quizzical pussy

ConTuesday! It is beyond, and by that I mean below, freezing where I live. I’m sick of winter. I decided to drain my battery yesterday using my amazing powers of stupidity and vacancy. You know what’ll cheer me up? Reading your dirty secrets. Yes.

This summer I met a guy at a music festival. The first night he danced near me and I could tell he was watching me, but didn’t have the guts to come up to me. Just as I was getting ready to leave, he walked over and introduced himself. I told him my name and walked away. The whole next day, I kept running into him and teasing him. By the evening, he had worked up the courage to dance with me. After the music ended, we went for a walk that ended in fucking under a tree by the local soccer field. He had the biggest dick I have ever had the pleasure of fucking. We moved from the tree to the picnic table, to the grass, to the chain link fence. It was the best public sex I have ever had. I couldn’t help but laugh the next day when I saw people eating lunch on the picnic table! When I went home to my husband the next day, my pussy was still sore from that night.

Note to self: attend more music festivals.

My significant other, to whom I am committed, simply does not come close to meeting my sexual needs. Of course I masturbate. But it’s not enough.

I consider making overtures to a friend, who has the same situation.

My S.O. has said, when speaking in generalities: ”If you have sex with someone else, I don’t ever want to find out about it.” Tacit approval?

My friend’s S.O. has basically said, when speaking in generalities: ”No.”

Half of my reason for not approaching my friend is my fear of rejection. The other half is my old-fashioned concerns about ”cheating.” (I never have.)

You just reminded of that three-part series on sex starvation in relationships that I was planning to write, and damned if I didn’t write only two. I’ll be addressing that soon.

Quite a few Thanksgivings ago, my wife and I watched an episode of HBO’s Real Sex that included a segment about women anally penetrating their men. My wife asked me if I’d like to try it, I tried to brush it off with a ”maybe” but the seed was planted in my perverted mind. Now all I want her to do is to take control and fuck me with a strap-on, but she wants me to lead the way on our endeavor. I’ve told her that I want it. I’ve purchased latex gloves and a sex toy for anal play. She will play with my asshole while I lick her pussy. But I’m frustrated that I have to make all the moves when I want her to dominate me. I want her to make me her slut. I understand that starting anal play involves communication, but I want to feel like her toy. I’m so frustrated.

Communication and feeling like a toy aren’t mutually exclusive. If you ease her into pegging you by initiating and walking her through it, she’ll have a chance to get comfortable with it on her own terms. Then you can start vividly describing how she’d take charge in your fantasies and take baby steps toward that. She might find a dominant top deep within somewhere along the way, or might at least learn to fake it once in a while as a special treat.

In my mind, this plan is going to work flawlessly. Good luck!

You know how they say an icicle is the best murder weapon, because the evidence melts away? Its also the best dildo when your mother is not only super conservative, but isn’t shy about searching your room. I found the pleasure of female ejaculation with a hunk of ice and an electric toothbrush.

Laramy, who looked over my shoulder a bit as I compiled this week’s ConTuesdy, says he can’t get the image of licking a frozen metal pole out of his mind. I really hope using an icicle as a dildo is nothing like that. Absolutely nothing.

Affordable electric toothbrushes seem like a godsend to young women who don’t have easy, discreet access to sextoys. Glad you’re having fun.

Send your sex secrets here. It’s anonymous and it’s highly gratifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(image source)