quizzical pussy

I know at least six people who reached adulthood before realizing that narwhals are real animals and not mythological creatures like griffins and hot, single bisexual women. I’m just about at that point right now with narwhal dildos. I think they should exist, but I’m not sure they do yet. And if they really don’t, who dropped the ball on that one? I can get a replica kangaroo penis but not a narwhal tusk toy? Fuck yes I’m judging you, world.

A recent conversation with my friend Lucian Treblewood follows.

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Lucian: So ummm, hey there… watcha wearing?

Quizzical Pussy: A bearskin! (note: If you ever ask me what I’m wearing you’ll likely get an absurd kind of answer. Fair warning. -Q.P.)

Lucian: Sweet! Like with the mouth and teeth?

Quizzical Pussy: Of course. And I’m holding a narwhal tusk as a scepter.

Lucian: Well wearing just a bearskin rug, I hope you will not be innapropriate with your narwahl tusk… *tisk tisk

Quizzical Pussy: We may have different ideas about what qualifies as “inappropriate”.

Lucian: Perhaps I would find it more or less appropriate only due to the fact of the instrument in question (I don’t even know what this means, which is why I’m about to answer with “Narwhals are sweet, man.” Watch… -Q.P.)

Quizzical Pussy: Narwhals are sweet, man.

…I should design a narwhal dildo.

Lucian: Bet its been done

Quizzical Pussy: I’ve found ones branded as unicorn horns, but not narwhal horns. Or tusks. Whatever.

Lucian: Hmmm, now I shall be on the hunt. If I can’t find you one, I will craft you one. (I can guarantee you that Lucian has forgotten this promise by now, but I have not. -Q.P.)

Quizzical Pussy: Even though you find it inappropriate???

Lucian: I only asked you… I said it could be more or less. You will find, I am pretty open and accepting.

Quizzical Pussy: Oh, so you’re a fencesitter!

Lucian: Hardly

Quizzical Pussy: Okay. It’s time to come down on one side. Narwhal horn fucking: pro or con?

Lucian: It would be hip cuz it’s exotic

Probably not on the narwhal

Quizzical Pussy: Well, no. That’s turning the corner into bestiality town. And it should be fake because they’re an endangered species. (Actually, I guess they’re not, but I’ve never met one, so… -Q.P.)

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Now, I realize that narwhal tusks are pretty damn sharp and way too long to be at all comfortable for insertion, so a realistic one might not be a super great idea, but it’s a helical tusk, people! That’s nature’s “ribbed for her pleasure”. If Viking women of yore didn’t carve dildos out of those things, I feel like they should stop calling themselves Vikings because they’re abusing the privilege. So, we could just chunk up the design and round it out a little, and maybe the blowhole should be incorporated somehow. Honestly, I haven’t really worked out the details… but, but, narwhal dildo! The idea sells itself.

Watching a guy play with himself fascinates me. But I’m not interested in a long, lingering, self-conscious tease that acknowledges that I’m watching and attempts to give me a show. I like to see how a guy gets himself off normally, without frills. I revel in the businesslike, perfunctory action; I like noticing the parts of his penis he focuses on and the places he ignores. I want to understand what it means for him to possess his genitals, to spy on his relationship with them. And sometimes, I find myself relating to him as much as I’m turned on.

And this is why I bought my Feeldoe. I wanted a cock of my own. Specifically, I wanted to jack off. It did occur to me– casually– that I might want to fuck another person at some point. Also, that it would be hot to slide my pretty purple cock between a set of lips, provided I could find someone to agree to give me a blowjob. But I wasn’t holding my breath or my order for any such opportunities to emerge: they were like the wacky roadtrips you might envision when you get a new car, but you’re really getting it for your day-to-day driving. Basically, I got it for day-to-day wanking.

A few of my male friends have remarked that buying the ingenious strapless strap-on to jack off with is perhaps the purest and most excellent reason to get one. It’s always nice to get unique compliments. I’m pretty sure my reason is simply the most penis-envious. Of course, if I were male I’d likely consider penis envy pretty pure and excellent myself.

I adore my pussy. I love my small-but-mighty clitoris. I write poems about my G-spot. But a cock is a beautiful thing to have, as an accessory, and I picked an especially good one.

About a year ago I was looking at strap-ons online and thinking how none of them really seemed all that tempting. I could see how the act of penetrating someone could be kinky and erotic and all, but I couldn’t imagine any harness/dildo combo feeling all that good from the fucker’s end. There’d be some clit stimulation against the harness, but it probably wouldn’t be all that different from dry humping, would it? But then. Oh, then! Then I saw the Feeldoe.

Naive as I was, to me a double dildo was a long, straight, two-headed phallus used only in porn and Darren Aronofsky movies. But this was different. This was brilliant. “Surely,” I declared to myself, “a woman designed this marvel.” Turns out, yup. It has a bulb that the top puts inside her pussy so she can feel every thrust she makes with the external dildo, and ridges that press enticingly against her clit. I could imagine the Feeldoe propelling me toward real, joyous fucking, compelling me to push faster and faster into my fuckee like a man in the grip of his impending orgasm. I also immediately realized that if I had this wondrous device I could jack myself off, and that possibility made me dizzy with longing.

I tried to reason with myself: there was no point in spending all that money on a two-person toy if I was only ever going to use it by myself. I might not even enjoy wanking like a guy, maybe I just liked the idea. But the image of stroking my own cock kept creeping into my brain, eventually camping out as a persistent fantasy. I couldn’t explain it: I wanted a cock. It didn’t matter if I never penetrated a single orifice with it, I wanted it and I would make my own fun.

So I decided to stop being a jerk and to let me have my penis. And when it came, all my wildest dreams came true. Not about fucking with it, or even getting a blowjob, because none of that has happened yet. But jacking off with my Feeldoe is fabulous. The ridges that work my clit (which I consider the major tell that a woman designed it, by the way) feel amazing when I pull on the shaft, both ends of it feel great inside me, and the little bullet vibe is a mind-blowing enhancement when I want a little something extra.

The only problem is that when I come especially hard my pelvic muscles tend to contract and push out whatever’s inside me, be it warm, pulsating flesh or slick violet silicone. So I have to concentrate on keeping it in if I want it to stay put. But the beauty of a detachable penis is that you can take it out and put it back in with ease. I do so love having it all.

Sugru seems like a pretty neat development in the world of making your shit a little cooler. A malleable, silicone-based substance that cures at room temperature and comes in bright, happy colors, its tagline is “hack things better”. That’s what it’s for: hacking your stuff and making it softer, stronger, quieter, safer, comfier, better, or less broken. A super cute Irish chick invented it. Her accent makes me feel happy in my pants. Please understand that I’m not trying to objectify her and overlook her accomplishments or anything just because she’s a woman. If a cute Irish boy had developed sugru I’d be minimizing his intellectual merits in favor of leching all over him too. Trust me.

Anyway. Some facts about sugru:

• It’s named after an Irish word for “play”. Hehe.
• Sugru is like modeling clay when you take it from its pack. Once it’s exposed to air, it cures to a tough flexible silicone overnight using the moisture in the air.
• It’s designed to stick to as many other materials as possible. It forms a strong bond to aluminum, steel, ceramics, glass and other materials including plastics like perspex.
• Sugru is resistant from -60°C to + 180°C. It gets hot and cold but it won’t get softer or harder or melt.
• It’s completely waterproof and dishwasher safe.
• It is only a matter of time before people start making awesome, custom, one-of-a-kind sex toys using this stuff.

When there’s a new technology, people will figure out a way to use it to get off. Of all the things we humans like to hack, our bodies and sex lives are perennial favorites. Sugru has some real potential along these lines. Not only can you make an original silicone phallus with hints of your fingerprints all over it (that would make a romantic present, right?), you can also modify your current sex toys. You could enhance textures, add little pockets for bullet vibes…the possibilities number in the many! I’m not sure if it would bond to silicone toys or not, but it would be worth a little experimentation.

The website says sugru isn’t suitable for use in direct or prolonged contact with food, so that might raise some questions about its promise as an insertable. But I really don’t think that’s going to stop people.

Of course the first run of sugru sold out in no time flat. Well, technically 16 hours. But they’re working to produce more, and I can’t wait to see all the dildo pictures start rolling in when the stuff becomes more widely available.

P.S. If you were lucky enough to get your hands on some sugru and have a dirty mind, please send me pics of what you’ve done with it!

It’s no secret that I’m a fan of male sex toys. I think they’re every bit as good an idea as their female counterparts, and those are canon in Quizzical Pussyland. I even want a Fleshlight of my own so I can fuck it with my Feeldoe. Is that meta or what?

I say I specifically want a Fleshlight because I’m a little wary of some of the other toys out there. Like with any partner, I have some standards for my sex toys. I’m not saying that my masturbation aids have to be charming, witty, and have pretty eyes. I’m saying that they need to not creep me right the fuck out.

Fleshlights are cute, with a range of neat little orifices and inner textures (lotus, twista, ultra tight, vortex…), many of which seem appealing. The coin-slot “stealth” orifice is the closest these things come to being creepy (I can’t help but think it’d be like fucking a Barbie piggy bank, if there were such a thing), unless you find the hilarious “Succu Dry” vampire-toothed mouth off-putting.

Another  masturbator that seems pretty cool is the Tenga Flip, which looks like a hyperbaric chamber for your cock, or possibly something out of 2001: A Space Odyssey. It might seem a little sexless and sterile for some people, but since I have a well-known robot fetish I’d have no trouble putting my equipment in this docking station. Hopefully the tech wouldn’t revolt and the ending wouldn’t be totally inscrutable.

There are other sleeves and masturbators that seem pretty great. But there are many, many toys for guys out there that seem like catastrophically bad ideas. They’re designed oddly, marketed awkwardly, rendered patently unattractive, or just seem weird somehow. I realize that a vulva or a mouth is more aesthetically complex than, say, a penis, and that might account for some of the problems I’ve seen. But let’s face it, it doesn’t explain away all of them. Let’s examine some of these issues a little more closely:

Terrible Marketing Copy

The Super Head Honcho Masturbator has the following quote in its description: “It’s as good as a blow-job. Women will be dancing in the streets.” You know what guys like to think about while they’re masturbating? How much chicks hate giving them blowjobs! If my boyfriend had one of these and we were about to have sex, I’d definitely just hand him his Super Head Honcho Masturbator and a bottle of lube and tell him, “Enjoy your foreplay! Let me know when you want to fuck. I’ll be on the couch playing Pokemon.”

…Except how I like putting cocks in my mouth and the Head Honcho doesn’t have anything to do with that. That quote is just reinforcing the “Hey, consumer, you can’t get a woman to blow you, so you’d better buy this!” stereotype that I already mentioned I hate. This also seems like a rather dim marketing strategy.

Hilarious Details

Some guys are turned on by a full bush. I’ve had zero real guys complain that I shave mine, but I had a phone sex client who would always treat me to a diatribe about how I was hurting my “poor little peach” and crippling my sexiness whenever I forgot his preference and told him my character was smooth. So there’s a market for pubic hair.

The Full Bush Vibrating Cyberskin Pussy isn’t just a clever name: it was clearly meant to cater to the bush-loving demographic. But I can’t help but think that something went wrong in the execution. Something about it seems a little… off. I don’t think that pubic hair grows the way they think it grows. I vote we rename this “The Swedish Cleft”.

…which brings us to…

Dealbreakingly Embarrassing Name

The design could be absolute genius, the orgasmic promise superb. Still, I just don’t see myself buying a Flip A Sister Over or an ATM (not referring to banking) masturbator. Where I come from we try to keep our masturbation devices classy, thank you very much.

Resembles Something Deeply Troubling

I may never learn why anyone would choose to give the Kinky Virgin Masturbator a scalloped detail around its gaping suggestion of a vulva, but I hope they realize that it gives the toy an eerie vagina dentata/hookworm flavor to it.

However, I don’t have time to worry about The Kinky Virgin. I’m too busy praying to Paul Verhoeven Almighty that the My Cocoa Stroker isn’t hiding under my bed. I can confidently state that this is NOT what pussies are supposed to look like. Why why why would anyone put a body part inside something that looks like the brain bug from Starship Troopers? I loathe the people who brought this abomination into the world and I hate everything they stand for.

WHAT?

The reviews for the UR3 Pocket Ass are really good, and maybe I’m missing something, but does the disembodied finger tugging open its “life-sized” anus add something positive to this toy, or is it just really, really funny?

Real Dolls are arguably kind of creepy, but their anime-inspired Boy Toy line is far creepier. “Hey, Dawg. I heard you like the uncanny valley, so I put your sex doll in the uncanny valley so you can be unsettled while you fuck fake women.”

And don’t even get me started on ROXXXY. Robots are keen, but I’m with Holly on this particular one. I wouldn’t touch this “companion” with a ten-foot arc welder.

In closing, dear god what IS this thing?

I dated Edwin Pomble for several years, but I never understood his odd prejudices. One in particular that galled me, upsets me to think about even now, was his awful double standard about toys.

Excepting necessary concessions to propriety, if I’m acquainted with (nevermind boning) someone for any length of time, I’ll probably start talking sex toys eventually. People like to talk about their hobbies. I talk about the ones I love, the ones I lust after, the hilarious ones, and the ones I want invented yesterday. And I’m never shy about the fact that if I were a dude I would gleefully and unashamedly use masturbation aids, because I think they’re a lovely idea for all sexes, genders, races, and creeds. Edwin was tolerant of this only to a point.

“It’s fine for girls to use vibrators or whatever, but it just seems weird for guys to use anything… it’s so pathetic,” he insisted one day.
“Why is using a Fleshlight or something any different from me using my jackrabbit to get off? They’re both just simulated versions of genitals.” I pounced. I don’t like this weird idea that a guy fucking plastic is any different from a girl fucking plastic. It grates against my sense of fair play.
“Well…” Edwin was a slow talker. With a hint of conflict my conversational rhythm lapses into a staccato gallop, so this harmless idiosyncrasy always piqued me. “…it’s just not the same…” Another pause.
“Why not?”
“It just… isn’t. It’s sad when a guy does it. It’s like he can’t get a girlfriend so he has to use a pretend vagina.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why should you or anyone else care what someone does all alone and in private? If it feels better than your hand it’s a great idea: simple as that. And maybe it feels twenty times better. Have you tried it?” I challenged, setting myself up for a very easy “don’t knock it ’til” rejoinder.
“Well… my ex once…bought me… something.” Huh. Really? Now this was getting interesting.
“Cool! What was it?” I leaned into the question.
“It was like, a masturbation… thing. A sleeve or something.”
“And did you try it?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t like it?”
“It felt really good, but…then I felt bad about it. So I threw it away.”

He threw it away! He fucking threw away a perfectly good sex toy. That’s sad! In my world, it’s practically a capital offense. A lovely sex toy whose only purpose in life is to help you get off, that exists only to enhance your pleasure, deserves better than that.

It bothers me no end that most people seem to think that when a girl uses a sex toy she’s adventurous, empowered, and sexually aware, but when a guy uses a sex toy it’s depressing unless he has a female chaperone, and even then the toy must mostly be for her benefit. Even those who get behind the idea of a man using dildos and buttplugs on himself often still revolt against the idea of him using a male masturbator. In short:

Toy penetrates flesh = HAWT
Flesh penetrates toy = UR A LOSER LOL

…Why? I honestly don’t get it. I can’t even argue against this prejudice in any systematic way because I have no idea where it’s coming from. If anyone out there can give me a logical reason people arrive at this conclusion I’ll give you a jelly bean.

That’s not to say that there aren’t some horrifying male toys out there, which is exactly what Part 2 of Quizzical Pussy’s “The wank that dare not speak its name” series will be about. But really, anyone who doesn’t (and no one should) have a problem with my dildo collection needs to stop worrying about guys using sleeves or other sex toys. It doesn’t mean we’re beneath all standards for human contact; it just means that we’re occasionally eschewing our hands for a fancier option.

I’m no one’s sterotypist laureate or anything, but it seems to me conventional wisdom holds that men and women fap very differently. Some sources actually contend that women can’t fap at all, and that they only “schlick”, but that’s misogyny for you. Schlick isn’t even a word, and it sounds off-putting.

So let’s just all agree that girls can fap. And do. Some more frequently and enthusiastically than others. And perhaps it really is true that men and women tend to gratify themselves differently. Maybe men and women are from different planets, and those planets have very different masturbation rituals. Like…

“How men masturbate”

Let’s look at a fap in the life of your average bloke. He’s going to want a healthy clutch of porn, his hand, and ideally a bottle of lotion. A quick click animates the pretty naked things on the screen and his dick snaps to attention. He’ll graze on different porn scenes, flitting over whatever catches his eye and discarding it when it loses his interest, moving on to the next stimulus, and then the next. Alternately, if he’s in the shower or another place where porn isn’t readily available, he’ll use his imagination and fantasize about fucking his friends’ girlfriends or his wife’s sister or his squash partner. He focuses on the most sensitive spots on his cock with a fast and heavy, practiced touch. His orgasm is quick and workmanlike. He’s done this thousands of times and faps with efficiency, for results.

“How women masturbate”

Women don’t masturbate so much as make love to themselves. Women don’t like regular porn. They like “erotica”. There are special porn companies that make smut with story lines and character development and poignant portrayals of intimacy, but everyone knows that most women prefer their erotica in text, be it slash featuring anime characters or bodice-ripping plucked from the grocery store.

When a woman decides to masturbate, it is an event. She pours herself a glass of wine, lights some scented candles, and luxuriates in a bubble bath or lays back in bed with a favorite toy. And there she escapes into an erotic fantasy, becomes other people, slips into breathless moments and exotic roles. Her hands wander all over her body, teasing her neck, thigh, nipple– like a lover might, tracing circles that spiral ever closer to her sacred center. Finally, when she’s ready and she’s at an especially hot paragraph, she stimulates her clitoris or impales herself tenderly with a dildo. It’s spiritual, vital, powerful. It’s part of the process of falling desperately in love with herself. Hell, she might even have an orgasm!

…Yep. That’s definitely how men and women masturbate, respectively. But I’m such a special snowflake that none of it applies to me.

How I masturbate:

I’m actually much closer to the male stereotype when it comes to fapping, but I suspect that many women are. I can’t relate to its female analog. It seems too damn elaborate, like a lie that tries to cripple your skepticism with irrelevant details. I may need to put in a lot of work to seduce someone else, but myself? If I can’t be my own sure thing, we have a problem.

I think lots of women actually do like porn, and not just “girl porn”. Plenty of us like the really hot, exploitative kind. When I’m in the mood for video, I’ll watch mainstream, gay, or lesbian porn: hot people fuckin’, preferably saying derogatory things here and there.

But usually, I don’t just masturbate like a guy; I masturbate like a fourteen-year-old boy. I browse through pictures of hot naked chicks, my vibrator poised on my clit (or I’m actually jacking off, but we’ll cover that another time), eager eyes darting to the next picture, and the next, and the next. I’m not thinking about aught but the scandalous things I want to do to these women: there’s no grand backstory, no character development, just me-on-them action. In my mind’s eye.

Sometimes I do this for literally hours. Because although I normally pride myself on my will of adamantium, once I start getting off it is really, really tough for me to make myself get back on.

It’s a relief to be able to admit this aberrant behavior now. I spent a long time lying to boyfriends and telling them I thought of nothing, absolutely nothing, or just them when I fapped. We’re all mature enough here to realize that our partners are lying through their teeth if they tell us that, right?

Of course, sometimes I will think about fucking guys, usually things I did with partners in the past, things I wish I’d done with them, or things I intend to do with them.

…Or I fantasize about fucking my friends’ girlfriends. Just kidding. Kinda.

One thing that may be more stereotypically feminine about my system is that I actually do prefer “tasteful(ish) nudes” when it comes to pics. I don’t really need the spread-eagle pussy shot; in fact, occasionally it just looks tacky to me and I move on to something with a little more mystery: a wall to scale, a thicket to penetrate.

Sure, I’ll fap to hot text sometimes: a well-crafted erotic story or a field report from a fellow blogger. Not often, but it certainly happens. I’ll also masturbate casually while watching TV or reading a completely neutral book: it’s like fidgeting, but much better. I honestly do masturbate too much, the more I think about it. But really, every single other guy from my planet seems to have the exact same problem, right?

When I started second grade one of our first assignments was to draw pictures of our families. I drew my parents and sisters and hamsters and even my goldfish, but I forgot to draw my brother. Maybe I “forgot” to draw him. I don’t think it was intentional, but he’d been born a year and a half before, usurping my title of “baby”, so it’s possible that I just tacitly edited him out of my picture because I secretly hated him, not even admitting it to myself. In fact, that’s probably exactly what happened.

My parents encountered my artwork at Parents Night, and my dad wrote me a little note that said “Please remember that we love your brother and do consider him part of the family, even if he isn’t as important as the hamsters.”

Whoopsies.

Likewise, I feel like kind of a jerk not having written yet about my most trusty and loyal implement of orgasm. He is the unsung hero of my toybox, and even though he isn’t quite as important as the hamsters (I just made it too weird, didn’t I?) I still adore him and owe him about five billion orgasms that I know I can never repay.

Rabbit-style, or dual action, vibrators are a cliché for a reason. They’re really, really good at doing a really, really good thing: namely, providing clitoral stimulation and penetration at the same time without any outside assistance. They’re an amazing way to masturbate if you go in for that kind of thing.

The Impulse Jack Rabbit is the only one of its caste that I’ve tried, but I think it’s more or less representative of the genre. You’ve got a dildo with an intriguing bulb of rotating beads mid-shaft. The dildo itself also rotates independently of that. And of course there’s the adorable little animal-encased bullet vibrator that stimulates your clitoris delicately (but not weakly) with its ears. Similar vibrators have hummingbirds, elephants, butterflies, dolphins, or more abstract clit buddies, but the idea remains the same as the standard rabbit. The rabbit works well because the flickering ears are almost like two tiny and talented tongues. Rabbits are also cute, and fuck a lot.

The design is meant to be ultimately non-threatening. Although the slightly more badass Impulse Jack is all chrome and red where its cousins are often pink, white, or lavender, it’s still decidedly cute. It mimics the shape of a cock while doggedly resembling one as little as possible. The dildo even has a little smiley face where the frenulum would be. See? Not a scary penis. A happy penis! The animals evoke a simpler time when we all just humped stuffed animals, I guess? I’m not really sure, but this is an approachable sex toy.

But it’s also, as I said, awesome. The first time I fucked myself with it I knew my world would never be quite the same. There was so much going on! In my pussy! Things were happening texturally, vibrationally, rotationally… it was marvelous. The variations were unreal: 6 rotation speeds, 7 vibration routines utilizing three different ear-flickering speeds, the carousel rows of beads whirling inside the spinning phallus. Bliss. We fucked and fucked and fucked like, well… you know. Bunnies. And then, just like that, the honeymoon was over.

One of the very early problems that emerged was the fact that this thing burned through batteries. The clit vibration and shaft rotation functions are controlled by different buttons, and the latter was a huge drain. Like, a four AAs in ten minutes kind of drain. I understood. Relationships are give-and-take, after all. But then, after a couple months, the rotation gave up the ghost completely: there was no more shaft movement whatsoever. It was a sad, sad day. Apparently this is a common issue with this and other rabbit-style vibes of similar design. The same thing has happened to several other chicks I know, some of them not even as insatiable as I.

That said, my jack rabbit is still my go-to toy. I use it so often I should probably be embarrassed. And the orgasms are still amazing. I’m actually not big on insertion masturbation, although I absolutely love penetration as an institution. Clit play is just easier. I tend to start masturbating before I’m turned on, just because it sounds like a good idea (dopamine? Don’t mind if I do!). Can I be bothered with lubing up? Nope. Do I necessarily want to do lots of cleanup afterward? Nope. Generally, day-to-day, I just go for the clit. And for what I like, I’ve never found any clit stimulation that compares to that little bullet in its rabbit-shaped sleeve attached to its smiling, now-inanimate dildo (which still feels good, obviously, but no longer life-changing). I actually tried buying a stand-alone toy that’s just a bullet in a sleeve, but the ears weren’t quite right: too skinny and floppy and insubstantial. Impulse Jack Rabbit, it’s still you.

My jack rabbit is getting older and even feebler. His vibration is less trustworthy as time goes on, and battery efficiency– even without the energy-draining spinner–  is laughable (probably a combination of sex toy entropy and the fact that rechargeable batteries are an imperfect system that may always work best in theory). I know it’s only a matter of time before even his trusty rabbit ears fall silent. I think I’ll end up getting the rechargeable version to replace him, and then his shaft rotation will die, and I will still love him long and well and often anyway. That’s just the circle of life.

A while ago my friend Penelope Svelterwald jokingly asked me to have a threesome with her and her husband Max for his birthday. I believe my response was something dorky like “Well, now! I had a feeling today was going to be my lucky day! Har har har.” and we all laughed and went on with our lives.

Obviously, the threesome did not happen (still waiting for that first FMF to come my way). Penelope and I did end up fucking a couple months later, and that’s an interesting story that I should tell you about sometime, but it was largely unrelated.

The thing is, she was joking (or half joking, or mostly joking) about the birthday threesome, but that doesn’t make it a crazy concept. Another female friend of mine was a birthday present for my friend Crispin Hijanx from his girlfriend in a similar-though-far-less-theoretical manner. Crispin had mentioned that he’d been in threesomes before but had never been “the focus” (aside: I’m not sure what happened in these past experiences that made him specifically feel that he wasn’t– or even had to be– “the focus”, but I kind of prefer a three-person sex=three-person focus paradigm. I’m pretty sure the only way one out of the three people involved can get lost in the shuffle is for things to transfigure irretrievably into a twosome. So I’ll admit I’m confused by this part of the story, but I guess we’ll never know. Unless the subject comes up again and I ask.) and his chick sweetly secreted him off to a hotel rendezvous with a mutual friend who also happens to be a fetching redhead. And a good time was had by all.

Now, I’m not sure if people have always been doing this and I’m just now catching up or if it’s a fad/zeitgeist/what the hip kids are doing, but more and more I’m hearing about people-as-gifts scenarios. And I want to go on record as saying that the more I think about it the more it actually sounds really hot.

I’m being a bad feminist here. I get that. Women are people. People aren’t toys. And, thankfully, you can’t strictly speaking give a person as a present this side of 1865. These things are certain. But who’s to say people can’t play toys recreationally? Because I’m a woman and a person and I kinda wanna. With the right people, naturally (obviously I’m not volunteering to fuck anyone and everyone with a birthday and a dream.)

There haven’t been many moments in my life when I’ve gotten to feel like a treat. And by that I mean I can’t really think of one ever. I’ve felt like prey, a possession, a playmate, and a respected partner– a couple of these I even appreciate. I think, though, that it would be neat to occasionally feel like someone was giddy enough to touch me– even if it was only just once–that I actually rated up there with other awesome and highly anticipated birthday presents like PS3 games and robot kits. I’d like to feel like I’m the dessert someone is looking forward to, sitting glistening and toothsome at the end of a long and glorious meal. I want to be the fucking mochi ice cream for once, instead of just a bowl of miso soup or those carrot shavings on the salad. It’s exciting to be exciting!

Yes, I realize that all I’m accomplishing here is saying I’d like an ego boost. But there’s more to it. The birthday threesome could be giddy and gleeful, full of enthusiasm, and extra fun because at its essence it’s a celebration and a gesture of friendship and lust and adventure all at the same time. This is all assuming that no one gets buyer’s remorse or starts having rampant attacks of jealousy or goes into sugar shock, or whatever. But I’m arguing on potential, understand.

I’m not sure I’d want a threesome as a present myself, though, because I’d never be entirely free from the specter of worrying that one or both of the other parties would never have fucked me without factoring in the “well, it’s her birthday… might as well throw her a bone” card. It turns out that catalysts for self-loathing paranoia probably don’t make the most thoughtful gifts, after all. But a birthday threesome where I’m not “the focus”? Wrap me up, bitches!

I love going to parties with someone I’m fucking because the entire evening is foreplay: rubbing up against each other like animals in heat, teasing each other surreptitiously (more or less) while laughing with friends. It just heightens everything a little, makes it that much more fun. The best part of it all might be leaving at the precise point where we’ve had tons of fun, are both horny as hell, and have just enough energy left for spectacular sex when we get home. It makes it seem like even though the party’s ending, it’s kind of just beginning.

Laramy and I had driven to the New Year’s Eve party separately, so we each took our cars and met back at his pad afterward. The drive was what such drives always are: like in Jurassic Park when everyone’s eyes fixate on the rippling water in that little plastic cup as the T-Rex approaches. Knowing what’s about to happen but having to wait is the best possible way to heighten tension both in movies and in pants.

I like it when Laramy breathes “wanna fuck?” in my ear. It’s not dirty talk. It could be, I suppose, but it isn’t. It’s not waggish or jaded either. It’s just a straightforward question, spoken softly but holding within it something sonorous, clamoring. Oh yes. I really, really wanna fuck.

“Did you bring your toy?” he asked. He’d wanted to get me a sex toy for Christmas and I specifically asked for something that seemed suited for use with a partner. Of course I’d used it on my own, just to make sure it was… um… safe. Yeah, safe.

The Fukuoku 9000 is the best compact vibrator I’ve tried so far. Like eggs and bullets, it makes it easy to incorporate clitoral stimulation into partner sex, but I think that the finger-hugging design of the Fukuoku makes it particularly clever. I find it rather easy to drop things when I’m distracted by a violent orgasm, so slipping this on my finger instead just makes sense. It has only one vibration setting, which is moderate but actually a very good level for me. If your clit can pick up a dramatic difference between the three included textured sleeves then you’re a terribly delicate princess who must be protected from peas at all costs (although I do have a nominal favorite, and it’s the one with horizontal ridges). It comes with a little carrying case that amusingly looks like it’s meant to slide onto a belt. I can’t imagine taking advantage of that last feature, but I certainly want to meet someone walking around with this attached to his or her belt, for both comedic and personal reasons.

…And of course I’d brought it! I quickly redeemed it from my bag, set it on the bed for later use, and took off some clothes. His mouth found my nipples almost as soon as they found air. Then I dropped to my knees. It’s not that I absolutely have to put a penis in my mouth before putting it anywhere else. It isn’t policy or anything. But it’s very fun to do and generally seems like a good way to start things off. Laramy’s belt is ridiculous, frustrating. I’m used to belts that fasten in the front and come off easily. His doubles halfway around his torso, releases with a mighty velcro roar, and can allegedly be used to repel down cliffs or some shit. But finally, the pants were off and his cock was in my mouth. Somehow sliding it down my throat (though I haven’t been able to deepthroat him yet) is both soothing and exciting at the same time, like fingering a cabochon while on a roller coaster. I wasn’t sucking, flickering, lapping at his pretty penis for long when his voice, husky with arousal, stopped me. “I want to fuck you.”

This is when we always seem to get oddly polite. “How do you want to do it?” I ask. “Well how do you want to?” he echoes. Or vice versa. And then there’s this little awkward pause, like neither of us wants to be the bossy one. We tend to do the same thing picking restaurants. Next time we have sex maybe I’ll just push him around into position and have my way with him. But this time I remembered my Fukuoku, and realized that rear entry was a natural choice. “Wanna do doggy?”

The thing you have to realize about Laramy and I is that we pretty much always want to do doggy. That’s not to say that we don’t have fun with other positions, but I think doggy style is the mutual favorite. Although I’m cuckoo for clitoris, there’s nothing in the world like the feeling of a penis catching my G-spot (which exists) just right as it pounds into me. Laramy swears that the angle of doggy style just hits every spot perfectly for him and that it feels excruciatingly good.

We fucked that way for a little while and I came several times, which made me forget that there ever was such a thing as the Fukuoku 9000. Fortunately, Laramy had the presence of mind to remind me. Now, I’ve known for years that G-spot+clitoris=fuuuuuuuuuuuuck, but it honestly never gets old. The Fukuoku, which can get me off on its own in about 15 seconds flat in the privacy of my bedroom, while watching reruns of Oz, suddenly made the actual hot sex I was having almost completely unmanageable. My mighty pelvic muscles tend to force Laramy out of me during an intense vaginal orgasm if I’m not really paying attention. I think I ejected him three times within the first few minutes. I was roiling, collapsing, caterwauling. I had to take periodic breaks from the Fukuoku while we fucked to keep my brain from shutting down altogether.

Cooler still, he could feel the vibrations. And from what I understand, my pussy feels even better when it vibrates. Imagine!

I was sort of slumped over with my eyes rolled back into my head after my kegel muscles had yet again shoved his cock out. He didn’t slam it back into me this time. “I want to fuck your ass,” he told me. It seemed like a very good idea.

It was only our second time doing anal. I’ve just recently started enjoying it. For a long time I’ve liked the idea and I’ve definitely appreciated anal orgasms, but trying anal intercourse without lube is probably not the best possible introduction, and that’s the only way I’d ever tried it before Laramy. With-lube ass fucking is a revelation. We lay on our sides (which seems so far to be the most comfortable way of fitting a penis in my ass) and his finger opened me gently. “You’re so smooth and tight,” he said, his voice a little rough. His breath was hot on my neck. This is the closest Laramy actually comes to dirty talk, and it boosted me halfway into orgasm. Then he eased his lubed cock inside.

“Yes. Yes. YesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesYES!” I just wanted to make sure my point was made. It seemed about five times better than the first time. I suddenly wasn’t concerned about pain…there was no pain; there was just intensity and delirious sweetness. I wanted him harder; I wanted him deeper. I forgot my toy again. Once again, Laramy didn’t. I think he really just wanted to know what my ass feels like when it vibrates. Turns out, kind of awesome.

I consider it a sign of my burgeoning adulthood that I now consider the new year to begin in January as opposed to late August, as I did for several years after graduating from University, even. It’s just now feeling natural to me to make New Year’s resolutions rather than new school year’s resolutions.

So I guess I’m finally a grown-up (yay?)! And as such, my resolutions should be very, very adult. That just follows! Anyway, I’m me… it’s always going to come back to sex.

So here they are, my 2010 New Year’s Sexual Resolutions:

1. Flirt with strangers. Over the holidays, my aunt was talking about her personal philosophy and said, “My friends always want to know why I have such good luck with men, and I tell them, ‘I just smile!’ That’s all I do. I smile at a man, and he comes up and talks to me.” Simplicity itself! Of course, she’s five foot naught, blonde, has the skinniest legs I’ve ever seen on a human, and eyes so luminous they could power Nebraska, but I’m sure that all her romantic success is really just due to the fact that she puts on a friendly expression. Nevertheless, I’m going to try it. I smile a lot generally, but not at people. I realize I’ll have to talk to them as well, but maybe I’ll hone that next year.
2. Start initiating sex. Not with strangers. Maybe just with my boyfriend, and it doesn’t have to be all the time. Just ever.
3. Allow myself to admit when I’m attracted to someone. Even just to myself. Hopefully, eventually, to the someone.
4. Fulfill at least three [3] new fantasies. I’d like to try a FMF threesome, try pegging and/or getting a blowjob, try packing in public, play around with dominance. Maybe explore sex with women more. Actually, I should do all of these things immediately! But as a goal, at least three this year.
5. Perform in my first drag show. There is something so sexy about drag kings. I want that something to be about me, too.
6. Try out at least five [5] new sex toys. Use at least three [3] sex toys with a partner. And tell you wonderful people all the gory details!
7. Become more comfortable wearing “sexy” stuff in front of sex partners. I hate feeling like I’m trying to be sexy, and so I’ve gotten into the habit of trying not to wear my cutest underwear, etc. in front of someone I’m fucking. It’s to avoid feeling like I’m parading around and demanding “look at me”, but at the same time, it’s a silly prohibition. If you have matching bra/knickers sets, you shouldn’t only wear them when you’re sure no one will see them.

Like a wise person should’ve once told me, the best resolutions are the kind you’re going to enjoy the hell out of keeping. Happy New Year, all!