quizzical pussy

I want it. No, I don’t lust after it. Masturbating with a tentacle dildo would be more a matter of novelty than actual desire. While cephalopods are super awesome, and ever since I saw The Future is Wild I absolutely believe that they’re going to inherit the Earth, it’s hard for me to sexualize them, or their appendages.

It would be more in the family of giving a foot job: something to try just so I could say (mostly to myself, and possibly to the internet) that I have.

I get why there’s tentacle porn. Kind of. Apparently sex with octopodes has been a theme in Japanese literature and art since the early 19th century. So when hentai creators were faced with the prospect of forever turning penises into pixelated blobs to comply with censorship regulations someone cleverly dipped into the historical vault and pulled out a writhing, slithery tentacle that was all too willing to get down to business. For the greater good.

I don’t get why that should be hot, per se. I also don’t really like coffee, but I’m not thrown every time I pass a Starbucks. I figure it’s just a personal choice. Some people get off on watching women popping balloons; some people get off on watching cartoon women with balloon tits being forcibly penetrated by tentacle monsters. Or maybe everybody actually just finds both things funny. I mean, even if you did find this stuff unbearably erotic, part of you would realize that it’s hilarious, right?

And that’s why I need this toy. It just can’t get around being funny. I want to bring this tentacle dildo on adventures with me. I want to take vacation photos of the tentacle dildo: in front of the Louvre, gravely contemplating the heretical MacDonald’s there; taking advantage of perspective by pushing his mighty suckers against the Leaning Tower of Pisa to keep it from tipping over. I want tourists everywhere to pose with my tentacle dildo. I want virgins to flee from it. “It’s okay, virgins!” I’d laugh, “he’s friendly.” But they don’t understand English very well. My tentacle dildo and I would have a laugh about the misunderstanding over tea and Turkish Delight.

But the really compelling thing about owning this tentacle dildo is that it empowers a person to say “my tentacle dildo” a lot. You know, without having to do so much imagining. My tentacle dildo. It should be a show or something. Things being what they are, probably an anime.

I wouldn’t exactly call it easy to fuck someone. It’s exhilarating, inspiring, powerful, and sometimes glorious, but I wouldn’t call it easy. For me, it’s even harder to sleep with someone.

Like, sleep sleep.

This isn’t a rare phenomenon: it’s quite common to find either easier than the other, I think. I’m just in the “sleeping together is harder” camp. If I’m fucking you, I’ve conquered enough of whatever misgivings I may have about you seeing me naked. I’ve gotten to the point where I trust (or hope) that you won’t be a huge churl afterward. I’m ready to accept the risks in order to get the payoff. To actually sleep with you, though, I have to be able to really relax around you. That’s trickier.

I’ve always been a finicky sleeper as it is. I have these preferences, you see. If possible, I like to have it cave dark and death quiet. When I was a lass, I used to stuff towels into the crack under the door to blot out the hall light until my dad explained that continuing this action would have the dual results of 1) decreasing my likelihood of being able to escape from a house fire in time to not die, and 2) buying me a swift and furious spanking. It took me over a year to get used to leaving my computer on all night, even in sleep mode, and I still often just turn it off. I own and scruple not to use ear plugs, when decibels  threaten. I generally sleep alone; my dog isn’t even invited to sleep with me. So I’m kind of that girl. Sure I can sleep with more light, some ambient noise, or with another body in the bed, but sometimes these factors make it a little tougher, especially if I don’t feel entirely comfortable with the other body.

Sex, now, that I’m always ready for.

It’s not that I’m scared that I’ll be bludgeoned to death while asleep or anything. It just takes a little more…something for me to be okay sleeping with someone. It’s almost like I can have sex on lust alone, but I have to like you to fall asleep with you.

Interestingly enough, I tend sleep very well with Laramy.

The Thanksgiving celebration I want to have: Spending all day in bed, fucking, eating take-out, watching strange Asian horror films, and being thankful for all these delightful things.

The Thanksgiving celebration I will have: Picking at dry turkey while listening attentively to harangues from my family about how I’m too old to have such preposterous hair.

Here we go, pilgrims! Hope there’s pie in it for you!

The fabled hitachi magic wand

This is it, people. The Hitachi Magic Wand, the Cadillac of vibrators, the oldie-but- goody, the sultan of snatch. Das Wunderwerkzeug.

I was ten or so when I looked under my parents’ bed (I don’t remember why, but when you’re ten do you really need a reason?) and found a “personal massager”. It was definitely Magic Wand-shaped, although it was brown and cream colored, a tell that it had probably been purchased in the seventies, when they married (at least it wasn’t harvest gold like their stand mixer). I’m not sure if their device was a knock-off or a previous iteration of the legend; the Hitachi Magic Wands I’m familiar with are always a crisp white and blue.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was dealing with here, but I had a vague feeling that it possibly had something to do with this sex thing I kept hearing about. (No, I had not yet connected that what I routinely did with the hand shower was in any way related. Why do you ask?) It’s possible that my mother, who to this day is a very religious and reserved woman, actually used it to massage her neck or something. But honestly, what are the odds? She used it to get off, right? And good for her!

My point here is not to think of my mother masturbating, or to invite you to think of my mother masturbating, so seriously, stop. My point here, I think, is that the Magic Wand’s reputation for being timeless is well-deserved. It seems to cross generational and ideological barriers. It seems to get the job done for an astonishing range of women, and the fact that my mother had hers well over a decade speaks to its dependability and durability if nothing else.

When I began to get serious about my sex toy collection I was impressed by its reviews and testimonials. Sure, It looked less scintillating than a lot of the other toys available, but everyone agreed that there was not a better clitoral masturbation aid anywhere. It was a perennial staff pick at every major sex toy retailer: women with access to dozens, hundreds of toys always came back to this, the Cadillac of vibrators. Also, I loved that you could plug it in. I burn through batteries like David Lynch burns through crazy.

So I ordered one. Of course I ordered one! I couldn’t wait to have the orgasm of my life, and then follow it up with another just like it. And another. And another. I was going to make it sorry it ever met me and gave me those come-hither product reviews.

It came in a long rectangular box that I appreciated for not being plastic clamshell packaging. The neutral exterior and the carefully worded booklet enclosed seemed intent on projecting a “you just bought a personal massager, not a vibrator, dammit!” attitude. This amused me, because I was all too ready to corrupt the shit out of my new toy. So I scrubbed up the “soft, flexible head” with dish soap quickly, perfunctorily. I dried it off, plugged it in, and…

It was. Sort of. Meh. It wasn’t like I couldn’t get off with it, but that’s really not saying much since I can technically get off with a smoke detector. It just wasn’t very compelling. It has two vibration settings for your pleasure: “boring” and “clitoris-searing”. On low I could have a quick orgasm, but it wasn’t any better than I could do without a toy. On the high setting I would sometimes have a great, gushing orgasm, but even if I braced it against my pubic bone and let the radiant sensations get me to that climax I would still feel sore right after. Both settings left my clit numb every time. All this is better than having zero orgasms, but for me it wasn’t the spiritual experience it seemed to be for every other woman on the planet.

I was the lonely voice of dissent with a numb pussy and a long future in front of her, full of buying batteries.

Yeah, I tried buying the attachments. Yes, I tried using it through my clothes. Honestly, it’s just not my favorite sex toy. I wanted it to be. I was ready for it to be, but it didn’t work out that way. I would still recommend it, though, because every woman I know who owns one loves hers. Then she looks shocked when I tell her it isn’t my cup of tea; it’s like I’ve just told her that her first born child looks like a lamprey.

I’ll admit that in spite of all this, I just used my Hitachi Magic Wand mere hours before writing this. My hips and lower back were feeling tense and I needed to work out some (actual muscle) tension. Yes. Alas, I’m actually using it as a personal massager, and I absolutely adore it in that capacity. I feel like the one guy who actually did read Playboy for the articles, but it seriously pummels the knots right out!

I guess I’ve finally succeeded in downgrading an intimate relationship into a highly productive platonic one. Go figure.

You know what’s frustrating? Entitlement. Or, I guess I should say a misguided sense of entitlement. I don’t like it when I run into it on the freeway or at the grocery store, and I sure as goddamn don’t like it when it burrows into my sex life.

A sense of entitlement, in my experience, can be the biggest distinction between a date and a rapist. It often transforms a partner into a bully, a disappointment into a snit, and if it doesn’t let up your sense of entitlement will make me want to stop touching your naughty bits, without fail.

Not too terribly long ago I used to mess around with Clifton Overmangle. He proved a challenging playmate. If we interacted on a purely platonic level, we were fine. Mostly. Sure, he mocked my voice, my clothes, my mannerisms, and my lack of coordination ruthlessly, which wasn’t totally fun, but tolerable. When bathing suit areas come into the equation, though, mockery became one small element in a constellation of issues. His only two settings were “not touching me” and “hurting me”, omitting all the luscious possibilities that lie between. Sure, roughness has a place, but more importantly it has a time, and that time is not always. Additionally, his interest in my pussy was conspicuously outstripped by his involvement in my ass. I’m absolutely up for anal play, but I hate feeling like my genitals are either going to be neglected or considered a chore.

Also, he was a “virgin”, only interested in oral and possibly saddlebacking at some point. I’m not a fan of technical virginity in concept. Feel free to do whatever you like on your own timeline, but when you’re sexually active and claiming that you’re a virgin because of which orifices are involved, I have to ask, what are you protecting? A hymen you could’ve broken in a hundred comparatively boring ways? Some magical brand of virtue I’m unaware of that doesn’t tarnish when mouths and asses are substituted for vaginas? A pretend superiority over the rutting masses… you know, the ones who rut in a slightly different way from you? In addition to all the other ways that it’s silly, insisting that digital and oral sex aren’t real sex is tantamount to saying it’s impossible for me to fuck a girl because I have no penis. It’s an absurd construct, and I feel hypocritical enabling it.

Despite all this, we had some good times. On rare occasion, there’s some appeal to the prospect of having a few anal orgasms, getting bruised up all over, and ending up with a penis in my mouth. Eventually, though, the inarticulate rage that I sensed behind his roughness got to me: I became more and more convinced that it was coming from a hostile rather than a playful place. It felt like he was working out his internal choler on me just because I was there and physically weaker. When I tried to talk about it, he opined that I was a control freak and wanted to micromanage his behavior. When I explained that it was upsetting me, he argued that it shouldn’t. Yeah, well, it did. So I went on a Clifton sabbatical. This wasn’t an attempt to punish him by withdrawing sexual favors or acting out of pique; I just felt like our emotional tendencies were poorly matched. Anger distresses me, and he seemed consumed with it.

It wasn’t long before Clifton decided I could help him in another way. I should send him pictures: pictures of my ass, my tits, my feet, my pussy (even my pussy, of all things!). He reasoned that it shouldn’t be emotionally taxing for me, and he would be less bothered by the fact that we weren’t sexually interfacing anymore. It was, he asserted, the perfect solution.

Um no.

“With the glut of good porn out there, I’m sure you’ll manage without me,” I responded, unimpressed. I didn’t understand, he protested. He needed my help; I was more of a fantasy object for him than I knew. My body, my expressions, my blowjobs… there were times when he wanted to get off to me, and his usual porn was no help. He needed dirty pictures from me, and he needed them immediately because he was turned on now and it was getting late. These are arguments perfectly situated to thud against a skeptic’s mind with the true ring of bullshit. How can a fully aroused male not have a plan B? Especially when plan A hasn’t even admitted to owning a camera. Even if he was incapable of finding satisfaction without an image of me to wank to for some occult reason, that didn’t make it my problem. Invoking the already stupid fallacy of “You gave me blue balls, therefore you owe me _______.” at a distance of several miles insults everyone’s intelligence.

He was upset that I refused. I was selfish, arbitrary, cruel, unfeeling, and more willing to indulge my insecurities than help out a friend. For months he repeated his request, and this was the new complexion of our “friendship”.

There are people out there who enjoy trading racy pics over the internet with friends, strangers, partners, whatever. I’m not one of them. I’m not any kind of exhibitionist. When it comes to photographs, I haven’t evolved much past the loathing I cultivated during my adolescent awkward phase. I’ve spent entire years of my life avoiding cameras: I literally cannot provide visual confirmation that I was on this planet in 2004, and I’m okay with that. For me, giving someone sexy pics is a big deal, and it requires perhaps more trust than bondage would.

Now, it didn’t irritate me that he asked for pictures. It irritated me that he did not stop asking. He became pushy, plaintive, and disrespectful about it. I never understood when getting a picture of my ass became his inalienable right. When did desire become entitlement?

After literally hundreds of denials from me, he recently suggested we start meeting up again as a way to alleviate his preoccupation with pics. Circular? Not to be believed! In addition to the old problems, I didn’t want to physically deal with someone whom I routinely had to remind over and over in text that my body is subject to my choices, and that no means no. Even for a “virgin”, you’d figure this stuff is pretty elementary. Thus we found ourselves at a total impasse, and at that point each of us had a moment of crystalline clarity:

1) I realized that as much as I like to give people multiple chances before I cut off contact completely, I actually already had in this case, and things were only getting worse.

2) Clifton realized that I wasn’t going to give him naked pictures or blowjobs in the foreseeable future.

My insight made it a great deal easier to take the insults that flowed from his; I was done, he knew I was done, and now it was just a matter of hearing why I had been really, horribly, inhumanly unfair about all of this. I sat through it because I find that when you deprive a guy of his parting shot, he never feels quite fulfilled enough to leave you alone after that. And Clifton and I were at last on the brink of the exciting and glorious prospect of leaving each other the hell alone for good and all.

I’ve had to deal with this type of thing too many times: just because you’ve had or think you could have fun with my body doesn’t make it yours. I’ll decide what I want to touch, where I want to be touched, whom I want to invite inside me, and whether I want to send images of any part of me. If that’s selfish, then… fuck that. It’s not selfish. It’s my birthright. It’s non-negotiable and as true for me as it is for everyone else. To these few but precious things, I am justly and unquestionably entitled.

There’s a certain kind of orgasm that I can’t remember ever having with a partner before, but it sort of makes me get all melty and develop short-lived afterglow crushes on myself for being able to give it to me.

A regular clitoral orgasm is a kiss of a crescendo. If it were a fragrance it would be crisp, glittering, green and golden. The kind I’m talking about is an almost violent crash followed by a shock wave: byzantine and dark with undertones of spice.

It feels like it crept out of the squirting orgasm phylum a bit after my body learned the trick of ejaculating from just clitoral stimulation. But even that is brighter. This darker orgasm pulses like its predecessor, but it seems like the contractions that accompany it are deeper, more throbbing. It slaps across my clit and then sears all the way up to my cervix, and my pelvic muscles contract in waves like my pussy’s suckling a phantom cock.

Just trust me on this: it’s awesome.

They’re a little tricky to coax out, but even so I’m starting to get disappointed if I have to hobble away from a masturbation session without getting at least one. This is where greed will get you: spending most of the morning with your vibrator.

I have a confession to make. I totally watch the British ITV2 show Secret Diary of a Call Girl. I consider it kind of a guilty pleasure. It’s the type of TV critics seem to like to call a frothy confection: a half-hour drama following a high-class (“upscale”) London call girl (played by Billie Piper) as she juggles her secret career as prostitute Belle De Jour and her personal life as Hannah Baxter. Yeah, I watch it and like it. Now what?

I appreciate shows and movies that portray sex workers as real people who aren’t predators, victims, or addicts. I do understand and acknowledge anyone who feels compunction about glamorizing something that can go so terribly wrong, especially when that glamor might threaten to blot out the stories that need to get told. The tragic injustices exist: hell, they abound. Prostitutes can and do encounter violence and exploitation, and please let’s not forget the nauseous abundance of women, children, and men forced into sexual slavery to fulfill the global demand for sex workers. There are major problems with the sex-based sector of the economy, some of which of arise partly because so much of it has to operate underground, accountable to very little, and even less that’s ever concerned with the health, independence, and well-being of the participants. Misplaced moral outrage and criminalization chase sex work into the shadows, and we know all too well what happens in a darkness like that: that’s how Sméagols become Gollums.

I believe it’s time to make a clear distinction between sex crime and sex business. These horrible infringements on human rights shouldn’t find it so easy to ape a harmless transaction between consenting adults any longer.

But how about people who are drawn to prostitution and other sex work because it’s fun, because they enjoy both money and sex? Why the hell that should present a problem to anyone is beyond me. The self-created happy hooker who makes a deliberate career choice and executes it with responsibility deserves more play. That’s the kind of sex worker we should encourage. Secret Diary portrays a call girl’s vocation as difficult and complicated, but also rewarding and sexy. Plus, there are times I feel sure I could compose a panegyric to Billie Piper’s ass.

The show is loosely based on the real experiences chronicled by the real owner of the really fake pseudonym Belle De Jour, who maintains a blog and wrote bestselling books, remaining completely anonymous until early this week. Turns out (via sexoteric), she’s 34-year-old scientist Dr. Brooke Magnanti, a respected specialist in developmental neurotoxicology and cancer epidemiology. These days she’s spending her time researching children’s cancer. Yep, she’s a science geek who’s trying to keep kids healthy: your move, naysayers. She spent 14 months selling sex to support herself while she worked on finishing her thesis, and she doesn’t regret it at all. In fact, she enjoyed it.

Good on you, doctor, for coming out and proving that a whip-smart woman (who is not, as it turns out, some man’s wishful invention or a writer’s fantastical thought experiment) can choose to participate in prostitution, have a great time, and walk away when she’s good and ready.

Now, to wait for season 3 to start…

My official position on penis envy is that it’s utter tripe, the wishful thinking of flimsy-headed men who ascribe an almost numinous significance to the possession of a phallus simply because they were born with dicks and want to feel important without exerting actual effort. There’s no reason any woman anywhere should care that she lacks a penis. Doesn’t she have a vulva and a vagina, not to mention a uterus? And don’t even get me started on fallopian tubes: ancient bastions of power.

My unofficial position on penis envy is that I have it like Magic Johnson used to have AIDS.*

It isn’t that I want to be male. That doesn’t appeal to me. Although I identify with guyness in significant ways, I embrace being female. I love having all the accouterments of femininity, and there are times I’m tempted to wish I had more of a certain sort (see: boobs). In my experience, having a pussy is spectacular. Ladyparts are more versatile than a pocket knife, more surprising than the troposphere, and more fun than six roller coasters. If you don’t have a vulva of your own, see if you can borrow one for a few hours and then try to tell me they aren’t cunning little contraptions.

But still, there’s something about a penis. It’s not necessarily that I’d rather play with a penis than a pussy, because both are enticing. It’s just that they’re so… external. They’re cool in the way having a tail would be cool (not in the “I’m a furry” sense, but in the “fucking admit it: having a tail would be cool” sense). They’re a fidgeter’s dream. I can’t imagine looking down my torso, seeing a cock, and not wanting to play with it every blessed time. It’s similar, I guess, to the varying-but-never-absent urge I have to play with my tits. External sex organs are enticing “PUSH ME” buttons, right there on your body, daring you to ignore them and knowing your human frailty won’t allow it.

And then there’s the whole arousal aspect. We’re talking about an appendage that advertises its intentions like a slutty, slutty beacon: ostentatious, risky, unequivocal… all things I admire, but tend to lack when it comes to sex. A hard-on, although I can think of ways it could go embarrassingly wrong, is hypererotic because it’s so damn unapologetic.

Wetness is the best female analog I can think of. In either case, discovering arousal that I may have contributed to usually makes me feel like sort of a stud. The difference is that you have to be farther along in the petting to get tactile feedback on what you’ve accomplished with a girl. To wit, I have to already be in your pants to get the payoff. Usually. And that’s not inferior to the timeless “gun in your pocket or…” question, it’s just different. Occasionally, when faced with an either-or choice a sex enthusiast can’t help but come down with a decisive and resounding “both!”. Hence, penis envy, because it’s the option I currently lack.

Notice, please, that in my discourse here I haven’t mentioned power, or Electra, or any of the stages of psychosexual development. I also don’t think I need one in order to fuck girls, although having that option would be another perk. Sometimes a penis is just a penis: another toy it’d be fun to experiment with from the other end of the shaft. Admittedly, I totally covet the experience of having a penis, but I lament your lack of imagination if you’re male and haven’t gotten around to coveting my multiple orgasms.

*I know: he never had AIDS and still has HIV. Yes, you’re very smart. Shut up.

It’s kind of weird when you realize that you’ve been alone together with one of your sex partners precisely once, for about forty seconds, and that this time overlapped exactly none with the actual sex.

“I want to visit a swingers’ club one of these days, just to see what it’s like.” I was sprawled out on Laramy’s bed chattering away, which is one of my newer hobbies. Laramy Fuquerton and I have been fucking for a few months now, with sterling success.
“Are there even any around here?” he wondered.
“Of course there are. They’re everywhere!” I said in the authoritative tone I save for bullshit. “…Well, I heard about one once.”

I’m not pretending I’d be visiting a swingers’ club strictly as an anthropologist, or a journalist, or to gawk at the sideshow freak adulterers, or as ambassador from Finland. It’s just that to participate in playful, no-strings sex with strangers (which I’ve never done, not even having had a single one night stand) I’d have to feel both comfortable and interested in record time. I wouldn’t rule that out, but I also wouldn’t bring an economy-sized tub of lube in anticipation. So yeah, really. I actually just want to see. Sometimes in a person’s sex life an idea presents itself that appears to have equal potential to be either hideously awkward or kind of neat, and sometimes you gamble on neat, because it’s a new experience. Barring actual trauma, the alchemy of time usually softens awkward to hilarious anyway.

One of the cool things about Laramy that I’m coming to understand more and more is that he’s very game. If I said “Hey, I’ve been thinking lately that it might be fun to try naked judo-style grappling, but in an igloo,” I’m starting to think he’d say “How do we make this happen?” and start researching how to avoid frostbite (stay tuned for the upcoming entry on how that went [you should probably know I'm lying]). Maybe it shouldn’t seem especially odd that a guy would respond with at least a tinge of interest to the prospect of going to a sex club, but his total lack of hesitation signifies a willingness of attitude that’s all too rare, in my experience. Anyway, he pulled up a listing of clubs in our state and we got down to business.

Not wild monkey sex business. Reconnoitering business.

I conspicuously didn’t say I haven’t a single anthropological bone in my body because that would’ve been a blatant lie and I never lie on the internet. Swingers as a subculture are fascinating. I want to ethnographize the shit out of them. Like most groups, they have their own little shorthand language. Of course it has many cognates in BDSM, regular sex-literate culture, and the sex industry, but some elements are idiomatic. Hard swap (two couples switching partners for full-on intercourse) vs. soft swap (switching that’s limited to oral play), for instance, is something I’ve never come across outside of swinging parlance because really, where else would you have opportunity to invoke these concepts but in (as they say) The Lifestyle? Swingers’ clubs are either on-premise or off-premise, which essentially means you can play on site or you can’t. Many of these seem to be more like Fight Club-style organizations that only exist when they’re in session rather than brick-and-mortar nightclubs. They all claim to be “upscale” and “drama-free”, and will likely repeat both these terms several times in their About Us pages and FAQs. Most will try to keep things innovative with woefully unsurprising themes: wet t-shirt contest, leather and lace, bad boys and naughty school girls, and so on. Some of them even use those wrist band sex codes of urban legend, which probably teeters on the line between whimsical and tawdry, but I think comes out on the adorable former side after all.

We waded through a lot of these clubs’ websites, and something happened to us that may happen to real anthropologists in the field: we came up against a cultural difference that seemed almost insurmountable. The website design was uniformly terrible. No. It was really, really terrible. It looked like the bastard child of 1997 and a terrible animated flash ad had thrown up all over a geocities account and then beat off to its death throes. I have no right to be, nor am I, too much of a web design snob. I don’t demand anything too marvelous when I visit a site, but I do ask that it be clean, legible, and proofread within a reasonable margin of error, or else unflattering thoughts about the author start to insinuate themselves, unbidden. I guess it’s like looking at someone’s profile on an internet dating site and noticing that the owner can’t grasp the difference between “you’re” and “apple”. Sorry about your illiteracy and all, but damned if I’m going to fuck you.

Is it because swinging is a throwback to the seventies and attracts an older crowd than I’d anticipated, and maybe they’re a little out of touch? Is it because they’re too busy having naughty school girl fun to bother to spend any time or energy on web presence? It is a mystery! The first terrible page we went to made us laugh. By the fourth the trend was becoming worrisome. When the tenth had a bad animated .gif of a woman in a sparkly bikini, it seemed like it was time to quit for the day. “Seeing a website like this makes me determined not to have sex with the person who made it,” said Laramy.
“I’m actually turned off now,” I agreed.

Swingers’ clubs: I’m not ready to give up on you. I’m still curious. I’m still hoping things will work out between us, but I need you to meet me halfway. I just want to be able to read about your toga orgy parties and masquerade balls without getting queasy. I mean, aren’t ANY of you geeks? Please say that there are geek swingers and nerd swingers and dork swingers, and maybe even a bookworm swinger or two. I know this sounds terribly xenophobic, but in this specific sense I think I really do prefer to have sex with my own kind.