quizzical pussy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, she worried.

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

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

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

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

Have a confession to share? Do tell!

I’m writing this ConTuesday from inside a lion, and it’s rather dark in here.

Hey Ambien guy! The only way I could have sex with my ex-girlfriend was when I was on Ambien. However, now that I’m with my boyfriend I don’t need it anymore. Good riddance.

I hope no one ever says about me, “QP? Oh, I had to chuck her once I ran out of Ambien refills. Could only stand to sleepfuck her.” Here’s the original Ambien confession, for those interested (look at the last one of the bunch).

I’m afraid I might be sexually racist. Ever since I started going out with my boyfriend, who is black, I only find black people attractive. Actually, not only black people – I’m just not attracted to white men any more.

I feel like white people have enough attraction (and other) privilege that I’m finding it very difficult to get offended here. When this shit doesn’t happen anymore, then I’ll probably be able to work up some genuine indignation.

Of course, it’s a fine line between appreciating and fetishizing, innit, but that’s a whole entire entry that I’m actually working on currently, amazingly enough. Generally, though, not being attracted to just one group doesn’t make a good case that you’re fetishizing all the other groups. Those poor white guys will just have to live with this one, I fear.

My boyfriend and I have been actively seeing each other for about a month now, and the super hormonal god I want you now… and now…. and now… phase is still in full swing. I’m not sure it’s ever going to die off, actually, which I’m totally ok with.

We got a couple of toys for V day just for funsies. He’s always been of the opinion that if you need props for sex you’re doing it wrong, so he was skeptical. He’s sort of become a believer after giving me rolling orgasms with the little finger vibe, though.

I swear he’s going to make me pass out playing with that thing….

So maybe you don’t strictly need props. Maybe they just help you make your girlfriend pass out.

So I started dating this guy and against all my normal standards not only did I sleep with him on the first date, but I took him to my place to sleep with him. It was mind blowing sex up until the point he decided to choke me. I had talked about this with a previous partner and could never bring myself to even try. So when this Bad Boy just up and did it, forget mind blowing, it was out of this world!!!!! While talking a few days later, it came up in conversation and I told him it freaked me out but I enjoyed it, but he hasn’t done it since. The whole fear of suffication keeps me from asking him to do it again, even though I enjoyed it. Why can’t he just go back to being the man who takes control in bed??????

Since you already told him it freaked you out, that’s what he’s focusing on. Yes, you told him you enjoyed it, but he’s more interested in not freaking you out. So if you want more choking, you’re probably going to have to have a conversation. You don’t have to ask for it in the moment. “Puddingbear,” you might say one evening over hard cider and steeled courage, “That first time we hooked up and you got deliciously aggressive and choked me a little? That was really, really good for me. I came metric buckets, to be honest. Could that happen more often? Because that would be super.”

Trust me, neither you nor Puddingbear regrets this conversation.

(Future me popping in here to suggest that you and anyone interested in choking/breath play read this, per ozymandias’ responsible suggestion in comments, and adding that the potential danger of this play is all the more reason to communicate about it rather than just letting it happen in the heat of the moment.)

Got a secret? Get typing.

Happy Tuesday, people of the internet! You know what I love reading about? Other people’s sex lives. In fact, let’s do that now, shall we?

Just before I start masturbating, I sneeze. Twice. This used to happen only when I was thinking about other women, but now it has spread to all my other fantasies aswell. I’m stumped as to why. My roommate found out about this, and so now every time either of us gets the sniffles, gales of uproarious laughter are sure to follow.

This is most singular and astounding. And I hope there’s no such thing as sex poker because basically, you’d lose.

A few days ago I was at work, working with one of my male co-workers. He was holding an animal that was being none too cooperative. At one point we were both crouched over the animal and he said, in a huskey/gravely, almost whisper ”Shut the fuck up”. What he said, how he said it, and the fact that we were so close he nearly whispered it right in my ear, instantly made me think very naughty things. Now I can’t stop imagining him whispering ”Shut the fuck up” in my ear, from behind, his hand wrapped in my hair, pushing me up against a wall ……No chance it’ll ever happen but, Wow.

I hope it’s not weird that I’m fantasizing about your coworker now too.

I’m not entirely sure if I’m experiencing female ejaculation or wetting myself when I orgasm. I mean, its clear and doesn’t smell like piss, but I stay hydrated enough to pee clear.

If you don’t generally have incontinence problems and the liquid is accompanying orgasms, it’s pretty safe to see you’re ejaculating. But if you really want to remove all doubt, take a cheap-ass vitamin B complex supplement a couple hours before playtime. If the liquid that comes out isn’t neon yellow, welcome to the sisterhood of squirters!

I was diagnosed with chlamydia today. The thought of telling past lovers is making me feel sicker than the antibiotics did.

I feel for you. That experience has to suck. Is there not a service that does this sort of thing for you anonymously? Because there really should be.

In anticipation of losing my virginity with my lady friend this week, I completely shaved my pubes, balls, and butt today. Previously I had only kept my hair trim with shears. Ho-lee shit, it feels amazing. I never thought that shaving my bits would make me feel so sexy and smooth.I can’t wait to show it off :D

Yay! I’m glad you felt so great and sexy your first time. How was it? How did your lady friend like your groomed look?

Do you have wondrous, strange, or kinky things which should not be uttered? Don’t utter; type.

Since the time of my childhood I’ve heard tales of a magical land called Marriage. In Marriage, everyone has to agree on dinner and gets a state-sponsored tandem bike, as I understand it. The national bird is the redding wing and people speak Grownup. It sounds like a fascinating place. These people probably know more about it than I do.

My wife and I have friends over for football games – we root for our team by her having sex with everyone through the whole game. I really enjoy it. Amazingly, the better she is, the better our team seems to do… Hope we can get them to the Superbowl…

In Marriage, football sounds a lot more exciting and fun than it is over here on Earth.

When my wife was pregnant, her libido took a serious vacation. One night, I woke up so horny that I jizzed on her butt. I don’t know if she noticed or not. She never said anything about it.

There are probably no words in Grownup to describe what happened that night.

I’m totally into kink, and definitely an active and forthright member of the kink scene. I have never explored my deepest kinks, though, because I think they’re too boring. I want to be touched and fucked while pretending to be asleep, or even just doing something else. It seems too tame to be fun for the other person, and I’m scared to even ask for it! I’d rather beat someone/be beaten and feel pro-active!

Hey, this is just an idea but have you considered moving to Marriage? (see above)

I’m getting married this weekend and I’m a virgin. I can’t decide if I’m more nervous, scared or excited.

Congratulations! How did it go? Is sex awesome (for you; I already know my answer…)? Do you like your new bike?

My wife and I have a closed relationship. She has told me in no uncertain terms that my fantasy of having a FFM threesome with her is NEVER going to happen. When we saw these pictures together, she commented, ”She’s so very thin.” After a brief silence, she continued, ”She has a beautiful body.” That made me so horny! Often, she’ll admit to attraction to women, and it always turns me on. BTW, she reads this blog, and I know that she’ll read this and know it’s me. So, this is only so anonymous…

Oh, the often frustrating difference between someone finding someone else attractive/beautiful/etc. and wanting to do something about it! But if it feeds your fantasies without raising your actual expectations, sounds like good, clean fun to me. Keep in mind, though, that I am from Earth, and your Marriage ways are strange to me.

Confess your sex secrets here!

Here are some anonymous confessions for you to read. They are very mysterious!

I sat and read your blog and masturbated and read and read and masturbated until I was raw. I finally came as I thought that there are others who do the same thing, and I realized that I would tell you this, here, which just pushed me right over the top.

No, seriously, I recognize your lack of social skills and romantic experience and find it endearing. But how on earth you could miss that someone stroking your hair while talking about how pretty you are, while on a bed, IS HITTING ON YOU I will never know.

Sometimes I think that everything I do is motivated by sex. It’s really not stereotypical behaviour for a woman. But events I go to, supposedly political groups I join, everything seems to be motivated by the idea of finding someone new. It’s not just the sex, I’ve got a bit of a growing obsession with having a baby. I use contraception but I really wish that I didn’t.

My fantasies are fairly horrific. They are about the reduction of people (of all ages) to objects to be abused in all the worst ways imaginable. I don’t appear in my own fantasies at all; they are just small horror films which I watch. The characters don’t have names or faces. In real life, I get upset and triggered by accounts of suffering and abuse less than what I fantasise about elsewhere. My mini-world is a rape culture world, a feminist’s nightmare, a man’s nightmare too. Sometimes women are the abusers, often it is a misogynistic society run by men. I find it strange because it’s not something I’d want to do in real life at all. I have mostly stopped feeling guilty about it, because my fantasies have been like this from the start, but I can’t tell much of the truth when partners ask for my fantasies. They get the sanitised version – and even then are usually a little shocked.

Now you tell me a secret.

I quite like giving oral sex. Putting the main focus on someone else’s pleasure has some amazing perks, like getting a chance to really notice how much they’re enjoying themselves, which sometimes gets obscured in the torrent of one’s own orgasms, where one is me.

Of course, sometimes I get off just sucking cock, but it’s not the fast and furious coming that happens when I’m getting penetrated. It gives me more leisure to enjoy the process, to survey the shivering, shuddering, gasping fruits of my labors.

This might be odd, but in a way I never feel as sexually powerful as when I’m giving, not accepting, an orgasm. Not dominant, not submissive, just powerful somehow. Or no, powerful is probably the wrong word. I guess it’s more that I feel most sexually useful when I’m concentrating on giving pleasure. And maybe that’s almost like something vaguely approaching feeling sexy. For me, at least.

Perhaps this is why it’s so important to me to believe that I’m good at giving head. Maybe that’s why I was so scared to have sex with women before I tried it. It was terrifying, imagining that I’d have nothing to offer a sex partner. I’d had enough positive feedback from men that I could reasonably believe I had a moderate level of proficiency at blowjobs, but I’d be starting from square one with a chick. And if that was the case, why should she even bother?

Luckily, eating pussy didn’t turn out to be the obscenely treacherous puzzle box that popular culture would have me believe (at least not the pussies I’ve eaten so far). I imagine that possessing female anatomy barely hurts the learning curve either. I’m not saying I’m a rockstar at it yet, but I’m not inept either!

Of course, there can be drawbacks to giving oral sex. Some people just don’t taste all that great (in my experience, these people most often have shitty diets, but my sample size isn’t large). Pubic hair isn’t designed for easy swallowing. Jaws get tired, tongues get sore. There are STDs to worry about (as with most any sexual contact, but it seems a lot harder to convince someone to use barriers with oral sex), and there’s the frustration that can come when you realize that you’ve just sated a partner beyond any hope of further fun.

Often these issues are greatly mitigated or simply absent, depending on whom you’ve chosen to interface with. Some people taste good, have been tested recently, are always eager to reciprocate.

But there’s one thing I can never get away from that makes giving oral sex (specifically blowjobs) kind of less awesome than perhaps they should be. Wrapping my lips tightly over my teeth to eliminate any untoward scraping, I somehow always end up cutting the inside of my upper lip with my two top incisors. If I give another blowjob before that’s healed, the cut gets worse, and so on. I think I might need a mouthguard. Or maybe some tips from my clever readers.

(image source)

Anonymous confessions GO!

I just started sleeping with a boy who is submissive. I’m submissive too, and awhile ago it would have really bummed me out that he wouldn’t be interested in dominating me and I wouldn’t have been able to dominate him. But now I’m in a triadic relationship with two dominants, I get all the domination I need. And apparently this combination is really good for me, because it’s like I’ve discovered a hidden wellspring of my own dominance and last night, I dominated someone properly (as opposed to awkwardly) for the first time in my life. Certainly not as skillfully as someone with experience, but definitely with passion and commitment. And I loved it!

My first boyfriend and I started dating when we were 14, and we dated until we were 21 when we finally broke up. His parents never gave him the sex talk and he had no idea about girls’ bodies, he learned it all from me. Somewhere along the line, he got the idea that girls hardly ever poop, and when they do they are very tiny little “rabbit turds”. I thought this was hilarious, so for the six years we were dating (we never lived together) I kind of encouraged this belief. We broke up, and he ended up in another relationship. They went on vacation together, and a few days into the vacation I got a text message from him (after months of no contact) that just said “YOU LIED ABOUT THE POOP!” I feel kind of bad for this poor girl who had to deal with a 22 year old who didn’t know girls pooped, but on the other hand I still laugh my ass off thinking about it.

I’m seriously glad that I wasn’t drinking anything when this confession first came in, because I would need a new keyboard from the eruption of spit/laughter combo.

Had my first threesome tonight. I double teamed one of my old friends with benefits with her new husband. Not too sure how I feel about it. It was fun, and all about trying new things, but I’m not sure if I want it to be a more than a one time thing. I’m all for trying new things, and I did without crossing any of my lines but there is some stuff I’m not particularly interested in doing again. It’s not a matter of disgust or anything, more of a blah, boring, does nothing for me kind of thing. Anyway, I think a good time was had by all but if it happens again I’ll have to explain that there are some things that really don’t do it for me, that I’m just not interested in.

I recently got out of an abusive relationship with a girl. Now, I’m on a new relationship with a new girlfriend and we love each other dearly. However, I get the feeling lesbian sex makes her feel guilty or something. she isn’t too comfortable with her own sexuality and she’s pretty insecure about herself. We rarely ever have sex because of that. Though I hate to admit it, I now often find myself fantasizing with the kind of violent sex my ex and I used to have in which she would humiliate me and completely dominate me. I’m furious at myself for this.

I hate it when people talk about sex. Not out of a sense of modesty, but because my friends keep turning out to be kinky or bisexual or poly, just like I am. I want to be the most decadent person in the room.

Do you have secrets? Sure you do. Send them in– anonymously!– here.

Tuesday brings anonymous confessions as surely as June showers bring tornadoes. But anonymous confessions are way better unless I end up in Oz.

I keep a list of everyone I’ve ever fucked. Multi-year partners and one-night stands. It’s just their names, no details, no contact information. So far there are 18 entries. 5 have no last names. 1 has no first or last name. I’m not sure why I keep this list, or if it’s creepy.

I’m going with “not creepy”. If you had a spreadsheet with full names, current addresses, and mothers’ maiden names, that would be creepy. Come to think of it, though, I kind of keep a list myself, so my opinion might not count.

my boyfriend claims to have low sex drive and hardly ever has sex with me. Hmm. He spends an awful lot of time looking at nekkid women on the internet when I’m not around, though. Am I crazy to feel jealous? Clearly I’m inadequate. I’ve never had a man make me doubt my attractiveness before.

You’re not crazy to feel jealous. I think it’s usually silly when women feel threatened by chicks in porn, but when you’re not getting any sex it’s really easy to resent the fact that your guy is essentially being more sexual with strangers than he is with you. I don’t have any advice, and I wish I did, but I would feel exactly the same.

My first real life sexual experience was a full blown BDSM scene with a guy 20 years older then me I met on the internet. I was tied, gagged, blindfolded, beat to shit, fucked in the ass, beat some more then finally lost my “real” virginity before he pulled out and came in my mouth (which made me gag). It was awesome.

As a feminist, lesbian etc… I would have never watched the aforementioned “anal golf ball” porn, but found it super arousing…So much for studying for finals.

Have a confession that you’re dying to tell someone? Pick me! I’ll post it anonymously for you.

His hand darts between my legs, toying with my pussy through my jeans as I rock my hips back and forth. I feel my eyes glazing over with lust; it never takes much.

Then Laramy Fuquerton’s fingers make a violent flicking motion toward my nethers that doesn’t quite find purchase and whispers “Yeah. Flick that clit!” huskily.

“No!” I snap my legs shut to protect my precious, minuscule pearl.

“Yes! You like that.”

I sigh dramatically, wearily. “Laramy,” I put on my best lecturing voice, “we need to have a frank and open conversation about sexuality at this time.” He nods excitedly. “There’s a very sensitive part of a woman’s anatomy called a clitoris. It looks kind of like a little man in a boat. Now, when you flick this little man his boat capsizes and a big shark comes out of the ocean and eats him. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”

“Yes!” Laramy exclaims. “The shark’s a metaphor for an orgasm!” And here we just about die laughing. I’m not sure where it started but there’s this huge joke between us where Laramy pretends to think that girls like it when you flick their clitorises and I pretend to be horrified. We’re frightfully mature, you know.

“No no no,” I rally, trying to regain my serious face. “You can’t flick it. That’s a terrible idea. There are more nerve endings in my clit than there are in your entire penis!”

He looks impressed. “Is that true?”

“I dunno. It’s in the Vagina Monologues.” I shrug. We make out more. For the truly dorky, inside jokes are foreplay.

The following personal story can be seen as a supplement to my series on rape and consent, although I didn’t set out meaning to write it. I started relating the experience as a brief example in an upcoming entry and it got longer and longer until I realized it was its own piece. To be clear, I’ve never called this incident rape; I’ve never known what to call it. It was a bad experience, though, so if reading it will upset you, read about tentacle dildos here instead!

______________________________

Reginald Sleeth and I were having a fight again. We fought a lot: snarling, ugly fights. He’d threaten to kill himself, or to hurt me. I’d bawl until the salt from my tears formed little icicles on my lashes. Sometimes the battles started when I’d raised my eyes too high from the ground in public and looked another man in the face, which always convinced Reginald that I was hell-bent on fucking that visibly-faced man. Sometimes they started when I found out he’d been making promises to other girls behind my back again. Sometimes I didn’t even know what the problem was and the fight just seemed to start without me.

We sat on his futon. I was sobbing, and he was only getting angrier. I just wanted things to be okay; I apologized again and again, not really knowing or feeling why. I said the words “I’m sorry” so many times they stopped sounding like words and became a strange background noise interrupted by the gasps and hiccoughs spewing from my wailing, puffy face. The part of me that I considered my personality had been broken for a while, and whatever was left of me seemed to cry a lot.

His face got crueler and he looked more disgusted with every sorry I said. But I couldn’t stop. It was mechanical now; it was the whirring gears that kept me breathing. Finally, I said the “I’m sorry” that tipped him into a rage. His movement was so abrupt and violent that I assumed he was going to hit me, and I flinched. But he turned away–toward the door–not toward me, so then I thought he was going to leave me all alone in his apartment with no car, no phone, no self. That scared me too. I reached out to stop him from exiting, but I realized I was already being pulled, dragged to the floor by my shirt. He ripped it trying to take it off. He tore my favorite bra too but it clung, wounded, to my body. His grip was too tight on me. The air conditioning was suddenly too cold on my newly bared skin. I shook my head, tried to back up, struggled to regain the safety of the furniture, to get away. I was sure he was going to hurt me. Badly. Maybe he would kill me. He was stronger.

Reginald was on top of me, holding me down with his knees while he undid his belt and opened his pants. He was hard and I was terrified. His anger and his force and my misery transformed even the erection I’d always been happy to see into something frightening. He grabbed my hair and moved me around to my knees, facing him. I cowered as he loomed in front of me, and I couldn’t look at him. I pulled away but he had my hair and I was too afraid of him to really fight. I didn’t say any real, human words because I wouldn’t stop screaming, and then he slammed my head down and rammed his cock into my mouth, and it felt like my face was on fire. I choked on my tears as much as his thrusts. My mewling panic was muffled now, less shrill and more like a ragged, guttural hum. I wonder if the vibrations made it better for him.

It didn’t take him long. When I felt him release into my raw throat it was bitter and nauseating. I wanted a drink of water. I wanted to be sick. But then his fingers jammed into me between my legs, raking against the dry flesh there and now a new pain tore through me. I was afraid to tell him no and I’d run out of screams, but I shook my head again and whispered “please”, mute tears running down my cheeks. And he did stop after a minute, and I curled myself into a ball thankful he hadn’t killed me, all the while just wanting to die.

Why why why why why? It kept buzzing in my brain. It was punishment. I’d finally done something that bad, and I didn’t even know what it was. The amount he must hate me is unfathomable I told myself, like hovering at the edge of a bottomless pit.

Reginald sat on the floor with his back to the wall, looking away from me. His presence nearby was ugly, but no part of me was willing to move. I was still and he was still as I tried to ride the roaring whys in my head. It wasn’t until I heard him crying that I looked and saw that he’d covered his face with his hands. I don’t think there were any tears.

“I’m scared now,” he told me, in a shrill voice that threatened hysteria. “I’m scared because I thought you wanted that and now I’m afraid you didn’t like it.”

Of course I hadn’t liked it! What the fuck? I probably looked at him like he was speaking Icelandic, like he was a Martian teapot or a huge aphid-shaped gumball. Why would anyone want that?

“Remember?” he sputtered. “Remember how you told me you wanted that? I didn’t think I could, but I wanted to try. For you!”

Oh shit. It fell on me, a cold, dead weight. Months ago I had told him that I’d fantasized about “forced” blowjobs. I had wanted it to be like a game, defined sex play done in fun. Not like this. Never like this. How could a misunderstanding be so profound? But it had happened. He’d done it for me. He’d taken my throat while I cried, while I was terrified. And it was my fault because I had literally asked for it.

I unraveled myself from my fetal position on the floor and gestured toward him affectionately. I could not bring myself to touch him yet. I was fighting back nausea and shudders, and tears leaked silently from my eyes. I was so thirsty I couldn’t afford the tears, but they wouldn’t stop. “I’m sorry,” I told Reginald. My voice sounded tired and raspy, but I tried to make it soothing. I knew I had to say this or worse things would happen. “I’m sorry I made you do that, baby. I know it was so hard on you. It’s okay. You never have to do anything like that again.” I hoped like hell he never would. I stared vaguely at his cheap, stained carpet because I couldn’t look over at him and I couldn’t look down at me. I hated us both too much just then, as I kept purring my lies and his breathing quieted. “You were so good, baby. You were only doing what I wanted you to do, and it was very wrong of me to ask. But I’ll never, ever force you to do those things again.”