“I kind of always knew I’d end up your ex girlfriend,” I announced calmly.

“Why would you even say that?” he demanded, angry. “That’s not fair at all. What a disgusting thing to say.”

“Ummm the No Doubt song that’s playing? Right now? Those are the lyrics.” Given, it wasn’t exactly the height of comedy to repeat the words to the song playing, but I thought it’d lighten the mood or something. Nope.

“Oh.” Icy.

To be fair, we were basically always on the verge of breaking up. It was probably in poor taste. But I guess on some level I did, kind of always know. Just like the song says. Maybe I meant it.

Here are some confessions that feature exes.

My ex boyfriend is internet famous, and rightly so because he’s talented… annoyingly so. We still get along okay, I consider him a friend. But guys my type ALWAYS turn out to be humongous fanboys of his. After we have the past relationships talk they have a million questions and want me to introduce them. So I either have to lie or live with the fact that I’m less interesting to heterosexual men than my ex boyfriend.

I figure for every fanboy you’re attracted to, there’s a similar, also-your-type guy who thinks your ex is just a little overrated. Unless your type is specifically your ex’s worshippers, which honestly would be worrisome for those of us that care about you and want you to move on.

Also, you realize you can skip over all identifying information when you have that past relationships talk, right?

I had sex with my ex (who is dating someone else) and it was fantastic. I missed fisting him!

I don’t know if this is in a sneaky or ethically open context, but either way it never ceases to amaze me that people can fit fists in their butts.

My boyfriend got drunk tonight and kicked me out of his house. I don’t even know what I did and he wouldn’t tell me — said he didn’t like me anymore — I was asleep and he sat me up roughly, sent me outside, called a cab and gave me 40 bucks to pay for it.

At least he was a gentleman enough to give me some cash for the cab. I called a dealer I used to know, bought some awesome coke, and don’t feel the least big guilty about the drugs because all I feel right now is peace and understanding — and I know that it’s over once and for all. I don’t even feel sad. It’s just over.

And here’s the sex part — I’m going to keep fucking him. Best sex I’ve ever had, and I’m not about to give that up. I’m just not going to be emotionally involved anymore. I’ve given up a lot of offers for sex while I’ve been with him — and it hasn’t been a sacrifice — but I’m going to start looking up those offers and offer him FWB. He’ll take me up on it, and I’ll have great sex with him, variety, and none of this bullshit anymore.

Yay. Thanks for the high dood. I’ll be calling you next time I’m hard up.

Every time I’ve ever had a no-strings-attached arrangement with an ex there were oh so many strings attached. But that’s just me.

Who the fuck wakes someone up just to dump them?

We only had sex once, it was bad bad bad because we didn’t know what we were doing because we were so young, and I got pregnant (miscarriage). But I think about my first love every single day. I miss him.

But I know for a fact that he wasn’t a good person, and he’d probably treat me like shit if I tried to get him back. Yet I pine.

Not to make assumptions here, but have you talked to someone about how having that miscarriage affected you? Maybe your first love, who sounds like a much better ex than a boyfriend, is more or less incidental to this story.

A couple of weeks ago I confessed that I missed my exes beautiful penis (not the size one) well I’ve found a new man who may not have the world’s most beautiful penis but uses it better than anyone I have ever met. I have had my faith in the world restored, and also think I may be the luckiest girl alive.

The original confession appears here. I’m very glad you’ve found a penis (or at least a penis user) that you can get excited about again.

Also, if this new guy would like to offer any sex tips to my penis-using readers, that would be just super.

I knew I was supposed to be finding myself (it’s what all the cool kids seemed to be doing in college), but I wasn’t. I was just going to class and working and trying to keep my relationship together. There was nothing revelatory about my life. But it seemed like maybe feminists could tell me where I was.

They couldn’t, of course. No one can. But for my final project in that class I wrote and illustrated an educational pamphlet on female genital anatomy. It was created to give young women a sense of normalcy regarding masturbation and a clear idea of what’s where in the vulvular region. And I don’t know why, but I’m still rather proud of it. Probably because it makes me laugh even now.

In retrospect, I really don’t think it’s possible to find yourself where and when you’re “supposed” to. Unlike the average clitoris.

Today’s confessions are about anatomy, more or less.

I’m an adult who wets the bed, and I’m terribly afraid every time I stay over after sex that I’m going to piss on him.

Some guys would be into that. Just saying.

My partner begs me to pee on him. CONSTANTLY. This does nothing for me, to the point where I find it disgusting. I did pee on his face for the first time in our many years together, and he loved it. I wanted to puke. Ah, love.

See, first confessor? It’s probably not exactly kismet that these two confessions actually came in the same day, but it’s something. Synchronicity, maybe.

Oh, and this commenter? You are good, giving, and game without a doubt.

My roommates are in the main lounge studying, but I feel a lot more productive–while masturbating, I finally succeeded in orgasming from nipple play alone. (of course the one nipplegasm didn’t stop me from subsequently going for the clit and coming again…)

Ooh I just had a nipple orgasm myself! Isn’t it cool how all the kinds of orgasms are different? You can have a five-course meal just of different kinds of coming.

I broke up with my boyfriend about a month ago, I don’t really miss him but what I do miss is his penis which was huge. I was going to have sex with someone else the other day but actually couldn’t do it because they just had nothing compared to him. I’m scared I’ll never be as satisfied with another penis as I was with his!

Not being a real size queen myself, I find it hard to relate to this, exactly, but I can sympathize. I’m imagining being condemned to skinny, three-inch cocks and a one-finger-at-a-time limit for the rest of my life, and I’m suddenly unsatisfied.

I’m scared I will never love another penis the way I loved my ex boyfriend’s penis. It was a beauty and now every single one I see is a true disappointment. I wish I’d taken a picture when I had the chance.

Wouldn’t it be nice if you and the previous confessor could just switch exes? I wonder if your “big”s are comparable. Unless you’re the same person, and your ex is mutant, unequaled in size the world over. In which case, balls.

But I remain firm in my belief that mammoth penii are out there, more than enough for both of you, just waiting to blow your minds.

Now, kind readers, blow my mind? Tell me something good.

The Sovereign Nations of the World by Penis Size

(click to engorge)

How patriotic do you feel looking at this map? Of course, part of me is wondering if the data is all self-reported. If so, we may simply be looking at a map charting the size of insecurities, sorted by country.

Either way, where’s the girth map? Do cartographers know nothing about the mechanics of sexual intercourse?

(Via geekologie, through a confidential source.)

This was a pit.

Actually, more than anything it was like a small community workshop theater. A single room, the club was black painted wood with two pine platforms (also painted black) where the brass poles stood, dull and worn. There was a little neon. And there were men in g-strings.

Between the makeshift stages, a shower was built into the back wall. Wednesday was shower night, but the shower was broken. Of course it was.

I hear that female strip clubs– that is, those where the strippers are women– are more velvety. They try harder. Male strip clubs– specifically gay male strip clubs, I’m told, don’t bother with pretense. I have no idea if this is true in general. To this day, I’ve only been to one, and it was true here.

In we walked, a gaggle of females. The club was dead. We didn’t care. It was Miriam’s birthday, and she wanted to visit this pit on shower night, dammit, shower or not.

There were two guys working that night. Two. A short, wiry guy with a pretty face and a tall, beefier guy with a, well, a face. He had a face.

We chicks danced a little with the newly out dean of a local university. Then we sat down directly adjacent to one of the platforms, ordered drinks, and watched the guys take turns working our pole. It wasn’t until about five minutes into Wiry Guy’s performance that we realized he was wearing an electronic tether over his tube socks.

Classy. Classy is the word for that.

Beefy Guy, not to be outdone but lacking the necessary state-mandated hardware, was at a loss for a moment. Then he wrapped his flaccid shaft clear around the brass pole and seemed to feel better about himself.

Did I mention class?

As the night wore on I got a bit bored. It is a great shortcoming, but I can really only watch people I’m not attracted to writhe around naked for so long before I want to pull out my Nintendo DS. In retrospect, this is probably why Beefy Guy approached me.

“You’re very pretty,” he began.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” said my lips. I’m not giving you money, dude, said my brain.

There was some inane small talk on his part and some noncommittal nodding on mine until he saw some bruises on my arms.

“What happened there?” Beefy Guy made his face-which-he-had-yes-indeed look concerned.

“Just some horseplay,” I answered honestly. Clifton and I were hanging out fairly often at the time, and there was a lot of wrassling.

“No one… hurt you, did they?” We were really breaking the stripper fourth wall here.

“Not at all,” I assured him. “I pity the fool.”

“Good. Because I just couldn’t stand that.” Okay, Beefy Guy… oh wait, he wasn’t done… “I could never hurt a woman,” he told me earnestly.

I nodded.

“…except that one time when my girlfriend cheated on me. But she also stole my stereo, you understand.”

“Um. I think my friends are ready to leave. Now.”

I’m very likely never going to that–or possibly any– strip club again. I don’t care if they get the shower fixed.

(image source)

“Sometimes you just want a dick in your ass.”

The reason Miriam finds this statement so profoundly hilarious is the simple reality that no, she does not in fact ever just want a dick in her ass. But obviously I do.

Interestingly, I divulged this information before ever having successful, non-painful anal intercourse. But there was this craving that existed long before pleasure was thoroughly invoked. I’d grasped tantalizing teasers of how great it could be, but always cut with discomfort and pain because I was too passive and ignorant to insist on lube. But my body still knew what it wanted. Bodies are weird that way.

So I’m not really sure why it took me so long to try a butt plug.

I have a hard plastic slimline vibrator that I allocated for ass duty, and it enhances my fapping considerably. But putting things like fingers and hard plastic and rose quartz up your ass isn’t quite the same as using something firm-yet-squishy like a penis* or, say, the premium silicone Tantus Little Flirt.

The Little Flirt is wee, only an inch(ish) in diameter at its thickest (not counting the base, which is rectangular and flared). It is definitely a beginner’s plug. There’s a Big Flirt, which I haven’t tried yet, for those who feel that they’ve graduated to something bigger. The Little Flirt is, well, little.

The silicone is softer than I expected, but in practice it feels right. It and the tapered tip allow for comfortable insertion with a little water-based lube (keep in mind that silicone lube and silicone toys can result in silicone mess), but the shape retains a good degree of integrity even if you’re gripping the hell out of it in the throes of an anal orgasm, although the toy can sometimes feel dangerously close to being pushed out if the orgasm is mighty.

Let’s talk shape for a moment, shall we? Its contours are modest but you can feel every flare and cinch of them because they are happening in your butt. It’s awkward that I can’t really compare it to other anal-specific toys, but here’s what I know: it feels good when I have it in while I’m masturbating. And I keep meaning to try it whilst fucking.

In the interest of journalistic rigor (or something) I decided to bring the Little Flirt grocery shopping with me. While it was inside me, if you didn’t happen to infer that all on your own. Some people like to have a butt plug in all day, and premium silicone is one of the safer materials to use for that purpose. So I decided to go for it, although prolonged butt obstruction isn’t really a turn-on for me.

I want to be very clear that I was wearing sweatpants, no makeup, and I still had bedhead at two in the afternoon when I embarked on this adventure. It just goes to show you that the person wearing the butt plug in your local grocery store will often not be the first person you’d guess. Anyway, here’s what happened:

2:00 PM (in bedroom, just after insertion): This is going to be awesome. I think I’m already getting a little wet.

2:05 PM (leaving house): It feels like it might possibly slip out at some point. Get ready to be embarrassed, me.

2:10 PM (in car): It can’t possibly fall out while I’m sitting down. I am an evil genius.

2:15 PM (in parking lot): I can sort of see how someone could wear a butt plug all day.

2:20 PM (walking around store): How in the goddamn do people wear butt plugs all day long? It’s getting wicked uncomfortable now that I’m walking around. I need to adjust the Little Flirt a bit as I pass the makeup aisle. I hope it just looks like I have a wedgie.

2:30 PM: This feeling. The one in my butt. I do not love it. Also, Christmas music alfuckingready? Is that seriously what we’re doing today?

2:40 PM: The bathroom is now on the opposite side of the store. I am trapped on the far end of the grocery store with a piece of food-grade silicone in my ass. I brought this on myself.

2:45 PM: I WANT TO GO HOME –Oooooh almond milk’s on sale– RIGHT NOW PLEASE.

I’m going to go ahead and call this experiment “not a success”. I can’t tell you whether my shopping adventure would’ve gone better with another plug. Maybe I’m just not cut out for taking anal play to the streets.

The biggest downside to the Little Flirt, though, is really that it’s more gateway drug than toy. There’s the kind of pleasure that’s whole and satisfying unto itself, and then there’s the kind that ignites a burning need for more, NOW. We’re dealing with the latter kind. The Little Flirt is a warmup, a tease, a… actually, it’s exactly what it says it is. It’s a flirt.

In short, it is a beginner’s anal toy. It might not take long for you to crave something bigger, but it’s excellent for getting over your novice timidity.

Thank you, Babeland!

(image source)

*Apologies to people with penises for insinuating that your organs are anything short of titanium-hard, but you know what I mean, right? Rest assured that I find penises  much firmer than this toy, for what it’s worth.

I found my G-spot and fapped furiously. My mother was in the other room watching television.

You see, science? The G-spot is true!

I *really* want to get a realistic dildo – specifically the VixSkin Johnny – but I’m worried about intimidating my boyfriend. We have a long-distance relationship, and our sex life consists of camsex on Skype. I typically use vibrators when we do, and it’s amazing – so much better than when I’m by myself, because he’s watching and getting off too. Thing is, he’s got a cliche fragile male ego about them. He frequently talks about how when we’re together, I won’t need them anymore – which is absolutely not true. I enjoy masturbating on my own and I intend to continue to use them regardless of my relationships. But for some reason, it’s so much better when I know he’s watching me do it. I’m afraid it’ll bother him a lot if he sees me fucking myself with a cock that isn’t his. I don’t want him to think I’m replacing him with a hunk of plastic.

Insecurity is really to blame for 90% of sexual issues. And obviously I made that statistic up completely, but it feels true. If a guy told me I could get rid of my sex toys because I had him I’d be all “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA your sense of humor is what I cherish most about you, dude.”

Now, this is probably like suggesting you buy a Kia when you’re looking at BMWs, but have you thought about cloning his willy? Maybe he’d be more comfortable if it was his cock you were pleasuring yourself with.

So I was dating a guy that for some reason I would eventually marry (and then divorce, because I later realized that I’m a lesbian after all, but that is a totally other story! With a happy ending even so don’t worry!), and it was still very early in our relationship, and for some reason during a very late night cuddle session he decided it sounded like a really good idea to wait until I was apparently sleeping and then hump me. This was extra bizarre because he was a preacher’s son and SUPER HUNG UP about sexuality entirely, and we’d never even gone past French kissing. I had such a hard time even parsing what the fuck was happening that I just shut down and barely even tried to stop him…I just pretended to be asleep and waited for it to end. Somehow it got vaguely apologized for and years later I still wonder off and on if it was rape but you know what, why wouldn’t it be? A guy did a sexual thing to me I didn’t want him to do and it made me feel awful and totally skeeved-out and so ashamed that I couldn’t even tell anyone for so long that I only finally told one person. Except the real reason I haven’t told anyone is I dealt with it and I’m fine now, still angry but using the anger pretty productively to set and enforce boundaries and be assertive, and I don’t want people to go “oh poor thing” and freak out and think of me like a victim. ‘Cause dammit, I’m not a victim. The only reason I would tell everyone is so they can know just what a dickbag this guy has been even though he’s always such a saint in the public eye, and the only reason I’m not telling is because I don’t want to give people the power to tell me I’ve been broken when I’m not at all. (That and I can’t think of any way to actually bring it up in conversation other than “SO YEAH, ONE TIME THIS GUY ASSAULTED ME, WHAT A DOUCHE, JUST THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW, LOLOLOLOL” and somehow that just seems way too out of the blue to even bother with. Such social graces I have!)

I understand you’re not asking for my opinion or anything, but just to make this very clear to anyone who might be reading, that was absolutely, completely, 100% rape. I’m glad you have a happy ending and honestly can’t help hoping he does not.

Send your secrets here.

Of course, sometimes I get off just sucking cock, but it’s not the fast and furious coming that happens when I’m getting penetrated. It gives me more leisure to enjoy the process, to survey the shivering, shuddering, gasping fruits of my labors.

This might be odd, but in a way I never feel as sexually powerful as when I’m giving, not accepting, an orgasm. Not dominant, not submissive, just powerful somehow. Or no, powerful is probably the wrong word. I guess it’s more that I feel most sexually useful when I’m concentrating on giving pleasure. And maybe that’s almost like something vaguely approaching feeling sexy. For me, at least.

Perhaps this is why it’s so important to me to believe that I’m good at giving head. Maybe that’s why I was so scared to have sex with women before I tried it. It was terrifying, imagining that I’d have nothing to offer a sex partner. I’d had enough positive feedback from men that I could reasonably believe I had a moderate level of proficiency at blowjobs, but I’d be starting from square one with a chick. And if that was the case, why should she even bother?

Luckily, eating pussy didn’t turn out to be the obscenely treacherous puzzle box that popular culture would have me believe (at least not the pussies I’ve eaten so far). I imagine that possessing female anatomy barely hurts the learning curve either. I’m not saying I’m a rockstar at it yet, but I’m not inept either!

Of course, there can be drawbacks to giving oral sex. Some people just don’t taste all that great (in my experience, these people most often have shitty diets, but my sample size isn’t large). Pubic hair isn’t designed for easy swallowing. Jaws get tired, tongues get sore. There are STDs to worry about (as with most any sexual contact, but it seems a lot harder to convince someone to use barriers with oral sex), and there’s the frustration that can come when you realize that you’ve just sated a partner beyond any hope of further fun.

Often these issues are greatly mitigated or simply absent, depending on whom you’ve chosen to interface with. Some people taste good, have been tested recently, are always eager to reciprocate.

But there’s one thing I can never get away from that makes giving oral sex (specifically blowjobs) kind of less awesome than perhaps they should be. Wrapping my lips tightly over my teeth to eliminate any untoward scraping, I somehow always end up cutting the inside of my upper lip with my two top incisors. If I give another blowjob before that’s healed, the cut gets worse, and so on. I think I might need a mouthguard. Or maybe some tips from my clever readers.

(image source)

Oh, I know what you’re thinking: “Silly Pussy, chicks don’t have balls.” Well, you haven’t seen me sing karaoke, then. It takes serious stones to belt out Sister Christian by Night Ranger when you haven’t had a sip of alcohol since last October.

I guess you do have a point, though. Maybe I don’t literally have balls to be kicked in, and maybe Laramy’s cock doesn’t literally have feet with which to kick. But what did happen resulted in some crazy sensations that seem roughly parallel.

For a long time I’ve likened having my cervix pounded into to getting kicked in the balls. This was based only on the fact that it hurts and cramps and makes me want to stop having sex (I’ve met very few men who want to soldier on after I’ve accidentally taken out their artillery, if you know what I mean. Boo.) But one thing I pride myself on is my ability to understand proportion. I knew all along that it wasn’t a perfect comparison. There seems to be some sort of blinding nausea that comes into play in the balls scenario. As someone mentioned on twitter, it’s “like someone dropped a load of cement on your guts.” Also, there appears to be a profound full-body weakening that skates past mere pain and into the realm of horrifying comic book vulnerabilities. My cervix has never worked this kind of alchemy.

Until, perhaps, recently.

Laramy and I were in agreement: we were damn well about to fuck any minute. First, I thought I’d put on some music to drown out my caterwauling so I was bent over my keyboard, ass presented. Laramy came up behind me, my pants collapsed to the floor, and suddenly I found it incredibly difficult to concentrate on pointing and clicking anything. His cock slid in and I gasped as it split me. I’m not sure what it was: my pussy gripping harder than usual in ever denser and more furious orgasms, or some slightly altered angle as he fucked me from behind, but the intensity was blistering. I either had roughly 300 orgasms in rapid succession or one incredibly long one. I honestly couldn’t tell.

After a while like that, I was starting to feel crampy enough that the mad orgasms weren’t dulling it anymore. It was really starting to fucking hurt, actually. But I have these priorities, see. When one position is bringing pain, you don’t throw the baby out with the sexual bathwater (…it got weird, didn’t it?), you change position. So I switched to an even lazier posture: missionary. And then we fucked some more. The pain seemed less urgent. I pretended I didn’t see it sitting there, watching us fuck. The orgasms (orgasm?) kept coming in, crashing. Laramy was pounding harder now, building. It suddenly occurred to me that when all that climaxing, analgesic of the gods, stopped I’d probably have something unpleasant to deal with. But you know how when you’re in the throes of passion you just don’t care?

But, as they ever must, the orgasms eventually came to an end. And sweet leaping Odin, a singular and absurd pain broke across my body. It was rather like the feeling one has during and just after a spinal tap: blasted with weakness and nausea and an inexorable pressure. I was shuddering and hysterically panting/giggling, though I assure you it didn’t seem funny at the time. I wanted to get to the bathroom in case I had to throw up, but I could barely move at first. Just shake. And laugh. Then I tottered semi-successfully to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I felt right again within 10 or 15 minutes.

I think I traumatized Laramy a little. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt me, but I was so set on ignoring everything to keep having awesome sex he ended up not getting much of a choice. It was so totally not his fault, but I know he felt pretty bad. Probably because I looked so wrecked from it. Fortunately he wasn’t so upset that he’s refusing to have sex with me now or anything.

But you know, it did kind of feel like someone dropped a load of cement on my guts, so I’m wondering if somehow we fucked at an angle where his penis kicked my cervix, and that I experienced the female version of being kicked in the balls. Either way, I’m going to recommend you go ahead and not try it.

(image source)

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.

(image source)

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.

(image source)