quizzical pussy

I’m sick and tired today, yet again, so without much jaunty preamble… ConTuesday! ConTuesday will cheer me up.

My very first dildo is supposed to get here today. I’m so excited!

Years ago I met a young mother with a daughter named Dylan. I’m not sure if she realized how odd it sounded when she called her little girl “Dyldo” (sounded exactly like you fear/hope it did), but I have to wonder how she could not. I am not making this up.

Anyway, hope you had fun!

School was sooo boring today that I spent the whole class fantasising about the guy next to me. First I wondered if it was ok just to turn to him and ask if he wanted to leave the lecture to fuck. Then I thought about not leaving the class to fuck. I thought about asking if could suck him off under the desk. Then I got lost in the multitude of dirty naked things I’d like to to with him. Next thing I knew, lecture was over, I hadn’t written a word, and he was turning to me to ask about the assignment! I somehow managed to reply that it was due friday, rather than telling him I wanted to tie him up and ride his face. I’ll have to make the effort to work on that assignment with him to see where it goes…

This sort of thing has definitely happened to me before, but I think I always recover well.

How many people out there think that it’s wrong to have sexual fantasies about unsuspecting acquaintances and friends? I don’t, obviously. I don’t really believe in thought crimes in general, but I’ve known plenty of people who will not do it.

I have comically large balls, but less than one quarter of the normal testosterone level. While folks may not be sure there’s a god, it’s hard to argue that whatever’s out there, it has a fucked up sense of humor.

There has to be a God. The world is too fucked up to be an accident.

I’m in a cynical mood today (see: sick and tired).

I have no sensation in my areolas. Never had any form of surgery or injury on my breasts, they just have always been completely numb. I’ve never told anyone about it. For some reason it makes me feel ashamed that I can’t get any form of pleasure from that part of my body.

I’ve noticed that roughly half the guys I’m played with (admittedly not an impressive sample size) get no particular pleasure from nipple stimulation. I’m sure many women don’t get much out of people touching their areolas (though my personal experience indicates they’re probably fewer). Please don’t be ashamed that you might not respond to the touches partners might first expect to give you. Part of the fun of having sex with you is learning and doing what turns you on.

Please send me an interesting sex secret in this, my time of need.

So you have these silicone inserts stuffed into your bra that are definitely not your boobs, and you’re about to take your top off for a lucky new paramour. My question is not how to make the situation less awkward as the true nature of your chest is revealed. My question is this:

How do you not suddenly become Penn Jillette?

“You’ll notice that my boobs are, in a hyphenate, mind-boggling in their glory. But in a moment…” And this is where you turn your back to the audience and begin to unhook your bra closure. Your hands cross over the cups. You wait for the subtle forward lean. It means you’ve hooked ‘em. “In a mere moment, lady or gentleman, you’ll realize that things…” Dramatic pause and a hand goes into the bra cup, liberating the rubbery stowaway and releasing it to the floor with a flourish. “…are not always…” The other hand goes in for the second cutlet, which is dispatched to the floor to join its twin. “…what they seem!” And your bra drops to the floor as your arms raise in triumph. Your breasts were normal-sized all along.

Holy shit you are amazing! Applause happens.

This is exactly how I imagine this would go; in my case, at least. And honestly? Showmanship is better than huge tits.

From time to time, when I’m dressing for an evening out, I’ll take them out of their drawer and look at them. My chicken cutlets: silicone flesh-colored slices of tit I don’t have, with pert little knobs that suggest the nipples of those not-really-my tits are vaguely intrigued by something or other. And always will be.

And I’ll wonder to myself, Is this it? Is today the day I’m finally going to wear fake boobies in my bra? So far, it never is.

Sometimes I would like to have bigger tits. If the reason were any simpler I’d have to grunt it. Women with big boobs get a lot of sexual attention when they show them off, leading me to imagine it’s pretty easy for them to get sex any time they like. This is a lifestyle that appeals to me.

To be fair, at other times I wish I had smaller boobs and 12% body fat. Basically I want to be Princess Mombi, but with modular bodies in addition to all the heads. I don’t think that’s asking too much.

Anyway I was blessed with boobs I’d call just about average-sized. (Though, in a Serling-esque twist, I think my tits have grown a little since I went off birth control pills, despite my actual weight staying stable. If anyone can figure that one out, let me know. ***Spoiler: Also no, I’m not knocked up***) They’re not tiny, but they’re not formidable either. So at one point I bought those weird silicone inserts in a fit of “why the fuck not?”.

But I haven’t ever worn them, and the reason is not an ethical issue with deception, nor the fear that someone will get a disappointing handful of plastic if a spontaneous hookup should happen. And sadly, perhaps, it’s not because I looked inside myself and found that I like me just the way I am. The major reason is that I don’t really understand how to use them.

They didn’t come with instructions. Do they go at the bottom of the bra, to boost the flesh boobs up higher? Do they go on the sides to push the cleavage together? Somewhere else altogether? I don’t know. Wherever I put them they look weird. It always just looks like I stuck a big brick of plastic down my shirt. Which I guess I sort of did.

Really, it’s just too damn much trouble to play titty tetris every time I want to look hot.

My sophomore year at University, I took a 100-level Women’s Studies class, partly because I was holding down three jobs and I wanted an easy course held in the evening, and partly because I felt like there were things I was missing out on.

I knew I was supposed to be finding myself (it’s what all the cool kids seemed to be doing in college), but I wasn’t. I was just going to class and working and trying to keep my relationship together. There was nothing revelatory about my life. But it seemed like maybe feminists could tell me where I was.

They couldn’t, of course. No one can. But for my final project in that class I wrote and illustrated an educational pamphlet on female genital anatomy. It was created to give young women a sense of normalcy regarding masturbation and a clear idea of what’s where in the vulvular region. And I don’t know why, but I’m still rather proud of it. Probably because it makes me laugh even now.

In retrospect, I really don’t think it’s possible to find yourself where and when you’re “supposed” to. Unlike the average clitoris.

Today’s confessions are about anatomy, more or less.

I’m an adult who wets the bed, and I’m terribly afraid every time I stay over after sex that I’m going to piss on him.

Some guys would be into that. Just saying.

My partner begs me to pee on him. CONSTANTLY. This does nothing for me, to the point where I find it disgusting. I did pee on his face for the first time in our many years together, and he loved it. I wanted to puke. Ah, love.

See, first confessor? It’s probably not exactly kismet that these two confessions actually came in the same day, but it’s something. Synchronicity, maybe.

Oh, and this commenter? You are good, giving, and game without a doubt.

My roommates are in the main lounge studying, but I feel a lot more productive–while masturbating, I finally succeeded in orgasming from nipple play alone. (of course the one nipplegasm didn’t stop me from subsequently going for the clit and coming again…)

Ooh I just had a nipple orgasm myself! Isn’t it cool how all the kinds of orgasms are different? You can have a five-course meal just of different kinds of coming.

I broke up with my boyfriend about a month ago, I don’t really miss him but what I do miss is his penis which was huge. I was going to have sex with someone else the other day but actually couldn’t do it because they just had nothing compared to him. I’m scared I’ll never be as satisfied with another penis as I was with his!

Not being a real size queen myself, I find it hard to relate to this, exactly, but I can sympathize. I’m imagining being condemned to skinny, three-inch cocks and a one-finger-at-a-time limit for the rest of my life, and I’m suddenly unsatisfied.

I’m scared I will never love another penis the way I loved my ex boyfriend’s penis. It was a beauty and now every single one I see is a true disappointment. I wish I’d taken a picture when I had the chance.

Wouldn’t it be nice if you and the previous confessor could just switch exes? I wonder if your “big”s are comparable. Unless you’re the same person, and your ex is mutant, unequaled in size the world over. In which case, balls.

But I remain firm in my belief that mammoth penii are out there, more than enough for both of you, just waiting to blow your minds.

Now, kind readers, blow my mind? Tell me something good.

ConTuesday confessions hot off the internet! There will be boobs and pudding, but that’s not all…

For my age, I would say, most people believe I already had at least one relationship. It is, somehow, accepted by society that I should. Fact is, though, that I haven’t. I never went further than a french kiss. More that is not much of a confession. The thing is, if I were to buy a sex toy, I would have no idea what to do with it. I never even touched myself, let one felt the urge to.

Most people do seem to expect everyone to share a desire to date and fuck and masturbate. But they’re ignoring and marginalizing a ton of people when they do. I think it’s important for even sex maniacs to remember this.

My boyfriend is amazing for me in bed, and amazing as a person in general, to the extent that I’m pretty sure he’s the person I want to spend the rest of my life with – but I can never quite let myself go completely with him when we’re sexin’. Not because I’m repressed, or afraid he’ll mock me, but because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s a bigger guy and one of the reasons I’m so attracted to him physically is that I’m almost exclusively turned on by lads and lasses one would describe as overweight; he’s aware of this, but I’m always kind of nervous that I’ll accidentally slip up and tell him that his big stomach or soft chest is so hot when I’m distracted by lust. He’s really sensitive about his weight, and it’s such a fine line to tread, trying to tell someone you find them gorgeous partly because of a trait they despise about themselves. I wish he could see himself the way I see him; maybe it would stop him from thinking I’m prettier than him, stop him from feeling ugly whenever he has to get shirtless in front of anyone else… and stop him from wanting to get thin.

Weight is such a sensitive subject, but at the same time how can we possibly expand the idea of which body types are widely considered sexy if we don’t talk about it, if we don’t in fact revel in it? This may seem like advice, but it’s not. I’m just agreeing that you’re in a frustrating position loving an aspect of your boyfriend’s looks and self that he isn’t comfortable with.

There’s a small stain on the carpet of my old room in my parents’ house. My mom knows it’s from when I threw up during a visit a year or so ago. What she doesn’t know is that the vomit was about 50% chocolate pudding and 50% semen. I’ve since learned to be a little more cautious when deep-throating a guy, and to put down a towel first.

That was either like one spoonful of pudding or a fuck ton of semen, according to my calculations. Towels are really such a good idea for a variety of sexual acts. Also hitchhiking.

I just realized that I’m pretty much willing to show my boobs to anyone who asks, at least in theory. I think it’s because I respect them for being straight up and asking for what they want. As long as they don’t try to touch, it seems like a totally reasonable request.

Also, because boobs are awesome.

Boobs are awesome. I don’t really consider it a reasonable request when people I’m not close to/interested in ask to see my boobs, but I’m probably not as generous a person as you are. You also probably have better boobs, I’m guessing. Anyway, thank you for your contribution to society!

Now, dear reader, show me your secrets and tell me your tales.

Let’s be frank for a moment: Boobs are awesome.

They’re a tactile dream: soft, round, delicious with a distracting embellishment at the tip. They are the anatomical equivalent of the peanut butter cyclops cookie. They’re also capable of providing complete sustenance for a growing human being (this part being less like cookies), which is quite a parlor trick.

One of the most intriguing things about boobs is the variety they come in. If tits had their own nation someone would eventually refer to it as a melting pot. You can see their outline, their size, maybe even catch a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage (and all those vary widely from person to person), but you have to do some real exploring to find out what the nipples are really like. They can be big, small, corks, nubs, dark, pale, perfectly delineated circles, gradients, smooth, bumpy, crinkly, and/or run through with metal, among many other possibilities. Sometimes it’s maddening trying to guess. Sometimes when you finally get to play with them you realized you had it entirely wrong, and that’s kind of amazing. I love being wrong. I love discovering.

Playboy has this Evolution of the Boob article on their website. It’s about what style of breasts were in vogue which decade (starting with the ’50s, when Playboy started). It’s possible that Playboy is really primarily talking about the preferences of its own editors over time, but to a point you can’t argue with the fact that tit fashions change. That being said, I’m not sure I’ve ever looked at a topless woman and thought, “those are so last season”.

Perhaps even more than decades, people have preferences. I like all the boobs, but there’s something about those ’60s torpedo boobs that I find very compelling.

But I don’t believe I’ve met many people who have admitted to preferring augmented breasts. I’m not sure if they’re actually unpopular or if that’s just the crowd I tend to run with (I mean, obviously they’re not presenting a huge handicap if women keep getting them). But somehow or other I’ve gotten this impression that a boob job would indeed limit my sexual options, or at least be a liability.

I don’t see a problem with fake tits; I’m fine with most body modification. And I don’t see why they would deter me from having sex with someone. But I can say this: bare augmented breasts often somehow look less naked than natural ones. It just feels like the woman still has something on, even when she’s totally stripped. Maybe that’s why the people who don’t like them really don’t like them. Implants do make for amazing cleavage, though.

(image source)

Whenever I get even the faintest whiff of myself trying to be sexy I get that feeling you get when you introduce your most embarrassing relative to the coolest people you know. Just. No.

Oh god, no.

This…

…is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

I’m so sorry, guys. I cannot take her anywhere.

This feeling informs very little of my behavior during actual sex (I have convinced myself, and dearly hope is true), but it dramatically influences–nay, dominates–the way I flirt, or even interact with my friends and the people I fuck. A great example of this is the fact that I do not, will not, can not send anyone sexy/risque/flirty/myspace profile/whatever pictures.

No part of me projects these self-judgments onto other people who take, send, and share sexy pics of themselves. Oh, not by any means. Please feel free to test me on this.

Over the weekend I went to a party at the local goth club. Objectively speaking, I can get pretty tarted up as long as I’m convincing myself that this is “just for fun” and not anything remotely close to trying to be sexy. I do tend to give myself the benefit of a doubt when it comes to dressing. It’s similar to my completely sense-making habit of enjoying wearing cute underwear but being terribly embarrassed whenever I’m found out. This particular night I put on a short skirt, high (as I can manage with my walking issues) heels, a t-shirt I assaulted with a pair of scissors, and these adorable striped thigh highs. And a good time was had by all.

Laramy wasn’t able to come out, having had kind of a shitty day. So as I got home and started to strip off my sweaty clothes, he was on my mind and I had a dramatically uncharacteristic thought process:

1. These thigh highs are kind of cute…
2. Laramy’s mentioned a couple times that he likes my legs…
3. He’s had a super bad day…
4. I never send him pics of me…
5. Ergo… maybe it would cheer him up if I emailed him a picture of my legs in aforementioned thigh highs!
6. I’d better hurry up and do it before I think this through any further.

And I wasn’t even drunk or anything! I’m not going to say that what I produced in the following moments using a camera phone, specialty hosiery, and an inexplicable lapse of inhibition was a “sexy pic”. It really wasn’t. The whole thing was supposed to be a silly “thinking of you” gesture, I guess. But after I sent it, I realized that it was hazardously close to a “sexy pic” attempt. The more I thought about it the more I started neurotically wondering if it was going to come across as entirely pathetic or just mostly pathetic, and by the time I got up the next morning I was grimly expecting the worst.

To his great credit as a gentleman, Laramy’s reaction via instant message was a lot more “I like the thigh highs” than “You preposterous creature, what’s with the flailing abortion of a jpg in my inbox?” But it was a bit of a struggle to resist asking, “So like, that picture is pretty much an embarrassment to everyone involved, right?” I felt kind as if I was watching myself in horror as I proudly brought roadkill pie to the cool kids’ sushi and sake party. My stoicism through all this was an inspiration to both of me.

Mere minutes later, I kid you not, a friend sent me a genuinely super-sexy pic of her amazing bare breasts, asking me to forward it on to Laramy. Which I did, gladly, content that I had actually found a way to at least help brighten up his morning in a much more productive way than my previous attempt.

I was up way too late, but the Sci Fi convention I was attending had negotiated extended pool hours with the hotel. I couldn’t resist the temptation. I had to check out the hot tub.

I like cons. They’re silly and exuberant and many of my nerdy friends are there. But there are also all these… other people around. Some of them are the “friends you haven’t met” kind of strangers, indubitably, but there are also the “that guy that talks like a robot just farted on me in the elevator” kind. So conventions are admittedly a mixed bag.

Another thing about geeks: they’re often (not all of them, mind, but probably more than average) starved for attention, kinky, and accepting of the social quirks of others. I love this about them, but it puts a little extra pressure on me to be tolerant of quirks I don’t enjoy.

Take, for instance, bad breath. I have nothing against you if you have bad breath. I think you’re, like, fearfully and wonderfully made and stuff, and I’m sure your gorgon breath has nothing to do with dental hygiene and everything to do with a medical condition you can’t control. I’m not saying it’s your fault or that it reflects on you as a person (although I am totally judging you) but I’m still going to want a significant space between your face and mine. I would like you to stay outside the breath bubble, had I my druthers.

…And that’s just one example. But it often comes back to the personal space thing.

But I was talking about general acceptance before I was talking about my raging olfactory hatemongering. Acceptance is good. It’s freeing. Watching some of these people, it’s like a metric ton of societal pressures have been lifted off their shoulders for one weekend and they tool around frenetically, being who they wish they could be every day, in a gentler world.

This is all just a very round about way to say that as I entered the pool enclosure, 90% of the people there were stark naked.

Fandom is populated with some legitimately hot people and a host of other people that aren’t… I mean, that are more… well, people I’m sure are beautiful on the inside. I’m speaking for me here, since everyone finds different things attractive, but I’m going out on a limb and saying that there were three naked people tops at that highly attended pool party who would be considered above-average looks-wise.

Yeah, it’s shitty that my brain made evaluations about which naked people were pretty and which weren’t. They were just hanging out (ha) and not necessarily asking to be stared at and graded by shallow sex bloggers. But guess what? I’m human and I’m anonymously honest on the internet, and my brain probably didn’t do anything yours wouldn’t have. So there.

I wasn’t actually there to gawk at naked or to be naked. I was there to relax a bit in the hot tub before bed. If I flirted with some hot people (naked or clothed) so be it! But personally I’m a little naked shy, so I stripped down to my bra and knickers and grinned at my own cleverness having selected dark colored undies that day.

The sunken hot tub was crowded, but I found some space next to my (betrunked, if you’re curious) friend Crispin Hijanx. We chilled out and maxed, relaxing all cool, trying not to stare directly at anyone’s fun bits. It was all of two minutes before a naked (not ugly, if you’re curious) guy I’d never seen before came up and started small-talking me. I made some fairly bland, exhausted answers, failing in my attempts to not watch a curvy girl with an awesome ass ascend the hot tub stairs and dive into the nearby pool. When she was safely submerged, I turned back to my nameless naked companion.

“So,” he said, now that he had my attention, “you’re not going topless?”

I looked down at my bra “No. No, I guess I’m not.” Actually none of the women there were topless. They were naked or suited. But I guess Nameless Naked Dude thought boobs would be a good start.

“Why not?” Hmmmm. I’d never had a stranger ask me why I wasn’t showing him my tits before. His tone creeped me out: like he wasn’t mad, just disappointed. Like I was cheating him out of something. I suddenly felt oddly exposed. With all the flesh in that room he was feeling petulant that my breasts (probably the smallest pair in the room, even) were going to remain a mystery.

The cute thing about carefree light-hearted nudity is that no one makes that a big deal of it and no one solicits it. Everyone’s enjoying it, sure. That’s natural. But I don’t think that a hot tub needs an Ambassador of Naked. I didn’t have to flash Crispin the “save me” eyes or anything, but the whole exchange did convince me that the best way to get me to keep clothes on is to creepily request that I remove them. Maybe that was Nameless Naked Dude’s cunning plan all along: to keep me covered and hasten my departure. If so, his naked fu is very good.

Reginald Sleeth and I sat in his Pontiac, dully admitting our powerlessness against traffic. It wasn’t rush hour; just L.A. The ribbon of cars in front of us was inexorable, unmoving.

The evening before the roads had been open enough that we could flout the speed limit as the good Chief intended. We were young and stupid enough that we played all these risky sex games while driving: let’s see how many times you can get me off between the restaurant and movie theater; how fast can you go without getting us killed while I give you a handjob? I’m not sure if it was that teenage myth of immortality or the teenage reality of barely caring if we died.

That night, Reginald had been at the wheel and somehow me taking my top off came up. I think I said that I wasn’t too scared to, exactly, but I just didn’t really like the idea. I’m naked shy. (Yes, the crowing sex blogger is naked shy and has been for some time. But in all fairness, you’re not reading the intrepid pussy blog, so if you’re disappointed you have only yourself to blame.) I don’t remember if he dared me or commanded, but somehow the conversation didn’t get much farther before I was down to my bra.

It was nearing twilight but not dark yet, and I knew any motorist who cared to look could see a swath of pale skin where all respectable people were keeping their shirts in those days. It wasn’t much worse than wearing a bikini top, of course, and those were practically de rigueur in the California sun, but this was psychologically different. Also, my bra was a very sheer orange mesh, and the nipples underneath it blushed and reared, making a living, lurid, double sunrise diorama on my chest– orange and pink, effulgent to me in its blistering horror. But at least the bra wasn’t off. I still had something to hide behind.

“You’re not really topless,” Reginald observed.

“Errrmphlmsssht,” I groaned. I was as topless as I was comfortable with, but I had already committed halfway. Fuck it, right? I reached around behind my back and unfastened the single hook. I watched the tiny piece of cloth that protected me flutter to the floor mat.

Reginald’s speed slipped from 110 to 96 as his right hand strayed from its regular six o’clock position. Some guys like to roll nipples between their fingers, some like to pull, some like to brush them reverently with the backs of their hands, as if the pads are too common to provide the right type of touch. Oh, and there are others. There are countless others. But Reginald was all of those three, and he somehow managed to do all of them and not kill us. I squirmed, of course. Everything suddenly seemed thick, like how they used to photograph old film stars through gauze. Reginald, the dashboard, the road, all became remote as I felt the searing bliss/pain radiate outward from beneath his hand. I felt my eyes glaze over; I was no longer seeing anything. I often have orgasms just from having my breasts played with, but this one might’ve been just as much from all the eyes I didn’t want to be, and couldn’t even have seen, seeing me.

Nobody had been looking when just my shirt was off, but in between orgasms I thought I noticed drivers noticing my very bare and highly satisfied tits. But we passed them too quickly for me to be sure that it wasn’t just my paranoia, my arousal, my mid-climactic feeling that somehow the entire world was mine.

But now, the day after, we weren’t moving at all, and I wore a short little dress and big fuck-off boots, all very much still on. My bra and all that lurked beneath was safe.

We seldom ran short on conversation. Reginald loved to talk, and I loved to listen to him; I’d been infatuated with him since I was 15, and thought that everything he said was both marvelous and true. I was frequently wrong on both counts, but that’s all part of growing up more than it’s a part of this story. I got to talk too, though. Sometimes he’d ask me questions, although he often phrased them in the imperative.

“Tell me a fantasy,” he said as the car bumped forward briefly, like a sigh.

“I… I’ve always wondered about what it would be like to be with another girl,” I confessed shyly.

Stay tuned to The Pussy Philes to learn of Reginald Sleeth’s reaction to my earliest out-loud admission to same-sex attraction, which couldn’t possibly go wrong in this, an unhealthy relationship between two impossibly immature people. Could it?