ConTuesday is upon us. I’m feeling really chatty today, so I’m going to (perhaps annoyingly) comment on every single confession I’m posting. As someone who cares about my readers and wants to make sweet, sweet love to most of you (not in a creepy way, I swear!), I care what you think. If my personal notes detract from ConTuesday confessions, feel free to comment or send me anonymous feedback on (oh, here’s an idea!) this anonymous form. However, you should know that I can’t possibly be arsed to care what you think about my extensive use of parentheses.

I hate it when I catch my boyfriend checking out other women. When I’m with him and see a guy who catched my eye, I’ve very discreet if I sneak a look, and I’d like him to use the same discretion. It seems stupid, because we both do it, and it’s utterly harmless when I check out another man. I know it’s harmless when he checks out another woman. And why pretend that we’re not doing something we both know that we both do? But I still hate it when I catch him doing it when he’s with me.

I think a major relationship perk of being bi is that I tend to check out chicks with my boyfriends and it’s really fun and bonding. This isn’t advice or anything, just a personal note (see above).

I wish one of my friends would dump his fiance. Mostly because she does shit like get drunk and tell him he’s not good enough for her, but partly because I miss the FWB situation we used to have. I keep thinking about him bending me over the arm of the couch and fucking me until my legs gave out. But mostly, it’s the thing about his fiance being a total bitch. Really.

I’ve been in the position where I’ve felt a friend was making horrible relationship decisions. I’ve also been the one making horrible relationship decisions. While I’ve never had it complicated by mad lust, I imagine that makes it roughly 500 times more frustrating. Why, oh why is it never appropriate to say, “Hey buddy, you’re with an abusive/evil/annoying/incompatible/etc. dead-end. It’s time to go back to the drawing board and also, unrelatedly, bend me over this couch.”?

A few weeks ago I decided to purchase a sex toy (two actually) as a surprise for my wife. I thought she would find it exciting. Was I ever wrong! As for now she is not open to the idea. She asked me a few questions. 1. Are YOU not happy with our sex life? Yes. I am. 2. Do I have, or have I ever had, any problem reaching orgasm? No. You have not. 3. Do I not immensely enjoy our sex? Yes. You do. 4. Then WHY bring home a couple of sex toys?! I was crushed. I also immediately felt stupid for not speaking with her about bringing home a foreign object I intended to place inside her most private of parts. After giving it some consideration, I realized that I had just received an amazing compliment. My wife is very satisfied with our lovemaking. She demonstrated that enjoyment again last night. Mind-blowing to be sure! I haven’t tossed out the toys. Hopefully one day we will be able to use them. If not, I’ll keep on enjoying our great relationship, both in and out of bed!

Sex toys aren’t for everyone. I have a dream where an amazing sex life is, though. Glad you guys found it!

My cum tastes good to me. I’m not sure if it’s the same as not able to smell yourself when you stink, but I like it. The weird thing is I’m a little proud of this.

Dude, own it. Apropos of little, sometimes my sweat smells like chicken soup. FOR THE SOUL. Okay, not for the soul.

Send me your sex confessions!

When you’re disabled you learn to live with limitations. That’s really the definition. No, I can’t drive that far. Sorry, I won’t be able to make it. I can’t keep up unless you slow down. Today I can’t get out of bed…even to shower. Fuck. These are sometimes the brutal facts.

In our culture, it’s seen as a virtue to scoff at personal limitations. We’re supposed to face our fears, defy the odds, and pull up our bootstraps. We look to the limitless, the boundless. We dream big damn dreams. We wait, breath abate, for the singularity.

Where does disability fit into this mindset? Disabled people are viewed in one of a few ways, generally: There’s the disabled person with some hope of a cure, a return to normalcy. There’s the disabled person who maneuvers around her obstacles to do something truly astonishing, like painting photorealistic landscapes with just her eyelashes. Then there’s the dreary, non-transcendent disabled person, whom you pity.

So basically, you can inspire hope or inspire pity. And you’d better have a phenomenal talent or something curable if you want to be in the hope club.

Of course there’s also the disabled person whose disability is less visible to the casual observer, but they don’t get the “disabled” tag at a glance. This last group doesn’t have it easy by a long shot, because it’s harder to get a break. The human attention span tends to gloss over the fact that you need special considerations or extra time. You have to remind people. They might even wonder if you’re not kind of sort of milking the issue. And like it or not, when you’re disabled sometimes it really sucks to have people expect you to function at the level of able-bodied people. Sometimes you might want special treatment because you goddamn need it.

I never thought that much about physical limitations until I got sick five years ago. Before that point, physical limitations meant worrying whether I’d fit into my skinny jeans. Needless to say I took my body and my health for granted. If I felt like dancing all night, we’re dancing! If I wanted to wake up at 5 A.M. to run a few miles, that’s what happened. I was the boss, and my body more or less did my bidding.

But losing control over your very motions is an extremely convincing way to learn that you’re not the boss of shit. Losing your balance teaches you that you’ll have to be a little more democratic about your “what me and my body are doing today” decisions. Chronic pain and exhaustion pin you to the mattress and make you give them your lunch money after screaming uncle uncle uncle. And you learn about physical limits in a way you never conceived of before. Sure, acute illness is a decent exercise in understanding this. There’s a point in a particularly horrible flu when you might wonder if you’ll ever feel normal again. You’re weak and suffering and you can’t imagine going to kickboxing class or walking your dog. In those moments, you probably kind of get it. But if you’re anything like I was, you forget those feelings within hours of beating the bugs back and emerging from the virulent mist.

The fact is, physical limitations are something we all live with even if we don’t pay much attention to them. You’re not going to jump 19 feet in the air. Ever. You’re probably never going to win an Olympic Medal. Sorry. You can’t sing G above high C. Unless, you know, you can. My limitations are just a little more depressing. For instance, I can’t walk to the bathroom right now without clinging to walls all the way there.

I’m committed to pushing my body as far as I can, when it’s wise to do so. I guess I still view myself as a disabled person who has hope, as ridiculous as that system of perception is. I want to burst through my limits and achieve the (currently) impossible (for me). But for now, I have these limits, see.

And one of them has exactly nothing to do with my illness or disability, and it’s this: WHY can’t I have my ass fucked in any other position than on my side, spoons style? What the hell is going on with my ass? Is it some kind of crooked freak or something? Seriously, anal is intolerably painful for me in every other position, but in that one magical set-up it’s amazing. I think I’ll say it again: What the hell is going on with my ass?

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Countless times I’ve heard and read about how a woman is inescapably and biologically submissive: the penetrated, the supine, the taken. The image of being overcome and driven into is the source of apocryphal radical feminist notions that all penetration is at best a violent act, at worst automatic rape.

But to me, having something plunge inside an orifice that’s all-too-happy to accommodate it doesn’t feel all that passive. Nor does gripping that something in the crush of my mighty orgasm. Of course I’ve felt myself in the submissive position in sex before– in ways both lovely and horrible, but being penetrated wasn’t the factor that made it so.

One of the most alarming and saddening articles I’ve ever read on the subject of sex was Virginia Vitzthum’s 1999 Strap-on Epiphany. In it, Virginia recounts her experience of pegging (before it was called that) her boyfriend, Adam.

The article starts innocently enough. Sure, it flirts with the idea that a woman allowing someone to enter her body is empowering in its vulnerability or something, but it really doesn’t disturb me until she actually starts fucking Adam. Once she penetrates him, shit gets weird. (I refuse to resist pointing out that the link to the second page of this article says “Defiling Adam”. This is indicative of exactly the attitude you’re about to see.) Observe:

As “my” huge appendage disappeared inside him, his eyes showed shame, trust, fear and a sort of helpless adoration. In a way I’d never understood those words before, he was mine. The knowledge I could really hurt this person by being less than careful made me feel responsible, protective. The vulnerability appalled me at the same time; it was vaguely disgusting that he would let someone do this to him. Mixed in with the disgust was possessiveness. The thought of anyone else penetrating him seemed revolting. These observations clicked into place in quick succession; I felt like a projector being loaded with slides of maleness, of male seeing.

…I was conquering, silent, responsible, the taker. With his legs spread, Adam was agreeable, inviting, ashamed, taken.

When I first read this I was shaken. I’d never used a strap-on, and I wasn’t a man, so I felt completely unequipped to answer the question of IS THIS TRUE? Does penetrating someone really give you contempt for them? Is the act of being penetrated disgusting and weak somehow? This Virginia bitch had really upset me by suggesting that the sexual interactions I was having may be entirely different (in troubling, corrupt ways) to the people I was sharing them with.

I asked a few male friends, my boyfriend at the time. Some said, “Yeah, that sounds about right,” and some said “She’s overthinking it.”

In truth, I think that some people might equate penetrating with power, but it’s not an inevitable conclusion. Virginia’s views here weren’t objective, and they tell us more about her than they necessarily do about “men”. They tell us nothing about the native symbolism of a sex act.

Are you submissive to the food you eat? Is a canteen at the mercy of the water inside it? Eclipsing, holding, consuming, overlapping, absorbing aren’t words of weakness to me. We choose to think of the partner who welcomes the other into his/her body in such passive terms, but that’s choice, that’s perspective. It’s not innate to the nature of sex; it’s a commentary on our social paradigm.

I’ve had moments when I had a cock inside me and I was conquering, silent, responsible, the taker. Well, not silent, but close enough. And I refuse to be surrendering, tractable, helpless, and (wtf?) ashamed just because it feels good to fill my holes anymore than I would presume to project those words onto a guy I was pegging. It’s fucking piffle, is what it is.

…So 1999, anything else you want to tell me about sex? I’m all ears.

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Have you heard!? Nominations are open for the Sexiest Bloggers of the Year! This is basically for a list of the top 100 sex blogs of 2010. It’s very exciting indeed because of these two words: bragging rights.

You can go nominate your favorite sex blog/s by leaving a comment on the official nomination post.

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ConTuesday is upon us. Much like Laura Palmer, ConTuesday is filled with secrets.

After I broke up with the hottest-but-craziest woman I will probably ever meet, I started seeing a sweet girl with a pretty smile who I had solidly average sex with. A couple weeks into my new relationship I started talking to hot-but-crazy again. She still wanted me back. I decided to lead her on, hint that I wanted to get back together, and then meet up for a weekend of amazing she’s-desperate/I’m-lying sex. She was ten times better in bed than the sweet girl, and her body was incredible. I don’t regret a minute of that weekend. That Sunday night I told hot-but-crazy that I’d serve her with a restraining order if she ever contacted me again. I changed my number and moved in with my new girlfriend, who I’m going to marry soon.

This is a secret because I can’t say it in a way that isn’t completely shameless bragging. The other day, a new lover with issues surrounding sex (worries about performance, attractiveness, perversion) told me that the best sex he’s ever had has been with me, because I’m so open and easy to talk to. I’ve rarely felt prouder.

There’s a certain place just just just under my clit that if someone rubs after I’ve had a few good orgasms and am feeling relaxed and ready for more, I can have non-stop orgasms until they stop rubbing it. Sometimes I’ll also squirt. No matter how hard I try, I can’t really do it when I’m alone!

Last night, after I licked and sucked my wiife’s clit until she climaxed, she told me “You’re really good at that.” I feel the need to brag, and this is the only place I can of think to do it.

This ConTuesday should serve as a reminder that people everywhere are having awesome sex in a variety of ways. And now, for some more good news: That gum you like is going to come back in style.

Want to confess? Brag? Tell me about the scandalous things you’ve always wanted to do to Sherilyn Fenn? Go here and submit!

(Yeah, I’m in a Twin Peaks mood today. Why do you ask?)

I, skeptic, have what can only be described as a “lucky shirt”.

One night I walked into my favorite karaoke dive wearing this shirt and two guys immediately approached me and sat down at my table. Every time one got up to put in a song or take a piss the other would jump in and try to make increasingly awkward conversation. Later they retired to a corner and seemed to be discussing something with drunken intensity. “They’re fighting over which one gets to ask you out,” my friend Miriam, who is wise in the ways of men, whispered.

In the midst of all this, a guy leaned his chair back and asked me if I was single, which I was at the time. “My friend is in love with you,” he informed me, pointing to an entirely other (intimidatingly good-looking) guy besides the first two, and asked if I could introduce myself because his friend was shy. (Which, if you read my blog, you know I’m too chickenshit to ever do.) Then, as I was leaving the bar for the night, still another guy asked for my number.

This sort of thing never happens to me. I was completely nonplussed. This was almost two years ago, and I still wonder if the bar had coordinated a “Let’s Fuck With Quizzical Pussy!” night.

About a year later, I was on a road trip. I met up with a bunch of friends in a little college town across the state, and we decided to go to the local gay bar (like you do). It was Drag Queen Bingo night, which is another way of saying the place was packed. I happened to be wearing the shirt. A cute lesbian couple sat alone at a table with an empty chair, and I asked to join them. We talked a little, marked some bingo squares, they asked if they could buy me a drink, and I told them thanks, but I don’t really drink. They bought all my friends a few rounds instead, still seeming genuinely distraught that they couldn’t get me anything.

After bingo, we all danced for a while, and at least three people came up and told me I was cool for absolutely no reason. This particular college town is either some sort of uncanny hellpit of friendliness, or all this had something to do with the shirt. Yes, those are the only two options.

Okay, so those are just two examples, but it truly seems like when I wear the shirt I have more social success than usual. People find me just a little hotter, more approachable, intriguing, something. Maybe. I don’t really know.

But here’s the thing you have to realize about this shirt: it is completely and utterly unsexy. It offers no cleavage, hugs no curves, and accentuates no waist. In fact, it’s a little boy’s polo, size large, bought at an unfashionable big box store. It has horizontal stripes (which I can say about roughly half my shirts, because I like them). Actually I have this striped boy’s polo shirt in several colors, but the blue-on-blue version is the only one that has ever given the faintest hint of being special. The green/green, the yellow/gray, the white/blue: they hold no mystery.

Last Friday, I saw an actual little boy wearing the same shirt, same version, and I wonder if it renders him magically chaseable to all those little playground vixens.

Now, I know it’s not truly a lucky shirt. It’s likely all down to coincidence or the Dumbo’s feather effect or some such phenomenon. It’s silly to think otherwise. But still, it has gradually become the shirt I tend wear when I’m planning a day that might well turn nerve-wracking or awkward. Some superstitious, primitive part of me believes it might give me an edge.

So, although it’s not one of the sexier pieces in my wardrobe, it’s what I put on when I was dressing to go to my first foursome last week.

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Don’t you dare tell your little girl there’s no monster lurking in the closet. Because I just read the abstract of his paper on Nerve-Sparing Ventral Clitoroplasty. And actually, I think he’s not so much in a closet as practicing pediatric urology in New York. Either way, he’s out there and he’s the stuff of nightmares.

I don’t know how parents determine their daughter’s clitoris is “too big”. I don’t even know what that means. I was under the impression that big clitorises were sexy anyway, but no one should be evaluating a child’s genitals in such a way unless they’re presenting an actual medical problem. “Being bigger than average” isn’t a medical problem. But somehow, a bunch of parents decided their daughters’ clitorises were too big, and turned to Dr. Dix P. Poppas for help (you probably think I made that name up, but I didn’t even!).

Dr. Dix P. Poppas is nothing if not helpful. According to this and this and this he’ll helpfully hack into your child’s healthy clitoris (as young as 4 months) and pare it down to some arbitrary acceptable size. Then he’ll stimulate her clitoris with a vibrating device and ask her how it feels… not just once, no! Every year. He’ll keep a chart. A chart of your daughter’s mutilated clitoris’s sexual response. Across years.

There’s no way to convey this in normal-sized font, so…

Creepy. Evil. Creepy.

Why this guy is allowed perform experimental surgery on children and then systematically molest them is anyone’s guess.

I posted about this on twitter the other night, and comparisons were naturally made to male circumcision, which I’m also entirely against (concerning male circ, Holly Pervocracy wrote about it recently, and made some excellent points, as she tends to do). I’m not sure if we’re talking equal atrocities considering the potentially-scarring, prolonged aftercare involved, but to me these seem like obvious civil rights issues. We’re talking about the physical integrity of a person. You don’t fuck with that, even if you’re that person’s legal guardian. What am I missing here?

Maybe it’s down to the fact that I don’t want kids and can’t realistically put myself in the position of a parent, so maybe there are complexities to this I can’t grasp, but when we’re talking circumcision I’m appalled when otherwise-intelligent people whose opinions I respect trot out tired, unsound reasons for cutting off pieces of their hypothetical babies’ genitals. I’m not going to fight all the stupid pro-circ. myths right now because Intact America does a thorough job here. But really, the bottom line is that I just feel that cutting a child’s genitals for arbitrary reasons is never justified. Trust me, when they’re adults they’ll have plenty of time to decide if they want to mutilate their own genitals.

Why would anyone force a child to submit to any surgery that’s medically unnecessary? Or does that just go back to the “Why is there evil in the world?” question.

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For my fifth birthday my aunt took me to our local metropolitan art museum. I was showing some early interest in drawing and my coloring books were usually crayoned in roughly inside the lines, so she decided it was time for me to be exposed to some real art.

We ate at a cafe nearby and she gave me a little ring with a tiny diamond chip in the center of a golden heart that now fits my pinkie. It was an amazing day to be a little girl. My aunt is pretty awesome.

Those statues and paintings at the museum were probably the first images I saw of naked people. I grew up with conservative Christian parents and had a healthy Protestant shame of my body, and it was obvious that I felt miserably guilty seeing all those body parts I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to know existed. And my aunt told me something that I still remember. She said, “when you really look at the human body it’s very beautiful, and there’s nothing wrong with it.” And that, to me– when I was five and so very sheltered– was revolutionary.

This story has very little to do with the point of this entry, but what I’m trying to say is that I like art. I even have a small but personally rewarding degree of ability when it comes to two-dimensional art. But, while I hate to admit this because it’s such an abominable stereotype that women suck with three-dimensional space, I totally suck at three-dimensional space. I have a few friends who do amazing things with ceramics and metal and such, and I just stare in wonder as if they’re holding wands and muttering pseudo-Latin Harry Potter pastiche, because it’s so far beyond me.

In fact, if you give me clay I will make a sad-looking dinosaur. Pretty much every time.

And when three-dimensional art and orgasms combine, what can I say about it but HALE to the YES.

This is how woodgasms are born.

Which brings us to our point. Epiphora, one of the best sex toy reviewers ever, period, is teaming up with pleasure boutique SheVibe to give away an amazing NobEssence piece of fuckable art.

I’ve never had the privilege to use a NobEssence toy, but they are a gorgeous line of hard wood toys that, if they feel half as good as they look, might as well all have Phoenix feather and Unicorn hair cores because they are absolutely fantastical.

A few amazingly cool features of the Woodgasm giveaway:

1. There are a lot of ways to enter. Most of them disturbingly easy! In fact, I’m entering it right now, if you know what I mean.
2. This isn’t just any giveaway. This is a customized giveaway. You get to CHOOSE which creation you want from SheVibe’s entire NobEssence collection! You’ve got beautiful dildos, butt plugs, cock rings, and more to pick from.
3. If you win, you are going to feel so fucking classy putting that elegant woodgrain museum piece inside you.
4. There’s still time for you to get in on the twitter trivia party tonight, for extra chances to win!
5. I just want to use the term “fuckable art” again.

So what are you waiting for? Go enter!

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Anonymous confessions GO!

I just started sleeping with a boy who is submissive. I’m submissive too, and awhile ago it would have really bummed me out that he wouldn’t be interested in dominating me and I wouldn’t have been able to dominate him. But now I’m in a triadic relationship with two dominants, I get all the domination I need. And apparently this combination is really good for me, because it’s like I’ve discovered a hidden wellspring of my own dominance and last night, I dominated someone properly (as opposed to awkwardly) for the first time in my life. Certainly not as skillfully as someone with experience, but definitely with passion and commitment. And I loved it!

My first boyfriend and I started dating when we were 14, and we dated until we were 21 when we finally broke up. His parents never gave him the sex talk and he had no idea about girls’ bodies, he learned it all from me. Somewhere along the line, he got the idea that girls hardly ever poop, and when they do they are very tiny little “rabbit turds”. I thought this was hilarious, so for the six years we were dating (we never lived together) I kind of encouraged this belief. We broke up, and he ended up in another relationship. They went on vacation together, and a few days into the vacation I got a text message from him (after months of no contact) that just said “YOU LIED ABOUT THE POOP!” I feel kind of bad for this poor girl who had to deal with a 22 year old who didn’t know girls pooped, but on the other hand I still laugh my ass off thinking about it.

I’m seriously glad that I wasn’t drinking anything when this confession first came in, because I would need a new keyboard from the eruption of spit/laughter combo.

Had my first threesome tonight. I double teamed one of my old friends with benefits with her new husband. Not too sure how I feel about it. It was fun, and all about trying new things, but I’m not sure if I want it to be a more than a one time thing. I’m all for trying new things, and I did without crossing any of my lines but there is some stuff I’m not particularly interested in doing again. It’s not a matter of disgust or anything, more of a blah, boring, does nothing for me kind of thing. Anyway, I think a good time was had by all but if it happens again I’ll have to explain that there are some things that really don’t do it for me, that I’m just not interested in.

I recently got out of an abusive relationship with a girl. Now, I’m on a new relationship with a new girlfriend and we love each other dearly. However, I get the feeling lesbian sex makes her feel guilty or something. she isn’t too comfortable with her own sexuality and she’s pretty insecure about herself. We rarely ever have sex because of that. Though I hate to admit it, I now often find myself fantasizing with the kind of violent sex my ex and I used to have in which she would humiliate me and completely dominate me. I’m furious at myself for this.

I hate it when people talk about sex. Not out of a sense of modesty, but because my friends keep turning out to be kinky or bisexual or poly, just like I am. I want to be the most decadent person in the room.

Do you have secrets? Sure you do. Send them in– anonymously!– here.

I’ve never dated, fucked, or even made out with a guy who admitted to naming his penis. I’m one click short of naive enough to believe that this proves beyond a doubt that I’ve never been with a guy who had a name for his penis, but if you were the sort of person to name your genitals do you really think you’d be the sort of person to hide that fact?

While I like to name things as much as the next sexual deviant, naming my genitals would feel too much like dissociating myself from them, and that’s the last thing I want to do a) because that’s where I have a great deal of my fun and I have no wish to start living vicariously through my own body parts, and b) because if they got to have opinions they’d probably be very disappointed in me just now because I haven’t been keeping up on my caretaking duties (read: masturbating) lately.

I have jokingly given my tits names before, patently unsexy names that I throw out at really inconvenient times.

INT. SOME RANDOM COUCH – NIGHT

Groping is happening. Groping moves in a booberly direction.

Quizzical Pussy (indicating left breast): Ooooh, see that’s Statler.

Confused Dude: Huh?

Quizzical Pussy: The other one’s Waldorf. Now back to the balcony, kiddo! The old boys aren’t quite done with you!

Confused Dude: You sicken me.

Quizzical Pussy: Ah ah ah I lahve eet!

…This sort of thing is really great fun until I run out of people willing to fuck me. That’s when the laughter stops.

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