quizzical pussy

Have you ever played “I’ve Never…”? If not, you have to take a drink now because that’s how the game works.

And oh, here are some anonymous internet confessions that may be related…

I’m a 25-year-old male virgin, and I’ve seriously considered hiring a prostitute to change that. The strange thing is that I know that it would not be particularly difficult for me to put myself out there and get laid the way everyone else does, but hiring a professional is oddly appealing to me. Perhaps because there is much less risk of rejection? I think it’s more complicated than that, but I may be rationalizing. The decision has been a source of some anxiety for me lately.

I’ve never received oral sex. I’ve been in one relationship and my gf just was never into the idea of it enough to give it a try. She’s my ex now and after we split, I started testosterone to make a gender transition. I love what testosterone has done for my genitals. They feel and act like my brain says they’re supposed to. It makes me want oral more than ever. But I don’t know how to explain my anatomy and I worry that I’ll never get someone to go down on me b/c what I’ve got is unusual. I think it’s quite sexy myself, but I’m aware there’s a lot of myth and prejudice floating around about trans bodies, and orientation and kinkiness (or lack thereof) don’t seem to make a difference in the level of transphobic BS. Worse than that, I’m afraid that getting a blowjob is somehow going to make me dissatisfied with my cock, either because my size will compromise the experience or because my partner says or does something interpetable as dislike or pity. I don’t want pity. I want someone who’s as into my cock as I am. I don’t know how to find that and I sorta think that admitting how good I feel about myself will come off as crass because it’s cliche that men are all about their dicks, right? And no one wants to hear about that. But I really, really, really want a blowjob!

Sounds like you’re proud of your body without being a narcissist, which is sexy. And chicks like me abound, and we love giving blowjobs to sexy guys. Thus, I find it hard to believe this story isn’t going to have a happy ending. Please let me know how your first blowjob goes!

I haven’t had sex in five years and I’ve never dated. I’m almost thirty and I have no idea what I’m doing! I thought this was only supposed to happen to religious fundamentalists.

I frequently lie about my sexual experience (pointedly the lack there of). To myself I count the times I had sex as one, but he didn’t get his dick all the way in before he came so I’m even lying to me about it kind of. The real confession is that I read sex blogs and pretend I have the bloggers sex lives when I’m talking to my friends.

Calling all firsts, lasts, fantasies, lusts, fables, and laments: send me your secrets here.

Modern demons have advanced a bit.

Words are like people. Complex. They each have a history, an evolution. And just like when you sleep with someone you’re also sleeping with everyone that person has ever slept with (hawt), when you say a word you summon up all these wonderful tendrils of ghostly meanings that you might not even realize.

And some of the tendrils just tickle me.

Chastity and celibacy are now used interchangeably to mean “miserable”…er, rather, to mean “the state of not fucking”. In days of yore, though, neither of them meant that. You could actually be either and also get laid. Chastity referred to having no illicit sexual liaisons, so no-frills sex inside marriage for purposes of procreation was perfectly chaste. Celibacy simply meant “the state of not marrying”. Celibate clergy would have loads of bastard babies back in yore.

The etymological roots of incubus and succubus come from the Latin for “to lie upon” and “to lie under”, respectively. This suggests that even demons observe the missionary position. How bland.

There’s no point to this other than the fact that I find it terribly interesting.

(image source)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I endured ever-escalating physical and emotional abuse from Reginald Sleeth for over four years. I remember being literally afraid to move sometimes, whether he was watching me or not. I was hobbled by the knowledge that I could do something unexpectedly wrong at any time, and earn a harsh and ugly punishment. It wasn’t like walking on eggshells; it was like the air itself purred with the promise of invisible razor wire, hidden anywhere and everywhere.

I wanted to fade away, be smaller, tiny, unnoticeable. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to somehow become insignificant and non-threatening enough that he wouldn’t need to hurt me anymore. This was living in a kind of poverty of self. Nothing about me seemed to have substance in those years. Everything was transient and flimsy as his ever-changing moods.

When I finally left him, do you think it was because I’d dug down deep and found strength from a vital, indomitable place? Do you think I finally howled “ENOUGH!” to the universe, myself, and that floppy-haired sadist, showed him my back, and slammed the door on the terror that consumed me for so much of my youth? I wish. Want to know why I finally left him? Want to know what the real final straw was? I wasn’t getting enough sex.

Kind of.

I love sex. My sex drive is nigh maniacal. It was the one part of me that I couldn’t shut off, even when everything else was floating. Reginald, on the other hand, didn’t seem too interested in it beyond his ability to control me with it, which was considerable. He was my first everything: my first kiss, my first non-masturbatory orgasm, my first attempt at anal. Until I was well into my twenties, he meant sex to me, and that’s a powerful thing to a horndog like me.

Abusive relationships often function like an addiction, really. The euphoria of the love fable is followed by the punishment phase, which is like a withdrawal or a crash, like coming down off a high. It’s an ugly cycle that hooks you with the highs then slams you against the bottom. While you stay in your broken relationship, you try to get back to the high of feeling loved. I was a fragile, naive and sensitive teenage girl with the hormones of a teenage boy when I met Reginald, and to me the euphoric crest of our wave was always, from the very beginning, wrapped up in sex.

Before we had penis-in-vagina intercourse, he was an enthusiastic partner and lots of orgasms were had. But when we finally “did it”, it seemed like something shifted. I don’t know if he resented me for deflowering him or if by then he’d realized my will was broken down enough that he could control me in non-sexual ways, but little by little the sex dried up.

That’s when I started feeling like my sex drive was disgusting. That I, as a sexual being, was disgusting. Reginald told me as much, and in those days I believed what he told me. When I masturbated he accused me of “raping [my]self” and threw tantrums. I was base, mammalian, and greedy, and I was no longer worth touching.

The guilt was overpowering. I still shyly asked him for sex, but never pressured him into it. I didn’t want him to do something he didn’t want to. But even just wanting sex, I was suddenly repugnant. I even tried going on Prozac, chiefly to dampen my libido, but also because I sort of wanted to die and thought maybe I should do something about that besides, well, dying. But eventually I woke up one day and realized my high was gone. That was how I started gathering the strength to get away.

Despite therapy and personal reflection and triumph of the human spirit and being a basically happy and functional person (I like to think) I still have a few hangups. Maybe, possibly more than a few. I’ve mentioned before that I can’t flirt, don’t ask for things in bed, have trouble admitting that I’m attracted to someone, and am basically a great big chicken. I’m realizing that I’ve never really gotten over the feeling that my sex drive is disgusting and that I, as a sexual being, am disgusting. It’s so deeply internalized I don’t know how to shake it. Maybe I’ll always try to hide my sexual interest from people until they unmistakably initiate. Maybe I’ll always feel like I’m getting away with something when someone appears to be attracted to me. Maybe I’ll never really believe I’m worth touching. Maybe it’ll never be okay to want things.

And lately I’m getting really fucking sick of it.

According to Edgar Watson Howe, “The man who can keep a secret may be wise, but he is not half as wise as the man with no secrets to keep.” I’m not sure if that’s even marginally true, nor how exciting Edgar’s sex life was, but I do know that I love ConTuesday. Here, have some sex confessions!

I wish my girlfriend would fuck someone else a few times. (sounds a bit crass when put that way) We were both virgins when we first decided to share our bodies, but the problem is that she still acts like a virgin despite the couple of years that we’ve been together. It’s impossible to experiment, even dirty talk still embarrasses her, and she has no real sex drive and can’t seem to tell me when she wants sex. Coming from someone with exactly the same amount of experience this may seem presumptuous, but I really think she might change if she stopped thinking of herself in the same virginal light.

I give myself enemas all the time. Sexually. It’s awesome. I have no poop fetish, I don’t get off on the poop part, (in fact I have to fastforward past the “expulsion” scenes in enema porn) I just love the feeling of my ass being completely filled up. I wish I had a bigger enema kit so I could give myself HUGE amounts of water.

I’m in a polyamorous relationship with my wonderful fiance. We each have a couple secondary relationships that are completely above board. He thinks that this is the first time I haven’t cheated in a relationship, but he’s wrong. I’m maintaining a secret affair with a guy he really doesn’t like. My fiance would be stressed out if I told him about it because he doesn’t trust my lover, but it wouldn’t be a dealbreaker and he’d never give me an ultimatum. I could be honest. The thing is, I just love the rush of doing it in secret.

The worst part is, I know the fact I’m lying would devastate him.

Psychologists say that paraphilias often evolve from phobias, which in my case is totally true, in that lately I have been so turned on by pregnancy: the thought of getting pregnant, being pregnant — I’ve even been looking at pregnancy porn! In real life, I only want to actually have maybe two kids, but that doesn’t stop me from masturbating furiously to it.

I use the web site Nookist to keep track of my sex life, just for fun. If you go a certain length of time without updating, they send a message asking you where you’ve been. I always feel like it’s adding insult to injury – I’ve been a long time without sex, and now the internet is mocking me?! Trust me, I know I haven’t had sex in a month. I know that well.

That would be a damn depressing email to arrive in one’s inbox: “Ohai. We’ve noticed you’re not getting any. WHY NOT?”

I’d been dating a guy for about 8 months long distance. I was planning a trip to go to his place for a week over the summer. A few days before I left, my mom sat me down told me all about her bloody (seriously – she said she bled through the mattress), painful, awful virginity story to discourage my from losing my virginity… six months after I already had. I just kind of nodded and thought to myself, “Huh. Guess I’m lucky mine was good, then!” She still thinks I was “innocent” for months longer than I was.

Why don’t you send in a secret of your own?

It’s Tuesday again, and that means more anonymous secrets to share!

A friend of mine recently became engaged to his girlfriend. As I’ve gotten to know her better I’ve learned that she is very into the kink scene and he’s very vanilla. I don’t want to steal my buddy’s girl or anything, but that doesn’t mean I don’t to make her my slutty little secretary so I can spank her for all her mistakes and fuck her across my desk.

I lost my virginity, not to my sweet boyfriend of the time, but to a close friend at a party. Then I lied and told my boyfriend I had broken my hymen masturbating, before losing my “virginity” again. I felt like because I hadn’t actively said I’d date him (he kissed me and then assumed and I felt trapped until the day I ended it) that it was ok to cheat on him. I finally broke up with him after getting an additional boyfriend and girlfriend which he knew nothing about. He doesn’t know until this day I was never faithful.

There’s been a serial rapist attacking women at knifepoint on my campus over the past three weeks. Everyone’s scared. I personally hope he attacks me. I want to kill him in self-defense. I don’t know if I could do it, but I’d like to try to take him down with me.

I have two kids and a good sex life with my hubby. I have never been able to find my clitoris. Books, web sites, drawings, photos…I’m starting to think I don’t have one!! I know where it should be but I can’t find mine and I don’t think I’ve had any sensation from that location. I would die if anyone knew!!

Send me your secrets!

Oh, man. Some people are not happy about the new Candie’s Foundation PSA featuring Bristol Palin.

The Candie’s Foundation, founded in 2001 by Candie’s, a shoe/apparel/fragrance brand, was started to “shape the way young people in America think about teen pregnancy and parenthood.” and “…educate America’s youth about the devastating consequences of teenage pregnancy.” My snarky side can’t help but wonder if this foundation carries an air of overcompensation about it, considering the fact that Candie’s has drawn heat over racy ad campaigns in the past, such as a print ad photograph of Jenny McCarthy sitting on a toilet, and this fragrance ad (see right) that had to be modified to a “tamer” version for certain publications by removing the condoms and butt crack (because, you know, depicting an unsafe sexual situation is much tamer), but remains hypersexual and (to some) disturbing in either iteration.

I don’t disagree with the Candie’s Foundation’s purpose. They state on their website that the “only 100% way to avoid pregnancy is to not have sex. If you do have sex, you need to use protection every time.” And guess what, urban legends about semen-laced bullets notwithstanding, they’re right! Their discourse is abstinence heavy, but stops short of advocating abstinence-only education. I have no problem with promoting abstinence to a point. After all, many teenagers aren’t ready for sex, and it’s perfectly okay to try to encourage them to wait until they are ready. Candie’s Foundation has used spokeshotties like Hayden Panettiere, Beyoncé, Usher, and Hillary Duff, people that their target audience might look up to, as well as famous cautionary tales like Jamie Lynn Spears and Bristol Palin, to drive this point home.

One aspect I dislike about the Candie’s Foundation’s methods is that they promote a “Don’t be a slut! Be a tease!“ message. This is not their only message, but it is very well-represented in their campaigns. They offer t-shirts and tank tops that have “I’m SEXY enough… to keep you waiting.” emblazoned on the front. I don’t think it’s wise, helpful, or empowering to pressure young women to try to be sexy (i.e. an object of someone else’s desire), while telling them that if they actually act on their own sexual desires they’ll be devalued.

The foundation’s new PSA features Bristol Palin, daughter of Sarah Palin and single teenage mother of some kid with a name that’s just about as weird as hers, saying “What if I didn’t come from a famous family? What if I didn’t have all their support? What if I didn’t have all these opportunities? Believe me, it wouldn’t be pretty. Pause before you play.”

I’m assuming that “pause” here means to either stop and obtain birth control or stop and think, inclusive. I don’t interpret it as a strict “no sex until marriage” message, but you can watch it below and come to your own conclusions.

Sometimes I wonder if we awkward-phasers who were unpopular in the dating department early on all have trouble mustering up “romance” from our misanthropic hearts, or if it’s just me.

As a literary genre, I can get behind romance (in the old school sense; I’m not talking harlequin here): high adventure, quests, Camelot, and fucking up bad guys are all pretty awesome in my book. Or Latin-based languages, those are fine. It’s the other kind of romance that trips me up: flowers, and the thin line between grand gestures and restraining orders, and… flowers? I don’t really even know what else people consider romantic. But that part where you’re supposed to declare your emotional attachment and minimize your sexual lust for someone? Obviously that wouldn’t be my strong suit.

When I was sixteen all my friends seemed to be single on Valentine’s Day for once, and we decided to wear black and purple to school to commemorate the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre. I guess it was something to take everyone’s mind off not having a date to focus instead on historical bloodshed. I wore the purple and black with them but I didn’t feel all giddy and “sticking it to the system” like everyone else seemed to. It never occurred to me that I might be doing something different with my day. This is partly because it had never occurred to anyone else to ask me out on date at that point. A big part of being anti-romance is admittedly sour grapes.

A year later I was in the early stages of semi-dating a cute little Mormon boy (semi-dating because I never get the “we’re more than friends” message until there’s kissing, and he wasn’t allowed to do that because smooches make Joseph Smith cry). He hid a heart pin in my locker, then later that day showed up at my after-school cashier job with a bunch of mylar balloons and a huge, puppy-dog grin. I knew it was a very sweet, “romantic” thing to do, but I was so embarrassed I wanted to die. And then puke. And then die again. I had no basis for understanding how to deal with this type of treatment. As a result, I didn’t really like it. Maybe I wouldn’t have liked it anyway. Maybe it just isn’t me.

Ever since that day, even when I try to make a Valentine’s Day or any other sort of romantic gesture it falls flat, mostly because I don’t understand what I’m supposed to accomplish. I don’t know how to be “romantic”. I’m up for all kinds of boning (to me that is romantic) or giving a “thinking of you” present to try to show the people I care about that I’m happy they’re in my life, but the kind of weird frenzied gestures that people expect each other to make? I can try to ape those sometimes, but it never feels right and I’m pretty sure I always suck at it.

Reginald Sleeth used to leave love poems under my windshield wiper while I was at work or while I slept, and after months of this I finally got the picture that he probably wanted that from me. So I wrote some of the worst poetry in history (although his may have actually been worse than mine, to be honest) and obliged, but it felt silly and forced. It was just another way of keeping the peace with him, really, and in that way it was always calculating and pragmatic, never romantic at all.

Part of me is always going to think that the best Valentine’s Day present is scandalous amounts of sexual intercourse. And all the other parts of me will always admire that part of me for being so infuriatingly clever and sensible.

Or: Let’s all have a chuckle at my needlessly intricate self-loathing!

When I first started masturbating with mens rea and intent to get off (rather than my earlier preteen system, which was basically “Wow, neat! This feels cool! I wonder if other people know about this!”) I ran into a slight problem when it came to fantasizing.

I hadn’t discovered the wonders of visual aids yet, so all I really had was my libido and my imagination. I would lie alone in bed in the silent, friendly dark, thinking about sex. I only had a rough idea of what sex was at this point, but I could feel the vague promise of it purring down between my legs. I wanted to pretend it was more than that, though. I wanted to think about what it would be like to share that lust and that dark with someone: another body, a counterpoint breath weaving through mine. But there was this difficulty, you see.

I couldn’t figure out an honest way to fantasize about sex. I could not realistically conceive of anyone actually wanting to have sex with me. No one had ever told me that boys only wanted one thing from me, but if they had I wouldn’t have believed it for a second. I was shy, undesired, awkward, unattractive, uninteresting: being invisible was the best I could hope for. Being admired was something that only happened to other girls. How was I going to pretend I had a willing partner? My suspension of disbelief just wasn’t that good. I’d start composing a story in my head about some attractive guy from school touching me and my brain would jump in, “Wait wait wait. Are you delusional? Every girl he goes out with is stylish and thin and decidedly unhideous. This fantasy is ridiculous!” And pop! I’d lose the budding narrative. I was usually too disgusted with myself to try again.

I wouldn’t even let myself imagine an anonymous guy. “Nope. Not buying it. No one would ever want to touch your boobies.” I had to admit I had a point.

But horniness really is the slutty cougar mom of invention. It wasn’t long before I came up with an ingenious way for “fantasy me” to get sex without overburdening my skepticism and turning all my masturbation sessions into self-harangues about how ugly and worthless I was. I didn’t imagine myself thinner, prettier, or with better social skills. I did way better…I turned to Sci Fi.

I’d pretend myself into a dystopian society where as some strange ritual, everyone in my high school had to have sex with one of our schoolmates as determined by blind lottery. It was kind of like a Battle Royale key party. Each girl went into a cramped little chamber that was furnished with a bed, and there we waited for our surprise sex partner to enter. No one knew what or whom they were getting into until the door opened. Of course, my guy always turned out, through the magical luck of daydreams, to be whichever one I fancied especially at the moment.

Once my crush opened the door and realized it was me his face would fall (my hypercritical brain demanded this). Mortified, I’d immediately apologize for not being someone attractive, but he’d reassure me that it was really okay; he knew it wasn’t my fault, and besides, he’d always thought I was kind of funny. Oh good. Funny. And that’s when the fun could start. Then and only then would my brain allow me to fantasize about having sex. It was like the cheat code for my self-loathing.

I was so sure that no one would ever voluntarily fuck me, which is weird because I later found out that several of the guys I locked in that fictional sex pod with me would’ve had all sorts of sex with me in real life if I’d given the least encouragement. I’m so glad I eventually stopped being a teenager.