quizzical pussy

People come up to me all the time and say, “Quizzical Pussy, I was so entirely sorry to learn of the demise of your Jack Rabbit.”

At this point I always give my little funereal grimace/smile that I practiced when all my grandparents were dying off; I nod gravely. “Thank you for being here. It means so much to the family.”

But the conversation doesn’t end there. How could it? The next question is only natural, and it comes as surely as dry-humping appears at your first unsupervised high school party: “So, if you don’t mind my asking, Q.P., what are you doing for orgasms these days?”

It’s an excellent question. It deserves a good answer, and thorough. Of course sometimes I get orgasms from my boyfriend, Laramy. You know how solo orgasms can be every bit as satisfying and powerful as those you experience with an ultra-hot, highly-skilled partner? Yeah, me neither.

If I could work out a way to do this feasibly, I’d probably want 97% (with a 3% margin of error) of my orgasms to be partner orgasms. But guess what? That isn’t likely to happen, ever, given any logistics at all and my cartoonish desire for more and ever more orgasms. So masturbation is still eating up huge swaths of my sex life.

I love jacking off. It’s one of the coolest feelings ever, but putting something (like, say, a Feeldoe!) in my vagina is a big masturbation commitment for me. If the person I’m fucking doesn’t put something inside me I feel like I’m going to go insane (not in anything approaching a good way). This sort of treatment elicits a whimper that clearly says, “There are no fingers, toys, nor penises inside me right now! Heavens, why not? And did your mother know you were diabolically evil while she was carrying you in her womb or did she come to find out later? Also, still nothing in my pussy!? Hate you. Hate. You.” … I mean, all that’s in the subtext of the whimper. But on my own I can’t be arsed to penetrate myself. Clit work is clean and powerful and entirely satisfying when I’m fucking me, and (let’s face it) not really all that turned on in the first place, compared to when there’s real lust and attraction and all that.

I’m not sure if it’s normal, pathological or quirky that sex with someone is a related-but-entirely-different animal from sex with myself. I’m guessing it’s fairly common.

Anyway, for my purposes, jacking off with my Feeldoe isn’t going to replace my rabbit (whose shaft was barely ever used–especially after all the fancy rotation functioning died, but whose little bunny ears gave me more orgasms than I can possibly even try to begin to count) as my sexual staple. And clearly my Hitachi Magic Wand was not going to step up from its glamorous life of pummeling knots in my shoulders to meet the challenge. No, my new mighty mighty foot soldier of love isn’t even from the glamorous side of the I’m-a-personal-massager-not-a-vibrator-dammit tracks. Indeed, these days I’m getting most of my orgasms from the humble Wahl 7-in-1 massager.

I rode horses when I was younger, so for a long time Wahl was synonymous with the roaching of manes and the clipping of bridle paths. Much like Hitachi makes everything from automatic teller machines to elevators to sex toys, Wahl makes animal clippers, soldering irons, and… fucking magic, baby.

I’ve had my Wahl 7-in-1 (also known as the 2-Speed All-Body Massager) for years. It isn’t flashy, it isn’t sexy, it definitely wasn’t my first choice when I had those amazing flickering jack rabbit ears at my disposal, but it is solid and reliable and profoundly good at what it does.

Looking at the utilitarian, clunky, blow-dryer/glue-gun-esque form of the 7-in-1, I defy you to muster up an ounce of surprise when you learn that the design hasn’t changed since the nineteen-smumblies. It’s heavy for its size, made of hard gray plastic, and comes with little rubber-like attachments that slip over the peg at its muzzle. You use a little trigger at the handle to turn the thing on and adjust the speed from ooooooooh buzzy to aaaaaaahehehe jackhammer! and back again. It’s whisper-quiet for the power it’s packing.

It comes with seven exciting(!) attachments. I don’t really like them all, but they end up covering a lot of bases and I could certainly see how someone might have entirely different favorites than I do…

General Body kind of looks like a megaphone or the bell of a brass instrument. I have never figured out how this attachment is a good idea. In full disclosure, I think this attachment is floating around in my closet because I accidentally-on-subconscious-purpose lost it, so maybe it never got a fair shake. Still, I tried it several times and blah.

Deep Muscle looks like a pierced nipple with a barbell and two concentric nipple ring-shields. That’s the sexiest thing you’ll hear about this attachment all day, I bet. Or at least I never really use it, because I find it insipid.

Spot Application is kind of just this huge nipple thing, and it’s definitely my go-to attachment. I cannot use this on high, but it’s glorious on low. If I had to pick just one attachment and throw all the others into a volcano (or my closet), I’d be surly about it but there would be no question. Spot App, it was always you.

Scalp has lots of roundish-but-still-pretty-pointy teeth arranged in three circles on a big dish. It has an “Oh god I’m not putting that on my genitals” look to it. Of course for you people, I tried it. It’s quite lovely on one’s scalp (as you might hope), but really much nicer on my pussy than I thought it would be. Like lots of little fingers with a light, tickling touch. Don’t press hard, obviously, unless you have a special interest in lots of little fingers with an ouchy, stabby touch.

Facial…Hehe. Facial. This attachment looks more or less like a satellite dish. It feels roughly awesome, and mellows/spreads out the vibrations. I have it gently cup my whole pussy, one edge hovering over my clit and the other poised at my perineum. On the highest setting, this is just shy of “way too intense”, and it feels amazing. The Wahl’s high setting actually feels like it pummels you a bit rather than just vibrating politely, so if you follow my facial attachment method, there are some funny labia-slapping noises that you will not regret if you have any sense of humor (and/or are getting off like mad). You’ll also feel an interesting breeze, which is all part of the “Wahl facial” experience for me.

Knuckle-Joint looks like a rounded roof off a tiny toy house. This one is pretty good for applying direct pressure to the clit: you can use the rounded edge or corner to maximize intensity or a flat plane for a more dissipated effect.

Muscle Kneading is a deeply ribbed rectangular attachment. This one is a little better at actual massaging than getting me off. If this got misplaced somewhere in the depths of my closet I probably wouldn’t notice.

…If you have a super-sensitive clitoris, both high and low settings could be too intense for you, especially if you’re using an attachment that provides direct stimulation. But some of these attachments do diffuse the vibrations a little, which affords Wahl wider appeal than, for instance, the Hitachi Magic Wand enjoys. That is to say, I like the Wahl better and I suspect that many woman might feel the same way.

Did I mention that the Wahl is a plug-in, so you’re not burning through batteries? The cord is under 9 feet long by my measuring tape, so you don’t have crazy range to play with, but it’s serviceable. Also, extension cords exist.

Add to all that the Wahl 7-in-1′s durability and versatility, and the fact that you can get one for under $15 if you know where to look*, and you’ve got an absolute gem of an orgasm-giving machine. Oh, and I hear people use it for muscles or something too.

*It’s good to patronize sex-positive companies that promote sex education and all that, but most sex shops that don’t overcharge for most things still overcharge for this particular product. I have no idea why.

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I’ve been in a mood lately. It’s hard to explain. Maybe if you have a chronic illness it’ll resonate. Maybe it’ll resonate anyway. Sometimes your body just says, “fuck you” for a few days, a few weeks, maybe months at a time. Every string of every muscle, each thicket of cartilage thrums with pain and hums with an unwholesome exhaustion. This isn’t the tiredness that comes after a toe-curling orgasm, or that bludgeons you after a rough workout, or even a battle of a day. It’s a crackling defiance against life itself. No part of your body wants to move the slightest bit, but deep within the pain lies a restlessness. You get no respite from this. A revitalizing sleep feels like the promise of heaven, and you’ve realized you’re nothing but worm food.

It feels sometimes like the anger and frustration and anxiety– hell, even the self-loathing– aren’t reactions to what’s happening physically, but actually originate inside this pulsing, livid, struggle of the flesh.

And that’s been my emotional state for the past couple weeks: pain/anger, tension/frustration, constriction/anxiety, exhaustion/self-hatred, they come in these binaries: they stay, they press, they fill me. And somehow I can’t force the emotional ills out of me any better than I can will away the physical issues. They’re wrapped up in each other, not always, but inevitably in the worst times.

So I’m feeling sick, I’m feeling down. Obviously, that makes me feel like a sex goddess. Yeah… not so much. Clearly I still want to fuck (I’m me, aren’t I?) but I feel about as sexy as a windshield wiper, which makes the self-loathing worse, which makes me feel even less sexy, which… you get the point. Of course, getting sucked into cycles like that is probably the worst choice I could make at this point. I need to focus on staying positive, dammit. SO!

This is the part of today’s entry where I stop bitching about my maladies and malaise and make a random, abbreviated list of some things that I find Super Sexy™. Let’s begin!

I love the whole world…

1. You know what’s sexy? Getting wet with someone: swimming, shower, rainstorm, ooh hot tub! As long as it’s not uncomfortably cold I’m into it.
2. Girls in boys’ underwear. Yum.
3. When someone gets wicked excited and geeks out about sex toys, that’s sexy.
4. Playful little nips in the middle of long, deep kisses.
5. Hidden, surprising tattoos are sexy as long as they aren’t the embarrassing, ill-advised sort. Okay, good visible ones are hot too.
6. It’s Super Sexy™ when someone has better MTG decks than I do.
7. When a guy is really getting into a blowjob and starts thrusting without really realizing it, I am overcome with the sexiness.
8. Adonis belts (a.k.a. “hip thingies” or “Apollo’s belts”) on guys and butch/gender queer girls. Likewise nice lats.
9. Play wrassling.
10. Freckles on a girl’s shoulders. And nose.
11. A twisted imagination. Not mean twisted. Nice twisted.
12. Watching two people kiss while one of them looks straight at me makes me swoon a little. You know, as long as it’s not in a creepy/cheaty way, obviously.
13. Infectious enthusiasm tends to make me wet. Even if it’s for something I’m not really all that into.
14. A good singing voice.
15. Knee socks, preferably striped, on cute girls.
16. Feeling an erection through a nicely fitting pair of jeans feels like… I dunno, like your character in NetHack just ascended. It feels awesome.
17. Doing something to a sex partner’s body that s/he never knew s/he liked before…getting that “Whoa! Do that again!” face flashed at you… that is fucking marvelous.
18. Large vocabularies are, um, you know, good.
19. Drag kings!
20. People with sex drives that match (or, hell, exceed) mine are bona fide Super Sexy™. Call me.

Okay. That actually sort of cheered me up. Boomdeyada boomdeyada boomdeyada boomdeyada…

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So, realistically, how many sexing-me related injuries can my boyfriend sustain before he refuses to fuck me anymore?

Please say it’s at least in the triple digits. I’m not even sure what I’m doing to cause it, but he usually ends up in pain somehow. Eventually his penis is going to start calling me “the mean lady”.

To be clear, I did not break his penis or anything (this time), but two threatening pops came from his hips while he was thrusting in missionary, and I’m pretty sure that’s bad. At least he let me climb on top and continue. He’s a champ, that one.

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I knew you guys had more crazy confessions! Want proof? Here are some I’ve received in the last week (with one of my own slipped in). I once again have some in reserve, so if yours didn’t post today you’ll definitely see it in the coming weeks.

When my (now husband) and I started dating the idea that he was my first “real boyfriend” made him really uncomfortable- he always figured that I couldn’t know if I really liked him if I didn’t have anything to compare him to. To console him I told him that I had always been so busy I just had a bunch of fuck buddies instead of boyfriends- except that I only had one lover before him (who was 20 years my senior). Amazingly, this made him feel much better. But now, I have to remember that damn made up number, cause every so often he’ll ask a question about my “past”.

A guy who had a crush on me once told me he wanted to fuck me sweetly with my own cane (which I use for, like, walking), and I thought that was kind of a darling and intriguing concept. Too bad I wasn’t attracted to him in the least and his kisses felt roughly like a blobfish looks.

On a scale of one to obvious, one being obvious and obvious being really fucking obvious, how obvious is it that I wrote this one?

I’m newly married. And the sex with my husband is incredibly boring. And I’m terrified that I will never have awesome sex.

I bought an eroscillator – one of the deluxe packages with the powerful motor and all – and it just doesn’t do anything for me. I kind of feel like I’m blaspheming the ultimate Dr. Ruth endorsed toy of wonders every time I use my three year old magic wand instead.

Just so you know, internet anonymity may be the only thing saving you from getting clubbed like a baby seal and having your eroscillator wrested from your toy chest. Not because of any blasphemy or anything, just because I really want one and now I know you’re not using yours.

…

Got a sex secret or three? Let them fly away into the internet and be free! No one will know it was you… unless of course you’re me, apparently. But I’m confident you’re not, so have at it!

International Buy A Sex Toy Day is fast approaching (it’s June 4th!), and I’m contemplating what to buy. I want to make this sex toy purchase count (toward mad orgasms). I’m not above buying cheap-ass sex toys, no, but in honor of the first annual BAST day I want to get something special, something I’m sure I won’t regret. So I’ve narrowed my current wishlist down to five top contenders. And here they are…

1. Sqweel The way oral sex simulators are described always irks me. For instance, the marketing copy for this toy on most sites says: “Luckily, the Sqweel won’t give you any excuses. No tired jaw, no early meeting the next morning, so it’ll keep going as long as you need.” Ooh baby. Nothing makes me horny like thinking about how much people hate to go down on me! Nevertheless, this toy looks like fun, and completely unlike anything else out there. In partnered sex, I tend to prefer oral sex with hard fingering right on my G-spot, so I’m curious as to whether I’ll feel the need for some penetration while using this.
2. We Vibe 2 The We Vibe is made specifically for wearing while fucking, in the sense that it’s supposed to go inside you (and also outside you) while a penis is also inside you. That promises like a million and seven standard units of stimulation for everyone involved! A while back, Laramy and I visited a sex toy shop and the We Vibe 2 was sitting there all coy on a glass shelf, begging to be picked up and fondled. Once we figured out how to turn the damn thing on, the vibration patterns were mesmerizing, and my imagination was captured: I wanted to put it in and fuck him right there on the floor immediately. Unfortunately, it was not that kind of place. Two misgivings: I don’t really know if the added friction against something shiny and silicone (even though it is, as advertised, quite soft) is going to be a problem for my partner’s penis, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep up with the plot of the sequel without first seeing We Vibe 1.
3. Njoy Pure Wand This is the G-spot toy, apparently. I want it both for personal use and for its great potential in the realm of girlfucking. It should come with a t-shirt that says “I will make you squirt”. Or wait, would that be tacky? Oh wait, don’t care.
4. Lelo Ina So my Impulse Jack Rabbit all kinds of died. It’s pretty much a mere shadow of its former, bliss-giving self. We had a good run so I’m not mad…I’m just disappointed. But if the rumors are true, Lelo has taken the winning Rabbit vibe formula and elevated it to high art with the Ina. I feel like that might just help me through my mourning process.
5. Eroscillator As a huge fan of clitoral masturbation, ever since I read Epiphora’s review of this technological marvel I’ve been consumed with desire. I burn, I pine, I perish. For reals. Plus, this is the only vibrator ever recommended by Dr. Ruth Westheimer, and you may recall that BAST day is on her birthday. It’s fate or something, I swear. Of course, the package I want goes for $240.90, so I’m starting to think that fate is cruel. Realistically, I’ll probably start saving up now so I can buy it for BAST day . Still, it’s a beautiful dream.

Honorable Mention: Fleshlight Ice I can’t emphasize enough how dearly I want to fuck a Fleshlight with my Feeldoe. It would feel so deliciously postmodern. And the Fleshlight Ice is the clear favorite for this activity because of the visual treat of seeing every inch of my beautiful cock as it slides in and out. The only problem is that I mostly want it for novelty because I’m not sure it’ll beat jacking off with my Feeldoe one iota sensation-wise.

So there’s my shortlist. Each of my top five occupies a different sex toy niche, which makes the choice both more interesting and harder. As always, your input is welcome.

I hope you consider going online or visiting your local sex shop to buy a sex toy on June 4th, or at least spreading the word about BAST day! Blog it, tweet it, whatever! I think it would be wicked fun if it caught on.

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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.

One of yesterday’s confessions referred to a certain pornographic video clip. The confessor remarked that she was sad she’d lost the clip; she also mentioned that it featured anal golf ball shenanigans and sports puns. Would you believe that a reader took pity on her plight and found the clip?

…Okay, if I told you it was Laramy, then would you believe it? I’m pretty sure it’s the same one. It fits the description (oh yes, I’m going to) to a tee.

If you’re reading, confessor, this is for you. It’s also for the rest of us, because I suspect we all wanted to see this clip. I know I did!

The following link is a VERY NSFW clip of an anal golf ball threesome (it took me a minute to decide what order to put those words in) with all sorts of elements that might offend you. If you think it might be objectionable, don’t click it. NSFW Here it is! NSFW

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When I was dating Aldo Melastophilus we always used to see each other on Tuesday evenings because I could get out of work at a non-obscene time that day and he didn’t have class. At some point he started calling Tuesday the “king of days”, which was pretty endearing, and for some reason it stuck with me. I think that with ConTuesday, the king is back.

Oh, and speaking of ConTuesdays, here are some anonymous confessions fresh from the internet!

My boyfriend went on a really special vacation recently — it was to celebrate his birthday, and he paid my entire way. While there, I made out with a man on the street in front of the place we were renting. My boyfriend was upstairs, very drunk and sick. I feel like a shit; I don’t know why I did it.

I frown on the abuse of women, but the porn I like basically involves women being degraded. Otherwise it’s blah. There was this one porn clip I had once where a dude is stuffing golf balls in one girl’s butt and she has to pop them out into another girls mouth, and the man kept calling them bitches and said “we have to make par on this one”, and it made me cum so hard every time. I lost the clip when my hard drive crashed and I miss it. I’m a girl, by the way.

When I meet a man I’m attracted to I don’t usually fantasize about having sex (penis, meet vagina) with him. I do, however, become obsessed with thoughts of sucking his dick.

I want to get really serious for a minute, bitches. As you might have noticed, I only got three confessions this week. Are we running out of deep, dark secrets or what? I just refuse to believe that. I know you have some really horrible things to tell me. Post them anonymously here. We have to make par on this one.

This may be hard to believe, but I try not to be a jerk about other peoples’ religious beliefs, or their political beliefs, for that matter. Just because I disagree with someone doesn’t make her/him a moron, an idiot, or a worse or less valuable person. In fact, I seek to respect and learn from the opinions of others. I think that in general people want freedom, equality, safety, and to do the right thing to the best of their ability. Because there’s no easy answer to how to best accomplish these things, and because there are many ways to prioritize them, people may have different views, but very rarely do you find someone whose beliefs are malicious.

At least that’s what I want to think. But then people gotta piss me off, and my good intentions suddenly aren’t worth the internet real estate they’re rendered on.

It’s May, which apparently means that lots of weddings are starting to happen. I’m going to two in the next month, in fact. Can you smell the calla lilies, the poised shotguns, the feckless optimism, the… somethings blue? I knew you could.

Anyway, my little brother recently went to a good friend’s wedding and came back with an appalling report. No, the bridesmaids didn’t have (gasp!) butch haircuts. It was way worse than that. The wedding was apparently crazy sexist, so much so that my brother, who is not a feminist crusader in the least, noticed it and was profoundly disturbed.

I’m not talking about the general complaints you might hear about how marriage is an institution perpetrated by the patriarchy, or even how the act of a father “giving away” the bride in marriage is a call back to a business transaction where women were chattel and men held all the chips. What I’m talking about is something that I really didn’t realize existed in mainstream American culture anymore at all: the bride and groom agreed to entirely different things in their vows.

The main reading was the whole “Wives submit to your husbands” thing that I wish would just die already, (Can we just take Ephesians, or actually all the Paul of Tarsus stuff, out of the Bible? That’d be super.) I realize that it’s not my business to decide who gets to call the shots in someone else’s relationship, and that I should not take this personally. Maybe the bride explicitly wanted her vows to agree to being controlled. But the idealist in me finds it upsetting that two (presumably non-kinky) people would set the tone for their marriage with a religious reading about power dynamics. “Love is patient, love is kind” is hackneyed, yes, but at least it’s not appointing a mayor of the marriage right then and there. So maybe it only follows that the stated vows reflected that. I don’t know what they said verbatim, but according to what my brother told me it was probably something roughly like this:

Groom
I, _____, take you, ______, to be my wedded wife. With deepest joy I receive you into my life that together we may be one. As is Christ to His body, the church, so I will be to you a loving and faithful husband. Always will I perform my headship over you even as Christ does over me, knowing that His Lordship is one of the holiest desires for my life. I promise you my deepest love, my fullest devotion, my tenderest care. I promise I will live first unto God rather than others or even you. I promise that I will lead our lives into a life of faith and hope in Christ Jesus. Ever honoring God’s guidance by His spirit through the Word, And so throughout life, no matter what may lie ahead of us, I pledge to you my life as a loving and faithful husband.

Bride
I, _____, take you, ______, to be my wedded husband. With deepest joy I come into my new life with you. As you have pledged to me your life and love, so I too happily give you my life, and in confidence submit myself to your headship as to the Lord. As is the church in her relationship to Christ, so I will be to you. _____, I will live first unto our God and then unto you, loving you, obeying you, caring for you and ever seeking to please you. God has prepared me for you and so I will ever strengthen, help, comfort, and encourage you. Therefore, throughout life, no matter what may be ahead of us, I pledge to you my life as an obedient and faithful wife.

Notice how only one of them has to say “submit” and “obedient”? Also, “performing headship” over someone is not something I’d want to discuss in front of my parents and brand new in-laws and great aunties, if you know what I mean.

I’ve sat through many, many sermons in my life. Some of them opined that Harry Potter is a Satanic text, and some of them patiently explained that the idea of comparing a husband and his wife to Jesus and his church doesn’t explicitly state that one is better than the other, they’re just different, and hell, someone has to be in charge! But why does someone have to be in charge in a relationship? Is it because talking things over and coming to mutually agreeable conclusions wastes valuable time that could be spent praying? I mean, it’s fun to have someone in charge in bed, but I wouldn’t even agree to that permanently.

I suggest that it’s all bullshit; the Jesus/church comparison belies any claim of “separate but equal”. In the Christian faith I was raised in, Jesus is absolutely held up as superior to the church. He’s the paragon of life, for fuck’s sake, and the church is devoted to worshiping him. To say that this comparison doesn’t elevate the man over the woman in a relationship isn’t just wack, it’s wiggity wack. Ladies, if you’re going to give up that much power, at least have a safeword.

P.S. “I do” is not a safe word.

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Many of the women in my acquaintance have remarked to me that they’ve given blowjobs to a lot more guys than they’ve had penis-in-vagina sex with. Some of them insist that their “number” doesn’t include blowjobs, but if it did they’d be dangerously close to the “slut” category.

I’m not in this camp. First of all, I see no problem with a higher-than-average “number”. I love sex, and I figure that anyone who would judge me for having had the amount of sex I’ve had would be someone who I’d either a) not tell (e.g. family members, employers), or b) not care if it bothered (e.g. people I’d rather know sooner than later that I oughtn’t date). As a nerdy chick who’s never been wicked popular in the romantic arena, I actually feel like kind of a stud each time my number goes up (it’s at a whopping, debaucherous eight now, if you care). Secondly, I’ve had vaginal intercourse with six guys and given blowjobs to six guys, although one guy was intercourse without any blowjobs and one was blowjobs without any intercourse… still, it evens out. Thirdly, though, I think that oral sex is sex. To me there’s no real ideological distinction, although there sure as hell are other distinctions. But I just can’t see my way to “not counting” oral sex if we’re counting sex partners. Am I just going to not count people I had awesome orgasms with? Am I going to not count women because neither of us has a (real, flesh) penis? Horsefeathers.

But that’s not to say that blowjobs are in every way equivalent to vaginal intercourse. That’s not true at all. I enjoy giving blowjobs, yes, but not in the same way that I love have a cock plunge into my eager pussy. While both can give me orgasms (giving head can be that much of a turn on, yes), the latter has a much more direct and reliable mechanism with which to do so. I’m more finicky about the former. If I don’t particularly like you, I might consider using you for sex but putting your dick in my mouth won’t appeal to me at all. So (perhaps predictably) when a relationship is going downhill, I tend to avoid giving oral sex but still want to fuck. Yeah, I’m pretty much a selfish jerk that way.

Oral sex is very intimate and personal, and that’s part of why it’s so sexy. It’s completely devoting your attention to someone else’s pleasure. That intensity turns me on like crazy. Which, paradoxically, makes me want to fuck. So, while it’s hot to suck cock until hot semen gushes down my throat and all, at times there’s a (big) part of me that feels like a little kid whose ice cream fell off the cone and onto the cruel, hard ground. To wit, it feels like a waste of a perfectly good erection that could have been pleasuring me. Again, yeah. Selfish.

So the best of both worlds is certainly to have a blowjob segue into intercourse: in hooker speak, the ever popular half-and-half.

But today I heard something rather disturbing. My friend Miriam Spiralti has great sex with her fiancé, but they aren’t entirely compatible in terms of drive. As she told me a few years ago, “When we were seeing each other once a week, we fucked once or twice every day… for two days straight. Now that we live together I want exactly that amount per week, and he wants exactly that frequency.” He especially wants oral sex daily, and she likes giving it, but it’s getting to feel like an obligation. And here’s the kicker… it “doesn’t count” if it transitions into sex. It also “doesn’t count” if it’s a short session, and he tries to make the spectacular “I’m getting my cock sucked” feelings last as long as possible. So Miriam ends up feeling burned out on marathon blowjobs and feels more and more reluctant to give them, and her man feels frustrated and unfulfilled. Not a great situation.

I blame this “it doesn’t count” mentality. What’s with all these rules about what counts when it comes to blowjobs? They don’t count as sex, it doesn’t count if they’re not done to completion, etc. I mean, there are no stone tablets I’m aware of that give us the Articles of Head, but to my mind, if I’m sucking your cock you’re pretty much getting a blowjob, and I should probably list you as a sexual partner. Just saying.

Anyway, I jokingly suggested that Miriam tell her fiancé he gets 30 minutes of oral sex a week, and can break it into six 5-minute blowjobs, three 10-minute blowjobs, or one half-hour session…his choice. “That’s actually a really good idea!” said she. If she actually implements this plan I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a hit out on me in the near future, so this blog might get very assassin-run-in heavy all of a sudden.