard the shatter, dropped the sturdy dorm room phone, and gave a little shriek. You know that hiss cringe that issues from your face when you collect shards of glass and drops of blood from your pussy? I do.

Reginald Sleeth doesn’t always appear in a great light on this blog. I’m aware of that, and I’d like to be more charitable. I’d like to inform you that when I picked up the phone and alerted him to the situation he was a comforting and concerned, and tried to help the situation from miles away even though he felt helpless. Instead, I’m stuck telling you that he yelled at me and told me I was being overdramatic and I ended up apologizing to him for injuring myself.

It is very often stupid to fuck yourself with things that aren’t supposed to be sex toys. It is always stupid to date abusive douchebags. My stories don’t always have aesops, but yeah. Pretty clear here.

Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the dildomaker would actually be smarter than either thing as long as you used it on material less dangerous than asbestos, or that glowing piece or radioactive matter that Homer Simpson throws from his car in the opening credits.

Apologies to (image source). You didn’t sign up for this shit.

1. Disclaimer: Vaginas may vary. [↩]

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What? This is not romantic?

One year for Valentine’s day I did a very strange thing. I tried. I spent the entire day not playing turn-based strategy games, but instead cleaning Reginald Sleeth’s entire apartment, making delicious food from expensive ingredients for a bedroom floor picnic, and carefully arranging presents for him to find, one of which was a portrait I’d drawn of him looking very dashing. I had a lighting scheme. My bra matched my panties.

He said he’d have preferred takeout, we had zero units of sexual contact all night, and I probably ended up crying from disappointment and sexual frustration. Predictably, he loved the picture of himself. Don’t date miserable narcissists, people.

Elaborate gestures of love don’t come particularly naturally to all of us. For me, trying to be romantic feels like when you’re at a club and everyone starts doing one of those horrific line dances, and you don’t want to get off the dance floor so you try to follow along but you can’t quite get the moves right. Trying to be sexy feels like basically that, except the dance floor is full of landmines.

I actually really like to do thoughtful things for the people I care about, maybe even verging on cute and affectionate. If I adore you, you’ll know, and I’ll probably even make your heart melt occasionally. However, I don’t do production. I tend to shrink from the ostentatious displays of emotion, and I’m positively stunted when it comes to anything that could be interpreted as seduction. This is partially because I’m not wired to be particularly sentimental. While my perspective on life is essentially a romantic one–being deeply in love with the Universe, seeing wonder in pretty much everything I can comprehend and absolutely everything I can’t–the people I care most about are the ones I want to adventure and marvel with, not moon over. So it doesn’t always occur to me to brainstorm how to expose my pulsing heart to loved ones in novel and impressive ways. This is probably a shortcoming because people seem to like that.

But there’s also the whole complicated reaction-fishing angle. When I was planning the Valentine’s day thing for Reginald I was doing it to make my then-partner happy, yeah, but I was also doing it because I hoped it would get me laid and maybe even transform the relationship from the unhealthy, scary beast it had become. My efforts were not selfless and loving so much as desperate. As someone who isn’t fluent in romance, I’m not sure that I could disconnect the desire and expectation of a specific reaction from whatever thing I was planning. Like, if I planted a garden in the shape of your favorite pokemon, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t squee. Realizing that I’m doing something and trying for a reaction that will get me sex or brownie points or reciprocal gestures or whatever feels calculating and manipulative to me. For some reason I’m scared to death of being manipulative. I understand that this isn’t how these things normally work, and that most people can hold boomboxes blaring Peter Gabriel aloft without feeling like slimeballs, but I get stuck in a “whom is this gesture really for?” loop whenever I think about it. Because I’m neurotic in the strangest ways.

This? All this? Is just background for why I’m not qualified to give advice on how to plan a romantic/sexy gesture. But someone recently asked for ideas on exactly that. And this woman has brought her A-game in proffering adorable, sexy gestures to her male paramour so far.¹ Actually, this is so far from being my area of expertise that it literally looks like a job for Opposite Me. So I’m asking you to consult your memories and imaginations and rumor mills to come up with jaw-droppingly awesome ways to make someone feel aroused, cared for, and lucky beyond all reason all at once. What say you, Atreyu?

(image source)

1. This is how you know it’s not secretly me. [↩]

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One of my exes legit thinks I’m Satan. I am not going to say that I was an amazing girlfriend when we dated, or even that I’m proud of the decisions I made with relation to him and our relationship, but I also try not to forget that Edwin Pomble thought I was a perfectly lovely person until he realized I was never going to take him back.

Then I was evil incarnate.

Really, I try to maintain two perspectives on things like this. The first is the one where I try to be honest with myself and hold myself accountable for as much as, but no more than, seems reasonable. This perspective tells me that it was a complicated, messy relationship. He was horrible (at times), I was horrible (at times), and I stayed in it past the point where I strictly wanted to be, which is frankly what I feel most horrible about (one of my greatest fears is that people I care about are suffering my presence in their lives for no good reason, not really wanting me there, and I have profound distaste for the fact that I ever put anyone else in that position). But I don’t think my actions were ever borderline demonic, or even common, kitchenly evil.

The second perspective is the one where I accept that in his reality, I am A Motherfucking Monster. It doesn’t matter what I think happened, or even what actually happened in reality. It’s his perception, and it’s completely real. Through this perspective I realize that I’m basically his Reginald Sleeth.

Both of these perspectives are true because Edwin and I both exist, both have thoughts, and therefore both inhabit universes that only ever vaguely resembled each other. I refuse to pretend that his isn’t valid just because I don’t agree with or like it. This wasn’t always the case. For a while it really bothered me that I was the villain in his narrative. “Why doesn’t he understand that the shitty things he pulled were far shittier than the shitty things I pulled?” I’d demand of my Universe, which silently agreed. Didn’t matter. Didn’t touch him. He didn’t live there, or anywhere it would make sense.

And really, it doesn’t take much to ruin someone’s life. It just takes them thinking you did. There’s no reason to take that blame on if you don’t feel it’s deserved, but it’s useless to pretend they’re not feeling that pain.

And further, it’s crossed my mind– in fact I think it’s absolutely true– that Reginald Sleeth, who certainly abused me by the book, lives in a reality where he was largely faultless, maybe even victimized. That’s perfectly natural. There may be a part of me that wants him broken and riddled with shame and regret, but it’s puny and vestigial now compared to what it was. Shame is highly combustible, and for most of us it cannot remain stable over time. We have to contain it or transmute it somehow, or we’re utterly consumed. He’s allowed to have a life without that baggage. He’s allowed to try for better, and I hope that’s exactly what he’s doing.

When I learned that Edwin saw me out in public recently, surrounded by people I care about and behaving like I think I’m people, I understood why he felt slapped, discomfited. I think I can even relate to it. I’ve gotten pretty far along in the process of accepting that to him, there may be no way to relate to me as a human being. What I’m wondering is, if it happens again, and I actually see him too this time, what is a hell fiend to do? Do I greet him as a casual acquaintance? Do I pretend not to see him? Do I nod cordially but keep my distance? Entirely other thing? I truly don’t even know, but I do wish I could make it easier on him.

For Satan, there is no etiquette. Is there?

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The first time someone else bought me a sex toy, it was nerve-wracking and excruciating (the experience, not the toy. The toy was actually not bad…). Reginald Sleeth and I stayed after hours at the porn studio where we worked, he took pictures of me masturbating to ejaculation, and then we traipsed off to the adult book store where I was to select a toy as a reward.

I didn’t so much select a toy as turn a blaring shade of red and wish I were back in the safety of my safe and non-threatening porn studio, while Reginald, whose idea all this had been, made suggestions. He quite liked the idea of remote controls, as I recall.

After a near meltdown, I finally picked a cheap, slim, plastic, vibrating insertable. Doubt not that I used it often and to excellent effect over the coming years, but that experience taught me two things:

1. Never go sex toy shopping on someone else’s terms and expect to have fun.
2. If I hadn’t had an excuse to go toy shopping, even with the internet existing, it may well have been years before I owned a proper sex toy.

When I finally got around to buying a sex toy for myself, it actually was years later, and it was completely different. The toy was, and I was. I decided what I wanted based, not on what my scary ex-boyfriend would be able to afford/be comfortable with/not think I was depraved because of, but on the pure intention of giving myself pleasure. I traded my own money for it in a declaration that my orgasms were worth something to me. And they were motherfucking poetic orgasms, too.

I’m not saying it’s not worthwhile to buy and accept sex toys for and from your partner. In fact, I will say right now that it is. But the other thing I’m trying to say is that sex toy purchases tend to be imbued with significance. When you buy one, it’s usually with a fairly powerful intention: self-love, wanting another person to have orgasms, or often a totally new type of sexual exploration. There is a reason we call one of the most popular sex toys of all time a Magic Wand.

Oh, and by the way, Buy A Sex Toy day is June 4th, which is a mere month from now! Let’s make magic, people.

(image source)

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Yesterday, while cleaning out a cupboard, I found an old journal I kept while Reginald and I were together. We were living in separate states at that point, and we agreed to write journals for each other so we could read them when the long-distance ordeal was over. This seemed more romantic than simply keeping in touch via chat and email, I suppose, which we did anyway. We were always looking for the most romantically dramatic way to navigate our relationship, including crying uncontrollably whenever completely unnecessary.

I wrote in mine faithfully a few times a week for about a year and a half. I think he wrote about two or three entries total in his. I remember how that hurt and confused me. Understandable, because it was somewhat telling as to the nature of our dynamic by then, about which I was even more clueless.

I wasn’t a girlfriend at that point; I was a supplicant. I prayed. I mooned. I counted the days between us like a rosary and I’d never even been Catholic. Reginald was my false and golden god. A blond god with floppy hair. I wrote florid fantasies that seemed to long for his pity and love in equal parts. Even if we were to ignore the fact that this man was abusing me emotionally every day, and each time I visited him he’d physically abuse me, everything I wrote  was desperate, needy, and absolutely starved for even the meanest scraps of affection. It is frankly disgusting. I’m so glad I never put that shit up on the internet.

I didn’t have much time to devote to reading that old artifact, but I felt a mild nausea flutter through me as I skimmed it. I wanted to reach back through the pages, grasp the wrist of that little girl as she spilled herself across them, and tell her exactly what she was wasting. So many years– her college years, which could have been a fun adventure. So much dignity. Her very self.

And truthfully, she probably wouldn’t have listened to me. She seemed to think that mortgaging everything she was and everything she could be was a small price to pay, when really she just wanted to be loved.

Teenage girls are so pathetic when they’re me. Honestly.

I wrapped the journal in a plastic bag like a thing that stinks and shoved it in the dumpster. Exactly where it belonged all along.

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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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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)

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It was probably ten years ago at this point, or nearly. Reginald Sleeth, the ex boyfriend by which all my other ex boyfriends come out looking pretty good, and I were sitting in a little sushi bar in Santa Monica. If we were between fights it was no more than a momentary break in the clouds, and the sun was not peeking through. The mood was heavy. Pop music played in the background. Our conversation was stuck at lull as we waited for our food to come out. I listened to the music for a minute, nothing to say.

“I kind of always knew I’d end up your ex girlfriend,” I announced calmly.

“Why would you even say that?” he demanded, angry. “That’s not fair at all. What a disgusting thing to say.”

“Ummm the No Doubt song that’s playing? Right now? Those are the lyrics.” Given, it wasn’t exactly the height of comedy to repeat the words to the song playing, but I thought it’d lighten the mood or something. Nope.

“Oh.” Icy.

To be fair, we were basically always on the verge of breaking up. It was probably in poor taste. But I guess on some level I did, kind of always know. Just like the song says. Maybe I meant it.

Here are some confessions that feature exes.

My ex boyfriend is internet famous, and rightly so because he’s talented… annoyingly so. We still get along okay, I consider him a friend. But guys my type ALWAYS turn out to be humongous fanboys of his. After we have the past relationships talk they have a million questions and want me to introduce them. So I either have to lie or live with the fact that I’m less interesting to heterosexual men than my ex boyfriend.

I figure for every fanboy you’re attracted to, there’s a similar, also-your-type guy who thinks your ex is just a little overrated. Unless your type is specifically your ex’s worshippers, which honestly would be worrisome for those of us that care about you and want you to move on.

Also, you realize you can skip over all identifying information when you have that past relationships talk, right?

I had sex with my ex (who is dating someone else) and it was fantastic. I missed fisting him!

I don’t know if this is in a sneaky or ethically open context, but either way it never ceases to amaze me that people can fit fists in their butts.

My boyfriend got drunk tonight and kicked me out of his house. I don’t even know what I did and he wouldn’t tell me — said he didn’t like me anymore — I was asleep and he sat me up roughly, sent me outside, called a cab and gave me 40 bucks to pay for it.

At least he was a gentleman enough to give me some cash for the cab. I called a dealer I used to know, bought some awesome coke, and don’t feel the least big guilty about the drugs because all I feel right now is peace and understanding — and I know that it’s over once and for all. I don’t even feel sad. It’s just over.

And here’s the sex part — I’m going to keep fucking him. Best sex I’ve ever had, and I’m not about to give that up. I’m just not going to be emotionally involved anymore. I’ve given up a lot of offers for sex while I’ve been with him — and it hasn’t been a sacrifice — but I’m going to start looking up those offers and offer him FWB. He’ll take me up on it, and I’ll have great sex with him, variety, and none of this bullshit anymore.

Yay. Thanks for the high dood. I’ll be calling you next time I’m hard up.

Every time I’ve ever had a no-strings-attached arrangement with an ex there were oh so many strings attached. But that’s just me.

Who the fuck wakes someone up just to dump them?

We only had sex once, it was bad bad bad because we didn’t know what we were doing because we were so young, and I got pregnant (miscarriage). But I think about my first love every single day. I miss him.

But I know for a fact that he wasn’t a good person, and he’d probably treat me like shit if I tried to get him back. Yet I pine.

Not to make assumptions here, but have you talked to someone about how having that miscarriage affected you? Maybe your first love, who sounds like a much better ex than a boyfriend, is more or less incidental to this story.

A couple of weeks ago I confessed that I missed my exes beautiful penis (not the size one) well I’ve found a new man who may not have the world’s most beautiful penis but uses it better than anyone I have ever met. I have had my faith in the world restored, and also think I may be the luckiest girl alive.

The original confession appears here. I’m very glad you’ve found a penis (or at least a penis user) that you can get excited about again.

Also, if this new guy would like to offer any sex tips to my penis-using readers, that would be just super.

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Reginald Sleeth and I had been dating for all of two weeks. Our dates usually consisted of me driving the half mile to his house and rushing upstairs to his room where we’d make out furiously. That night, though, he handed me a tightly folded piece of college ruled paper first.

I knew it was a poem. He’d given me several already. Reginald liked to write love poems to girls. Years later my friend Miriam, who also dated Reginald for a while, and I would go back and compare and realize that some of the heartfelt verses given us looked shockingly similar. Kid must’ve kept master copies somewhere.

But this was the first poem I ever unfolded to discover blood smeared all over the paper.

Reginald looked rather like a cat who’d dragged his freshly killed bird onto the porch. I reacted rather like that cat’s owner.

“What, I just don’t even… I mean what happened here?” Beat. “…It’s a very nice poem.” Nice save.

Reginald proudly showed me his hand. There was a distinct gouge. Then he produced a blunt decorative knife. “I designed this years ago to one day spill my blood for my love. And now it’s yours; I have no more need of it. It has done its job.”

I’m not even kidding. He seriously talked like that.

I figured that perhaps my sense of the romantic was underdeveloped. I liked Anne Rice as much as the next little demigoth, but I was more creeped out than moved. Of course my (most) fatal flaw kicked in at this point and told me that I must be the one who had it wrong.

It soon became clear to me, though, that Reginald expected me to perform the same gesture. It was supposed to be some kind of sacred lovers’ ritual conceived in Reginald’s head at some point. That was more or less why he gave me the knife.

I just wasn’t going to do it.

Understand, I really thought I loved Reginald at this point. The bloodletting had meant something to him, clearly, and I didn’t want to ignore that. But seriously? No part of me was happy that I had his blood on a piece of notebook paper, and I wasn’t jazzed about the idea of following suit.

And if I ever did, I knew it wouldn’t be with his Renaissance Faire knife. Thing was fucking letter-opener-dull! And coated in his blood.

In retrospect, this should have tipped me off. This wasn’t ever going to be a healthy relationship. Yes, healthy relationships can involve exchanging blood or playing with letter openers, but they’d at least require a little prior communication. And less peer pressure.

As for my dilemma, one morning I nicked my ankle in the shower shaving and I realized I’d solved my own problem. Well, one of my problems. The other one I kept around for a long, long while yet.

(image source)

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