quizzical pussy

Beware them! They’ll kill your tyrants dead.

On a totally related note, I’ve arranged some sexy secrets for your reading enjoyment.

I’m having an affair. He’s 8 years younger and I’m only the second girl he’s ever been with. He’s so excited to be with me. He’s willing to try anything and really loves turning me on. I’ve had sex with him more times this year than I have with my husband.

Evidence I’m currently living in a little nonmonogamy cocoon: My first reaction to this was “If you tell your husband about that, maybe he’d step up the frequency a little. A bit of friendly competition!” Someone remind me how affairs work?

I love that, when I click ”send” after I type a confession, that the ”Ohhh, that’s a good one” message pops up. I always think ”I know, right?”.

It’s so nice when someone appreciates the little things.

I harshly judge everyone that has sex. I’m a virgin, by choice, and I think it’s disgusting for everyone else to have sex but me. If you have a threesome, you’re a sleezer, if you are a lesbian, you’re a skeezer, if you cheat on your partner, you’re a dog, if you have an ’open relationship’, you’re just keeping a good person from finding someone better than YOU. If you’ve ever had an STD, please die. If you’re a gay man, you’re great. I don’t judge you at all. I absolutely judge everyone. And the sad part is that I DON’T feel bad at all. I think that everyone is disgusting, and that I’m the only person left in the world with morals. :D.

I’m losing my virginity tonight to my boyfriend of six years. [:.

Um. I just… what… I just don’t even know… Okay, if you’re not trolling, I advise you to work out these severe issues you have about sex, but part of me still wants to tell you I hope you had a good time. Because I’m a skeezer, and that’s what I do.

Early this morning, I squirted more than I’ve ever squirted in my entire life. It felt like there was a river pouring out from between my legs. Some of it was even in a majestic spray-type deal like how ladies in porn always seem to get off.

Once I was satiated, I then realized that half of my bed was soaked. Through the bedding, through the sheets, THROUGH THE MATTRESS INTO THE FRAME. I ended up having to take the driest of the bedding and sleeping on it because I was so tired. The moral of this story is to get a towel or three before going like Ol’ Faithful.

There have been times when I’ve really wished my bed was equipped with rubber sheets. But damn, it’s been a while…

I am a woman, and I like being a woman, and I like fucking men.
But my biggest fantasy is to have sex like a man once. Not that sex with my body is unpleasant, but just to imagine the feeling when I enter someone else with my dick… drives me crazy.
I plan to find out if strap-ons come anywhere near it soon :-)

I relate to this so hard! To the point where just reading that revs me up a bit. I’m pretty okay being female-bodied, but I fantasize a lot about having a cock. And, you know, wielding it. And, you know, sheathing it. But not only once. Ever so much more than once.

Mmmmmmm. Confess amongst yourselves.

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.

Last night, in the middle of an otherwise satisfying fap, I realized with not inconsiderable horror that it’s been I-don’t-even-know-how-long since the last time I squirted. It must be months. Months and months. One hell of a lot of months, at least.

There was a time in my life when I could barely use a vibrator for fifteen seconds without my pussy producing an enthusiastic dribble, and threatening much more. That time is gone, apparently, at least for the time being, and now I need to apply more time and attention in order to ruin my sleeping arrangements with puddles. Which really is probably for the best from a logistics standpoint because I need my beauty rest and prefer it non-soggy, all else being equal. Female ejaculation can be such a polarizing subject, even if we’re just talking about my brain.

But I miss those geyserly orgasms. They were so intense, so joyous. Of course a woman can have an amazing sex life if she never ejaculates, or even thinks about it. There are manifold ways to get off, and no single physical mechanism of orgasm is objectively better than any other. They’re created equal, like mankind. But also like mankind, once you get to know and love an individual in that created-equal group, you get attached and would miss it if it were to move to Jakarta.

So here I am in the Western Hemisphere realizing that I just don’t have the grit these days to hike to Jakarta every time I take my pants off.

Squirting, come home. I would like to have to lay down double-thick towels more often, and then maybe curse you when you ignore them and soak right through. Those were the days.

Anonymous confessions from the internet! The first one is very timely, since Buy A Sex Toy Day is this Friday, and someone wants some tips on what to buy…

Can you recommend a sex toy for me? I’ve been inspired by Buy A Sex Toy Day, and I think it’s time for me to get better acquainted with myself. It needs to be cheap (under $50) because I’m unemployed and broke. It should be non-threatening, because this makes me incredibly nervous. And it should vibrate, because, well… I want it to.

Yay! I’m so excited you want to get a sex toy for BAST day! I wrote about the Wahl massager yesterday, and I have to say, I think it would fit your criteria very well. It’s unintimidating: it doesn’t look like a penis, it has no clues to its sexual applications on its packaging, and in a pinch you might even be able to convince people you use it on your sore neck. Oh, and does it ever vibrate! The only real problem is that it isn’t insertable, so if you’re looking for penetration you’ll want something more like this Orchid G, which I’ve never tried but have heard good things about. The bulb gives you g-spot stimulation, but it also makes it versatile as a clit vibrator. The major con to this toy is apparently that it’s wicked loud. If anyone has any other suggestions, please comment!

I was not very worldly when my first boyfriend started talking about anal. Didn’t sound like a good time to me, but if there’s one thing you can say about me, it’s that I’m game. One night he plied me with wine, teased the hell out of me and made me beg for a proper seeing-to. I was feeling very warm and agreeable when he flipped me over on hands and knees and very gently, very gradually eased his huge large cock in. I actually really liked it and I squirted. [two confessions in one: I didn't know about squirting and was horrified-- I def. didn't need to pee. Took me years to realize...] The next time, he was in a big, big rush. I was getting turned off by the relationship in general at that point, planning my exit, and maybe slightly less game than before. He hurried me to drink some cheap wine (ugh!) and then I was there on the floor, hands and knees. I admonished him to go slowly, to let me tell him when to move forward, but once things commenced, he decided to ram it home. Fucker. He was a big clothes horse and spent vast sums on clothes/shoes, but was the last of the galloping cheapskates in every other way. So there I was on the floor, NOT about to squirt, not about to have anything I’d remember as a positive experience and he’s going to town in pursuit of his own pleasure. I felt the bile rising in my esophagus. *gack* What to do? I was gonna puke. The combo of cheap wine, personal distress and rushing what could have been a good thing was a perfect storm of oogyness, and I had to think fast – where to direct my vomit? One of his prized shark-grey Bruno Magli loafers was nearby, yawning, oblivious to my plight– someone had to pay. I grabbed it and yakked. Instant boner-kill. FWIW – anal is now on my definite list of likes, but has to be done very carefully. I think it’s sad how many people miss out on it because they don’t do a little research and proceed in a way that won’t damage the fuckee. Lube. Lube. Lube.

I absolutely agree. Anal sex can be so much fun, but! Lube. Lube. Lube.

So me and my ex-husband swang, we split, and he loved me so much that he felt the need to find me a lover. Only thing is, is this lover he wanted me to get with was 1) A good friend of his 2) married and 3) my former capt. I acted all offended but contacted the guy anyway. We have been together for a year now and part of me so wants to tell my ex how much better in bed he is, but a bigger part wants my ex to be there to watch it.

I never told my first that he was my first- and he never noticed.

Do you have any deep, dark secrets, questions, or concerns? Send them to me. I’ll give them a good home.

Sometimes when I didn’t want to do the things that Clifton Overmangle wanted me to (e.g. meet him for a quick blowjob when I was tired, let him give me hickeys, send him naked photos) he’d pull out the squirting card. “Well,” he’d say, “my intention to bring you pleasure overcomes my preference to not have you pee all over my sheets. You should be more giving and generous, more like me, and do whatever I want.” I can’t remember this rhetoric ever working, but it did make me feel self-conscious, so I guess no one won. Of course my solution that I’d tell him if I felt I was in danger of ejaculating and he could back off was completely missing the point, as he saw it. We should be making sacrifices for each other or something.

Two things:

1. IT’S NOT PEE!
2. This is not a good method of getting a chick to accommodate you in bed; it’s an excellent way of making sure she becomes determined never to ejaculate around you again.

I have a friend who squirted the first time she masturbated. She also freaked out, of course, because what the fuck just happened? When you’re not prepared for it, squirting/gushing/female ejaculation can be a slight shock.

I can safely say I had thousands of orgasms not realizing that there was such a thing in the world as a Skene’s gland. I was visiting my boyfriend Reginald in Los Angeles, and one afternoon he fingered me for what felt like hours, he rode through every orgasm as I bucked and bleated. I was in such a delirium of pleasure I fell off his futon, and he followed me down to the floor, his fingers still pounding and flickering, not missing a beat. He was concentrating mostly on the strange rough patch near the front on my vaginal wall, which I knew was the G-spot, although I didn’t know what was about to happen. I don’t know how long it took, but eventually something sprayed out of me in the middle of a searing climax. And I was absolutely mortified. I hadn’t even felt like I’d had to pee, but I was sure that somehow I’d just wet myself.

Reginald, who’d been researching a thing or two, looked very proud. “Do you know what just happened?” he quizzed me. I shook my head, miserable. My skin felt hot as the blood bloomed red in my cheeks. “You just had your first complete orgasm.”

Reginald was wrong about that. Squirting orgasms are definitely intense, but they’re just another type of orgasm. They’re not any more “real” or “complete” than a clitoral, vaginal, anal, or any other type of orgasm: believe me, I’ve had enough different kinds to know this. People can and do have favorites, but that doesn’t make those favorites any better or more orgasmy than any other type.

I don’t squirt with every orgasm, every time I have sex, or even every time someone stimulates my G-spot and clitoris together, which is normally how it ends up happening, although it can certainly result from attending to one or the other location with especially dogged resolve. Are the best orgasms always like majestic geysers? Not even always.

I think Reginald’s misapprehension about this, and any feminist distrust of squirting you might run into, is due to how damn analogous it is to male ejaculation. Sometimes a woman’s orgasm (not mine, but a woman’s) is a maddeningly subtle thing. A partner– hell, even the woman herself– can be left wondering if she actually got off. Guys are easier: semen comes out. Mystery solved. If women start doing that too, illumination! She definitely just came, and the wet spot just got a whole lot fucking wetter. Enjoy.

It’s messy. It can be inconvenient. It feels awesome. I’m not sure what’s in it for the person not impersonating a fountain. I guess it’s got to be the novelty and the extra emphatic proof of a job well done that accounts for the fact that very few guys have complained about it. Clifton was the exception, and I half think he griped about it only as a bargaining chip, considering that the first time it happened he was gleeful but a bit disappointed I hadn’t warned him so he could catch it in his mouth. Most guys are fascinated by it, and feel pretty cool when they pull it off.

Of course, I’m terrible about warning them. Squirting isn’t something that I expect or plan; it just happens sometimes. Plus, it happens more often during oral/digital sex than the actual penis-in-vagina playtime, so this is probably early in the saga of sexual exploration when “foreplay” takes longer, and I’m not totally comfortable yet talking about what fluids might come out of me. But I seldom account for the enthusiasm people can have for a new toy, and too often I’ve squirted with a new partner before I gave myself a chance to bring it up. This, as you might well imagine, is embarrassing. “It’s not pee…” I usually end up saying apologetically. I swear it isn’t.

Laramy Fuquerton and I had just finished having holy. shit. sex. The kind that makes you want to update your facebook status to “just had 14 orgasms! (hi, mom)” right after you collapse and die. It didn’t seem exactly polite to collapse and die on top of Laramy, though, especially since he’d been so unfazed with what I’d done on him moments before when his cock caught my g-spot exactly right. So I swung one leg out of my cowgirl straddle and promptly tipped over, right off the bed, after which we both cracked up. A lot.

It wasn’t a big deal to either of us, and it certainly could’ve happened to anyone, but it’s the kind of thing that happens fairly often to me, and not just in bed. It can happen at any time in my world. Often if I’m standing for a little while unsupported, I’ll lose my balance and start to topple. This is one of the reasons I normally use a cane, along with having joint pain and being a total pimp.

There are times when you really can’t forget that you’re disabled. I focus much harder on the fact that someday I want to be able-bodied again, but right now I have numerous limitations. I got sick several years ago with an illness that often manifests as an invisible disability (there is usually pain, energy loss, and cognitive dysfunction, to name a few), but it’s caused mobility problems as well in my case, so it’s a little more, well, visible. Sure, occasionally on a good day someone will ask me “do you need to use that cane or is it just a fashion statement?”, and it’s nice to know that I can “pass” if I need to, but back when I needed a walker (or even currently when I’m having a not-so-good day) there was no ambiguity: when people looked at me they knew I was messed up somehow.

I’ve been asked if I was born this way or if I’d been injured. I’ve been talked to with very loud voices, the kind obnoxious people use to talk to immigrants, or that you sometimes have to use with the elderly. I’ve been stared at. People in the mall have been completely unwilling to meet my eye. I’ve been genuinely grateful when men and women have opened doors for me, or even just gave me a friendly smile. Because sometimes, when it’s clear that my cane is not just a fashion statement, I have felt absolutely invisible.

Sometimes I’m too exhausted to move, let alone fuck; there have been times when my hips or knees or head have been in so much pain I’ve had to stop in the middle of sex, even if I desperately want to keep going. It’s embarrassing for me to try to explain to a partner that I can’t put in the energy that he (or she) deserves. It sucks to have your libido roaring and a willing lovely ready to go, and your body just punks out. But there’s that other, sneakier part of being disabled and horny that has probably hobbled me far more than any real, physical limit: since I’ve been disabled, I’ve had some trouble feeling like a sexual being. I went through a phase a couple years ago in which I could barely convince myself I was human. I actually saw myself more as this limping, shuddering, twitching chimera of pain, failure, and decrepitude. The looks, the avoidance I saw on people’s faces proved that I wasn’t a real person anymore to them, and my disappointment that I could no longer do the things I expected of myself made me doubt that I was even me anymore.

I’d begun seeing my boyfriend at the time, Edwin Pomble, about a year before I got sick, and he stayed with me while my health degenerated. I was both thankful to him and resentful that I should have to be thankful. Every time someone said to me “you’re so lucky he’s sticking by you through this” or “he’s definitely a keeper: not every guy would stay” I was vaguely irritated. I agreed with these statements– I was lucky, and wouldn’t have expected him to tough it out, but I also disliked the implication that all I could rightly ask as a sick and disabled woman was for someone that wouldn’t leave. No one, not even I, took the time to wonder why it wasn’t reasonable for me to ask for more. It didn’t matter that Edwin and I had dismal intellectual chemistry or that we had incompatible goals in life. He wasn’t dropping broken, disabled me, so it was inconceivable that I could ever leave him.

So when I finally did break up with him I felt tremendous guilt because I knew I had no “right” to do so. It wasn’t my place, as the damaged one, to reject him. And he agreed with my self-loathing logic, saying “I didn’t stay with you through all the bad times just so I could end up cut off from the good times ahead…” …you know, the good times in my speculative able-bodied future. Essentially, he felt that staying with me was like waiting for an investment to pay off, and that the time with the disabled me was more or less a tax write-off.

Single again, I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t be dating much until I was well. If I ever got well, that is. It was difficult for me to imagine anyone wanting to build any kind of relationship with me. Sure I could still have sex, since a girl who can’t walk unassisted is about as non-threatening as females come. There will always be, I theorized and hoped, someone out there willing to use you for sex when it’s obvious that even you don’t think you’re worth a call afterward. But for someone to care about me? That seemed fantastical. After all, I’d lured Edwin into my life when I had been perfectly healthy; now I had no bait with which to perform a comparable bait and switch.

But I have the kind of friends who tend to drag you out to into civilization after a break-up. You know, the good kind. And a weird thing happened when I started going out more and meeting more new people. People noticed my cane, but sometimes they also noticed my eyes, my ass, and my sense of humor. They noticed that I’m pretty much always laughing and having fun, and all of this together– including the cane– intrigued some people. Still others didn’t really care about the cane either way. The bottom line was that most people cared far less about the fact that I was disabled than I ever expected.

Socially, I’m much more comfortable with my cane and my poor coordination than I was even just a year ago. What used to mortify me is just a part of my life now: My hair is a vivid shade of crayola, I’m wearing a garnet pendant, kicking off a pair of pumas, popping my prescription meds. My cane is propped beside me, ready for action. And all that’s just what I’m like, for now. It would be nice if some of those details changed, but none of them make me less of a person or even less of a sexual person. My self-image is better than it’s been in a while, and I’m having regular, scorching-hot sex with a guy who cares enough to ask how I’m feeling today and never acts like he’s doing me some huge favor by not treating me like a moped (fun to ride, but don’t let your friends catch you). It still sucks when I’m too sick and tired to go out and I end up missing fun (and that happens a lot), but I know that disability is more of a detail than my identity. It took some time, but I can brazenly look anyone in the eye, and if people have a problem returning my gaze, that’s their issue to cope with.