quizzical pussy

If you read this blog and haven’t yet realized that I’m sort of a geek, I find your naivete both charming and worrisome. I’m not claiming to be geeky in any useful or entertaining sense: I’m not working on a new app for your iPhone or anything, and I’ve gnawed through the necks of zero chickens so far, but I like sci fi and video games and nobody talked to me in high school, so I guess that’s what’s important here.

And considering I’m a geeky girl who can remember any part of the late eighties/early nineties, you sure as hell know I wanted to fuck Data. You know, Lieutenant Commander Data of the Starship Enterprise, from Star Trek: The Next Generation… the pasty, stoic android with a heart of gold (proverbially speaking). I don’t know what it was about him, but I think most little girls who grew up on TNG grew up wanting to get on Data (or maybe it was just me, but I cherish my delusions). Maybe it was because he was childlike yet adult, so we could relate to him but also perceive him as a sexually mature male. Maybe it was the Pinocchio pathos of his whole story arc. Anyway, when I was a wee lass I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to do with Data, but I certainly knew I wanted him, especially when he dressed up as Sherlock Holmes. I’m wet as October just thinking about it.

That early crush may be a contributing factor in the lust I later developed for the replicant cyborg Bryan Fury from the Tekken games. I even wrote a series of haiku for Bryan. Among them:

Cyborgs are machines!
I like to grab your joystick
It’s just two quarters

I also had ravenous crushes on Tasha Yar, Geordi LaForge, and Beverly Crusher, whom I credit with my later interest in chicks with short hair, literature, and… er… blinky scanner thingies, respectively. I’d probably still pine for Jean-Luc Picard to this day if I didn’t identify with him so strongly. I’m really a bald, French, male starship commander with an English accent trapped in a woman’s body, you know.

But I have to admit that I haven’t watched much TNG since I was a kid, so when Laramy asked me, “You’ve seen the episode where Yar and Data fuck, right?” I was like “Whaaaaaa?” because while I’m sure I saw it back in the eighties, I’m also positive that I had nothing approaching any concept of what was going on in sex scenes until circa 1993.

So, of course, we had to watch The Naked Now, like, now. While naked. Just kidding. Although we probably should’ve thought of that.

In The Naked Now, the crew of the Enterprise is infected by some exotic water molecules, which pick up carbon from their bodies and somehow produce dramatic intoxication, rendering everyone completely uninhibited and wacky. This was the second episode ever of TNG, and in it they had basically everyone break character, which is an odd choice for so early in their development. But anyway, all you have to know is that Tasha Yar seduces Data (whom we learn is fully functional and programmed in multiple techniques, a wide variety of pleasuring), but she wasn’t in her right mind so we the audience aren’t obligated to think she’s a slut. What the fuck is that, anyway? The only time this character can exhibit sexual agency is when she has zero personal agency? That’s super weak. Tasha had every right to keep boning like mad until she got killed by that evil blob guy.

I explained as we were watching that I used to want to lick Data like a 9-volt battery, and Laramy suggested I fulfill the old fantasy: all I’d need is a white dildo with a subtle shimmer.

…

That’s when it hit me. That dildo already exists. I’ve been making fun of it for months! Sweet William H. Macy on a stick!

Have you seen this? It’s called the Vamp. Toymaker Tantus thought it would be a good idea to capitalize on the Twilight series mania, and made a dildo that was pale, shimmery, and retains temperature. Put it in the fridge for a couple hours and bingo, you’re fucking Edward fucking Cullen. But it occurred to me that this novelty dildo was perfect for fucking Data, too. I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Tantus.

And really, isn’t the super creepy, controlling vampire heartthrob that has captured the hearts of repressed, immature females everywhere actually just a poor woman’s Data? I trudged through part of the first Twilight book before it put me off my feed, so I know what I’m talking about here: Edward Cullen is cave creature-pale, has yellowish eyes, isn’t quite human, has superpowers, and uses unwieldy diction. Sure the details are different: Data has more awesome, less emo powers like logic and speed reading against Edward’s preternatural moping and mind reading. But really, the major difference between them is that Data doesn’t suck, and he doesn’t hesitate to pleasure (with wide variety) a lady when she asks nicely. Now that’s a character truly deserving of his own dildo.  Plus, he isn’t profoundly troubling like some other pasty anthropomorphs I might mention. Could everyone please stop teaching young girls to fetishize abusive relationships? Eschew trashy supernatural abstinence porn, kiddies, and embrace the high tech lechery of science fiction.

Now, to order a Vamp and emblazon the Starfleet logo on the bottom. Oh, my delicious android: I’ve waited far too long.

I’m thinking of writing a book called The Ethical Succubus.

I’ve found that there are generally two kinds of people: those who are energized by sex, and those who just want a nap (now, please) afterward. Conventional wisdom holds that men are always the latter, which isn’t true– I’ve known a guy or two that fit in the first group. It just seems very common for guys to crash.

Sex tends to wire me. Even though I’m usually tired in general, sex makes me less so. This, of course, reminds me of everything I’ve heard about Taoist sexual practices. Essentially, it’s orgasm outreach with a totally selfish, slightly sinister motive. Men tried to fuck and fuck and fuck young women without ever coming themselves so that they could steal life force without giving any back. Apparently, ejaculate has a fuck ton of life force.

But female orgasms were supposed to emit some kind of cosmic energy as well, and for someone who gets off as easily and often as I do, you’d think (if we’re humoring Taoism, that is) I’d be utterly spent from it. Not so. I’m kind of more bouncy and giddy. Which is why it’s hard to watch a partner flag after a lovely fuck and resist the urge to curl my fingers into claws, jut out my lower jaw into a grotesque grimace, and declare “Bwahaha. I’ve stolen your soul!” But it’s okay. Boys like that.

Clifton Overmangle has offered to have sex with me if I start playing reindeer games with him again. O frabjous day!

Now, I understand that when you share your sexuality with someone it’s a beautiful gesture of sharing and trust, or whatever. Please don’t think I aim to take that for granted. But, if I don’t even want to talk to a guy anymore, the promise of sexual intercourse with him may not qualify as the lure to end all lures.

Also, honestly, it’s a lot of responsibility to fuck a virgin. Too much, by my reckoning. This is dealing with a complete unknown. I realize that anyone new you’re fucking is an unknown, but a virgin like Clifton is unknown even to himself. I’m not talking about lackluster sex here; that I would understand and overlook. It worries me more that there’s no knowing what might happen afterward: would he click his heels and dance a jig? Would he sock me in the mouth for besmirching his innocence? Would he huddle in a corner and sob, ever so softly? Not even he knows! That’s the kind of scary I feel I’m getting too old for.

What really gets me is that he clearly thinks his cock is such a brilliant incentive that it could persuade me to magically not be utterly sick of his bullshit.

Hey, virgins: people that fall all over themselves to pop your cherry are creepy and sad. Take your time, have fun, and may your first experience be less awkward and more satisfying than most. Please don’t mistakenly assume, though, that all of us unhymenated harlots are out here gagging for a chance at you. We’re having plenty of fun amongst ourselves. Oh, and for everyone’s sake: shun the frumious Bandersnatch, will you?

When guys learn that I have and use sex toys, they often want to try to involve them in our playtime. Once or twice a guy I’m boning has adorably suggested that I bring “it” over, betraying his naive belief that I have a single vibrator or dildo. This is clearly misunderstanding the scope of my not-immense-but-respectable collection. I tend to ask “which one?” in response, with an innocence that belies pure evil, because it’s fun to watch the sordid truth dawn on them. Sometimes, when I know someone a little better and may have described my menagerie a bit, he’ll have a specific request. Sometimes I’ll be asked to bring whichever is my favorite. Usually, though, in whatever form, there’s interest.

I’m not sure if it’s an insecurity thing where they want to insert themselves into that hemisphere of my sex life, checking it out to see how intimidating it really is, or if they’re genuinely curious. People being the precious snowflakes they are, I’ll go ahead and take the safe bet: some have the former motive, others the latter, and still others have both in various proportions. I’m mind-blowingly intuitive, right?

I relate to the curiosity part. That would be me, all the way. When someone gets a new phone, puppy, blender, car, or pair of nipple clamps, it’s hard for me to resist the urge to want to see, and play, and maybe make smoothies. I guess the other motive makes sense too, though. For instance, I think every guy should have his own masturbator, just on principle. There should be some kind of secular, sexular bar mitzvah: turn thirteen, memorize Closer by Nine Inch Nails, get your first fleshlight, and start practicing ennui: now you are a man, or at least a teenager. But, as much as I want every guy to have a sex toy or fifteen, part of me still hopes it doesn’t make my pussy feel less awesome by comparison.

My first boyfriend, Reginald Sleeth, bought me my first vibrator, which is pretty enlightened considering he didn’t actually seem to like sex (…or at least sex with me. I really never have grasped the depth and breadth of the problem there.) It was a purple insertable, a little thicker than a man’s thumb, with a curve at the top to hit the g-spot. We went to an “adult book store” to pick it out together. I was cowed by all the lurid packaging under the too-bright lights and the smiling woman at the counter trying to help me decide what would feel good, while I squirmed. Maybe Reginald tried to sooth my intimidated deer-in-headlights psyche by suggesting only slimlines and clit vibrators, but it’s also possible there was something else at work. Maybe, considering the fact that he was human (and not anybody’s definition of secure) he also wasn’t comfortable with me having a phallic presence in my life that threatened or even thrashed his penis. Either way, it was a nice gift that I put to very good use.

It’s always interesting to see how a partner uses a toy on me as opposed to, say, how I use a toy on myself. When I masturbate with something that vibrates, I usually apply it with steady pressure directly on or adjacent to my clit (depending on the intensity). It isn’t fancy, but the orgasms come in delicious waves. In my experience, a toy novice will try to tease me with the toy, running it lightly over nipples, clit, and labia, not giving the vibrations much purchase in any one place. I realize that’s more visually interesting for the person wielding the tool: tracing along the curves of the body, watching muscles tense and skin moisten along the path… it probably beats just holding a gadget in place while my clit silently laps up the tremors. But the visually interesting method supplies a psychological and physical tease, but it doesn’t actually feel all that good. There’s little hope of getting me off that way. I’d rather just have hands exploring the skin of my breasts or neck or back: that will turn me on more and has an excellent chance of giving me an orgasm as well.

Personally, I’d prefer to watch a woman get herself off with a toy before I used it on her. It’d be an excellent education in pleasuring her, and I can’t think of a better didactic tool than to get to watch a sexy woman come, preferably while making out with her between the being attentive parts. Or I’d at least ask her how she generally likes pressure, vibration, position. The questions wouldn’t have to be too clinical; when you know the nuances of how a toy can kiss a body (and I’ve certainly made a study of that), a husky “you like that?” can actually take on a wealth of meaning, in context.

But really, I’ve never found toys necessary with a partner. They’re fun to experiment with together, but I don’t miss them when they’re not in play. While battery operated devices are a vital part of my solitary sex life, and if you try to take them away from me I’ll cut you, sometimes a real, warm, aroused person proves the best possible sex toy there is. I mean that, of course, in the least dehumanizing way possible, you pretty snowflake, you.

I qualify as quite the limber, bendy girl, but my arthritis (may it kick rocks) makes it impractical to take advantage of my flexibility by experimenting with cirque du soleil sex positions and whatnot. Obviously, this is disappointing for everyone involved.

I can get into some pretty awesome tangles, but all too often one of my joints will start blaring and eventually I can’t be a mighty mighty soldier of love anymore. Orgasms are a great analgesic, but there are limits. There’s always that point of “Oooooh, oooh, ooww owowowow bloody hell, get out of me so I can close my legs!” And at that stage of the game it’s pretty much spoons or nothing.

It’s like this horrible cosmic contortionist cockblock. Holy shit, guys… maybe God really does hate sex!

My flirting skills are roughly on par with T-Pain’s singing ability sans Auto-Tune. I’m aware that I recently described performing lap dances for my friends, so I should probably clarify. I can flirt recreationally– purely for the joy and play of it all, but when the flirting might have a purpose (i.e. testing the waters for imminent sexin’), I suddenly have no idea what I’m doing. I can easily come on to people whom I feel sure aren’t a sexual possibility, when I feel safe with them and I know that they’re not going to read too much into it. But with strangers, I freeze. I don’t turn diffident or timid, understand; I’m just completely non-sexual. I’m practically one step shy of calling any potential suitor “bro”.

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Example:
Interior. Restaurant. Evening. Quizzical Pussy enters and sits down. An attractive gentleman caller saunters up to her table. Things are about to get pretty fucking uncomfortable, folks.

Gentleman Caller: Hi, I’m Roger Jollylad. I saw you when you walked in and thought you looked like lots of fun.

Quizzical Pussy: Ohai. I’m Quizzical Pussy. I try to bring the party, whenever possible. It’s kind of you to notice. (offers high five, like a tool)

Gentleman Caller: You’re cute.

Quizzical Pussy: My favorite dinosaur is Parasaurolophus. What’s yours?

Gentleman Caller: Do you want to maybe hang out sometime?

Quizzical Pussy: Ummmmmm. I’m going to go fight those guys in that booth over there. I’m pretty sure they’re assassins or something. Peace,  bro.

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It’s especially bad with guys. I think it’s because it’s so much easier to assume (because of statistics about sexual orientation and stuff) that women aren’t going to take pleasant recreational flirting seriously. Often, when a male comes up to talk to me in a bar or some other “let’s pick someone up” type of venue, he’ll end up asking me if I’m not into guys, because I’m just that neutral.

I’m not opposed to something coming of the “safe” flirting. It’s not a matter of teasing to get a jolt of power or control. Normally, for me, this type of flirting is about showing affection– not withholding it, and unexpectedly finding that playful flirting has transmuted into serious flirting is often a welcome and sweet development. Thing is, I’m not nearly as worried about people wanting to touch my naughty bits as that they will think I’m assuming that they might want to.

See, I’m concerned about being attracted to people without permission. About offending them for presuming that they’re viable conquests. I have no idea where I got this, or if it’s common at all. Maybe lots of people feel this way and no one admits it because it’s kind of silly. Rationally, I realize that most people aren’t going to backhand me for daring to see them as sexual possibilities. Even if not interested, chances are they’d be flattered by a little attention, right? It’s not because of logic that I’m so wary of imposing my libido or interest on people who haven’t invited it. It’s something else. Something stupid. Something I have the hardest time shaking. It’s so bad that I won’t allow myself to admit (even to me) an actual desire for someone until orgasms have come into play, or at least a vigorous make out. I can think you’re objectively pretty and even say you’re attractive in a general sense, but I won’t feel or express actual lust until I have the go-ahead that only physical interaction provides. And even then, I’m so very careful.

For someone who’s kind of a sex fiend, this is slightly obstructive. If I flirted a little more, a little better, judiciously, I bet I could get way more laid.

I love my friends. Sometimes I even love my friends, if you know what I mean. But that’s another entry or four.

The feeling seems to be universal among us. Sometimes I’ll get home from a party or from hanging out and someone has tweeted or blogged it; sometimes it’ll be expressed aloud in the moment. It’s always that exact sentence: I love my friends.

And it doesn’t just mean that we’re always there for each other, or that we share important life events, that we work on nifty projects together, or that we always have plenty to chatter and laugh about. When we say it, it means something slightly more specific. When we say it, we’re saying “Thanks, you guys, for being such big, dirty perverts.”

There’s this whole disapproving world out there where most of us are expected to be reserved about sex, to behave nicely and not paw all over each other in the glaring light of day. I mean, there are social niceties, sensibilities! Won’t somebody please think of the children! And that’s cool, I guess. I have this really convincing innocent face that I need to keep in regular circulation, lest I forget how to use it. And I do have many rich and wonderful friendships with people who don’t need to know that I’m obsessed with sex; that wouldn’t get it if confronted with it. And that’s cool too.

But it’s great to have people in my life that do get it, and are possibly close to as fixated as I am. I love having a close group of friends who can invite one another to participate in threesomes without making things weird. I love that I can give my male or female friends lap dances while their partners watch, and we all get a little turned on but mostly just giggle. I love the fact that I medaled in Saturday’s great impromptu Totally Huge Dildo™ suck-off (I didn’t get the gold, sadly. Maybe guys really do give better blowjobs, after all…) and came home with a sample of throat-relaxing gel, because friends share.

I feel privileged to have seen some of their come faces. It feels comfortable and oddly poignant that I know the exact expression the slightly reserved and delicate brunette in the corner makes when she’s being spanked (it’s thoughtful and appreciative, like a person who brings her notebook to a wine tasting), even though I haven’t seen her naked (yet). It’s fun to teach my boyfriend how to tug a girl’s hair on the scruff right where her hairline meets her neck, and watch him practice on a lovely nymph with freckles on her shoulders.

I can talk about politics, petitio principii, and pony play with these people, and everything in between. Where else could I ever really fit in?

You know that perpetually amused observer that lurks in your head, noting every perception, action, or thought that might possibly have a funny slant to it? Mine noticed something recently.

I’ve felt pretty rough this week. I had this infernally sore throat, complete with ugly, swollen tonsils. My stomach was unhappy with life, food. I had a sore, stiff neck, felt feverish, and was kind of useless in general. But still, the image of having my mouth fucked danced across my mind each and every time I masturbated, and damned if I didn’t consistently arch my back, tense my limbs, and moan deep into the thought of it.

It’s not always a good idea to actually give a blowjob, but it’s pretty much always a hot idea.

Also, I think I’m feeling better now. Cock, please.

Laramy Fuquerton and I had just finished having holy. shit. sex. The kind that makes you want to update your facebook status to “just had 14 orgasms! (hi, mom)” right after you collapse and die. It didn’t seem exactly polite to collapse and die on top of Laramy, though, especially since he’d been so unfazed with what I’d done on him moments before when his cock caught my g-spot exactly right. So I swung one leg out of my cowgirl straddle and promptly tipped over, right off the bed, after which we both cracked up. A lot.

It wasn’t a big deal to either of us, and it certainly could’ve happened to anyone, but it’s the kind of thing that happens fairly often to me, and not just in bed. It can happen at any time in my world. Often if I’m standing for a little while unsupported, I’ll lose my balance and start to topple. This is one of the reasons I normally use a cane, along with having joint pain and being a total pimp.

There are times when you really can’t forget that you’re disabled. I focus much harder on the fact that someday I want to be able-bodied again, but right now I have numerous limitations. I got sick several years ago with an illness that often manifests as an invisible disability (there is usually pain, energy loss, and cognitive dysfunction, to name a few), but it’s caused mobility problems as well in my case, so it’s a little more, well, visible. Sure, occasionally on a good day someone will ask me “do you need to use that cane or is it just a fashion statement?”, and it’s nice to know that I can “pass” if I need to, but back when I needed a walker (or even currently when I’m having a not-so-good day) there was no ambiguity: when people looked at me they knew I was messed up somehow.

I’ve been asked if I was born this way or if I’d been injured. I’ve been talked to with very loud voices, the kind obnoxious people use to talk to immigrants, or that you sometimes have to use with the elderly. I’ve been stared at. People in the mall have been completely unwilling to meet my eye. I’ve been genuinely grateful when men and women have opened doors for me, or even just gave me a friendly smile. Because sometimes, when it’s clear that my cane is not just a fashion statement, I have felt absolutely invisible.

Sometimes I’m too exhausted to move, let alone fuck; there have been times when my hips or knees or head have been in so much pain I’ve had to stop in the middle of sex, even if I desperately want to keep going. It’s embarrassing for me to try to explain to a partner that I can’t put in the energy that he (or she) deserves. It sucks to have your libido roaring and a willing lovely ready to go, and your body just punks out. But there’s that other, sneakier part of being disabled and horny that has probably hobbled me far more than any real, physical limit: since I’ve been disabled, I’ve had some trouble feeling like a sexual being. I went through a phase a couple years ago in which I could barely convince myself I was human. I actually saw myself more as this limping, shuddering, twitching chimera of pain, failure, and decrepitude. The looks, the avoidance I saw on people’s faces proved that I wasn’t a real person anymore to them, and my disappointment that I could no longer do the things I expected of myself made me doubt that I was even me anymore.

I’d begun seeing my boyfriend at the time, Edwin Pomble, about a year before I got sick, and he stayed with me while my health degenerated. I was both thankful to him and resentful that I should have to be thankful. Every time someone said to me “you’re so lucky he’s sticking by you through this” or “he’s definitely a keeper: not every guy would stay” I was vaguely irritated. I agreed with these statements– I was lucky, and wouldn’t have expected him to tough it out, but I also disliked the implication that all I could rightly ask as a sick and disabled woman was for someone that wouldn’t leave. No one, not even I, took the time to wonder why it wasn’t reasonable for me to ask for more. It didn’t matter that Edwin and I had dismal intellectual chemistry or that we had incompatible goals in life. He wasn’t dropping broken, disabled me, so it was inconceivable that I could ever leave him.

So when I finally did break up with him I felt tremendous guilt because I knew I had no “right” to do so. It wasn’t my place, as the damaged one, to reject him. And he agreed with my self-loathing logic, saying “I didn’t stay with you through all the bad times just so I could end up cut off from the good times ahead…” …you know, the good times in my speculative able-bodied future. Essentially, he felt that staying with me was like waiting for an investment to pay off, and that the time with the disabled me was more or less a tax write-off.

Single again, I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t be dating much until I was well. If I ever got well, that is. It was difficult for me to imagine anyone wanting to build any kind of relationship with me. Sure I could still have sex, since a girl who can’t walk unassisted is about as non-threatening as females come. There will always be, I theorized and hoped, someone out there willing to use you for sex when it’s obvious that even you don’t think you’re worth a call afterward. But for someone to care about me? That seemed fantastical. After all, I’d lured Edwin into my life when I had been perfectly healthy; now I had no bait with which to perform a comparable bait and switch.

But I have the kind of friends who tend to drag you out to into civilization after a break-up. You know, the good kind. And a weird thing happened when I started going out more and meeting more new people. People noticed my cane, but sometimes they also noticed my eyes, my ass, and my sense of humor. They noticed that I’m pretty much always laughing and having fun, and all of this together– including the cane– intrigued some people. Still others didn’t really care about the cane either way. The bottom line was that most people cared far less about the fact that I was disabled than I ever expected.

Socially, I’m much more comfortable with my cane and my poor coordination than I was even just a year ago. What used to mortify me is just a part of my life now: My hair is a vivid shade of crayola, I’m wearing a garnet pendant, kicking off a pair of pumas, popping my prescription meds. My cane is propped beside me, ready for action. And all that’s just what I’m like, for now. It would be nice if some of those details changed, but none of them make me less of a person or even less of a sexual person. My self-image is better than it’s been in a while, and I’m having regular, scorching-hot sex with a guy who cares enough to ask how I’m feeling today and never acts like he’s doing me some huge favor by not treating me like a moped (fun to ride, but don’t let your friends catch you). It still sucks when I’m too sick and tired to go out and I end up missing fun (and that happens a lot), but I know that disability is more of a detail than my identity. It took some time, but I can brazenly look anyone in the eye, and if people have a problem returning my gaze, that’s their issue to cope with.

I’m not afraid of much. I love heights, I relish the chance to get up and make an ass of myself in front of a crowd. When I’m walking alone at night it crosses my mind embarrassingly seldom that I might get jumped. My grandma bought me pepper spray as a high school graduation present, and I never bothered to bring it with me to university: it lay scorned in a desk drawer in my old bedroom until my little brother discovered it while snooping and unleashed its wrath on his own face. I’m not afraid of snakes, spiders, or ceolacanths. Maybe I’m a little afraid of commitment (commitment and velociraptors), but even that bogey doesn’t leave me in a cold sweat. I’ve had my share of ugly experiences. I know that bad things happen, and I’ve learned that this isn’t a safe world. I still just can’t manage to work up much day-to-day fear about things; I have this bizarre and baseless confidence that I can manage whatever nasty surprises come along in life.

That said, fisting scares the shit out of me.

Sometimes I’ll watch a video or read a first-hand account of a woman experiencing vaginal fisting, and it’s obvious to me that the pleasure involved is transfiguring, transporting. It’s all so over-the-top and sexy. The apparent intensity of it is incredibly erotic, and that makes me think “Hmmmmm, what if I…” for a split second. But then, my inner realist shuts me down with “Surely any sex act that would require an episiotomy needs to come off the table, sweetie.”

Okay, medical intervention is probably hyperbole here, but I literally do not understand how an entire hand would fit in me. Four male fingers is the most I’ve ever attempted, and my vagina felt like a clown car. A ripping, throbbing clown car. Three fingers is usually too intense, if I’m catching knuckle. Where would the thumb even go? And it isn’t like my vagina is freakishly small. It’s accommodated some beautiful penes in its day (no, never more than one at a time). I’m pleased when a partner remarks that it’s nice and tight, but I’ve always thought that was more a function of my mighty pelvic muscles than an indication that I’m anatomically much smaller than average. So I put it to you, speaking as the possessor of roughly normal-sized equipment: where would the thumb even go?

Also, I don’t think I could feel right about being the fister unless I was absolutely sure the chick was a seasoned veteran. I have huge hands for a woman. Whenever I consider the possibility of fisting someone I look down at my gargantuan mitts and flinch in sympathy. And I haven’t even gotten started mentioning anal fisting! I can’t even grok that at this point, although I’m thrilled that people are having their fun.

So how does fisting work for these courageous women who welcome it enthusiastically into their sex lives? I guess, like most things that are potentially awesome, it requires training. It’s probably like gauged piercings: you work up to larger and still larger sizes until finally you’re absolutely guaranteed to never have a career in corporate America again. I mean, until you can fit the whole thing in. And I know there’s skill involved: the whole “silent duck” entry with all the fingers tapered to a (relatively) comfortable point (aside: is it still a silent duck if I’m screaming in agony?), the copious lube, the necessity of relaxing. It all just seems like it’s a lot of time and effort to put into making sure I’ll have to order a diva cup in size 2.

Fisting might be one of those things I’ll just have to file under “not for me”, along with water sports and nu rock. Although, what if I tried it with a really small-handed woman? That could be sexy. I mean, I hate to think I’m missing out. You know, fear is the mind killer.