Tuesday, February 17, 2015

I am the Noodle King. I can do anything.

I am so supposed to be doing other things, but in the course of doing said things, I came upon this.  And of course--of course--I thought of you.

Behold the Noodle King!

Yes. I know!

This Fleshlighty fuck hole not only looks like it comes from those really really deep ocean backwaters where all the fish are blind, but it also comes with this excellent back story from Jlist.com, a Japanese sex toy site where, objectively, I probably spend too much time. Anyway:

In the days when onaholes weren't invented yet, Japanese men came up with some innovative methods to create a male toy from household objects. One particular innovation was a makeshift stress toy made from a cup of warm noodles. This onahole could be created by pouring hot water in the cup noodle, wait until it was warm and soft, then remove the water and then use it as a onahole. This modern version, using more sanitary material, simulates that original feeling of using a cup of noodles for stress relief, without wasting food. 

So yeah, ha ha ha. Cup O' Noodles fucking, excellent history lesson, no food wasting--all good, 'til I got to this photo:

Not only is this hand model being, to my taste, way too rough in their Love, and that stream of goo is a bit disconcerting, but what the fuck is wrong with this person's nails? Are those jewels or some horrible nail fungus? I was hoping for the jewel option. After all, these are the hands of a hand model, a job in which the one and only requirement is that your hands look decent.

But further study gave sad credence to my fungus theory:

Note: horrible nail!

A part of me feels sorry for this poor onahole being so crudely manhandled by this possibly-diseased person. And at this point I care not about the charming ramen-fucking story and the rest of it, I am lost down a worm hole of ick.  The only thing that can pull me out is remembering happier times--myself 30 minutes ago when I first arrived on jlist and discovered the Zhang Xiao Yu onahole.

Not only is it apparently "great for 'anatomy lessons'"--which, by the way, the Noodle King is *not* so great for--but the Zhang Xiao Yu is subtitled with "The Dignity of Great Pussy." Which is awesome.

"The Dignity of Great Pussy" is going to be my mantra/guiding principle today. Feel free to do the same.


Thursday, February 5, 2015

I Turned My Naked-Ass Self Into a "Sexy Buffet"

I recently festooned my body with dessert items for this story in Cosmo. (If you are too lazy to click over, it's here below.) The idea is that writers try vintage Cosmo sex tips and report back their findings. I was not surprised that my tip involved food, but I was relieved that there was no fondue involved. They go pretty far back for these.

If you do not wish to imagine me naked, especially not naked with groceries on personal body parts, you need to go right now.

Seriously. Just run.


I Covered Myself in Food for Sex

"Incorporating food into you passion play is a classic carnal activity. Turning your bodies into a sexy buffet is a fresh, tasty spin. Take a few of your favorite erotically appealing flavor combinations, like peanut butter and honey or whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Put a dollop of, say, peanut butter on an area where you'd like to be licked (avoiding your genitals.) Then dot the honey on the same spot on the opposite side of your body. Instruct your man to first lick off one flavor and then make his way over to the other, providing a pleasurable sensation for you and a flavorful sensation for him. Continue mixing up yummy treats in symmetric spots all over your body.”

Clearly, a successful Naked Chef is all in the Art of Food Selection. But what to chose?

The proper food couldn't be too spicy, chewy or hot. It couldn't be too round, slippery or otherwise unwieldy. Soup, for example, was probably a “no.” It had to be something decadent. Yes, it would be nice to have those leftovers finally out of the fridge, but a line of lo mein running up my leg didn't seem like the way to go.

I read that keeping your partner on his toes with random surprises is part of a keeping a relationship fresh so I briefly considered hiding something somewhere on my person. Corn on the cob in the armpit? Crab claw between the legs? But my sporadically functioning Feminine Intuition told me that this would probably not be conducive to l-u-v.

The Menu:
In the end, I went full-on Naked Chef, following all the suggestions--whipped cream, chocolate syrup, peanut butter and honey. I also tossed in some bittersweet chocolate chips just 'cause they're really really good and I liked the idea of N. munching through a line of them, like Pac-Man, but you know, sexy.

The Music:
I let N. pick. He set Pandora to Billy Bragg. Later he told me he'd considered picking the Pac-Man theme song, but thought better of it. This, in a nutshell, is why I love him.

The Mood:
As I lied there festooned with squirts of chocolate syrup slowly dripping down my arms, I felt less magically delicious and more like a dessert plate at a nice restaurant where they finish the plate with stripes of fancy reduction sauce. Plus, I don't like following rules—fight the power!-- so I'd ditched the suggestion to go for symmetry and instead wrote Eat Me across my chest because it seemed cheeky and direct. Or, it would have been were I not been working upside down and thus appearing to urge N. to “Gat Me.”

The Setting:
Bedroom, broad friggin' daylight. Not recommended. By all means, harness the power of flattering evening lighting.

The Act:
Once N. started nibbling up my arm, I immediately forgot about the daylight, “gat me,” and looking like a plate. It's nice having someone lick their way up your body--I recommend it highly. The licking, the kissing, all very very good.

For the final flourish, I smudged a bit of peanut butter inside my lower thigh then—rules be damned!—squeezed a dollop of honey between my legs NOT AVOIDING MY GENITALS. A crotch overflowing with honey seemed metaphorically beautiful somehow, plus it felt like it would be kinda hot. Which, gentle reader, it was.

The Verdict:
Since the food/sex mashup is so cliché and tired, I'm a little pained to say that—okay fine!-- it actually does work. Anything that encourages close attention to each other's bodies seems like a good thing. Plus the food thing works as a nice, stealth tool to direct attention exactly where you want it—“See that puff of whipped cream on my nipple? There.”

Here's what else I learned:

--Up your game re: hair removal. Though it sounds kind of cool and artisanal, pube-infused chocolate syrup or pube-infused anything for that matter, is pretty damn gross.
--Chocolate syrup doesn't stay in place and whipped cream is fucking cold.
--To make a dog look like it's talking in a movie, they put peanut butter in the dog's mouth so it smacks its mouth open and shut, trying to work the peanut down. Human males have the same reaction.
--Putting chocolate syrup on a man's penis is fun for all.
--You'll know the tip is working, when you no longer care that sheets are getting dirty and you're just smearing stuff all over each other.
--You should totally put honey between your legs. Unless that is not medically advisable, in which case I said nothing of the kind.

Follow @Jill_Hamilton

Photo: André de Dienes 1950

Friday, January 30, 2015

Why Hetero Men Still Need to Bother With Women. For Now.

Still Life with vaginal tube, flowers and a couple cherries
Note: This is a reprint of a story that ran on AlterNet and Salon. If you think you've spotted some recycled jokes, it is completely your imagination.   

Here it is, the dawn of 2015, and men still don't have a sex toy that can equal the instant and fiery love between woman and vibrator.* And while Modern Woman enjoys the spot-on ministrations of a battery-operated lover, poor hetero men are stuck humping away at a motley array of women-like disembodied body parts.

Yeah, yeah, there are guys pleased enough with their Fleshlights and the occasional happy love affair between man and consenting love doll, but, like an elusive orgasm, most men's toys are still not...yet...quite...there.

But damned if enterprising toy makers don't keep trying. Behold some of the iffier contenders of women-like things to have sex with that aren't actually women. 

1. Portable Vagina

Vagina in a Can offered squishy pink vaginal plastic, conveniently portioned in a can, like so many french-style green beans. But Canned V never quite caught on, despite the product's post-apocalyptic advantages (“Nobody panic! I've stocked the fallout shelter with plenty of Canned Vagina!”). There is little documentation on reasons for the product's downfall, but perhaps it was due to the recycling quandary of which bin to place unwanted freshly-canned splooge.

Quickies to Go eliminated the can entirely, opting for an open-ended vaginal tube-like apparatus. Quickies to Go are disposable, which is not only pretty wasteful, but could conceivably lead to a spate of broken-hearted vaginal tubes sobbing at the curb on garbage day after being used, then rejected. (And later, a dystopian future featuring our Wall-E-esque descendants building shelter from huge piles of poorly-degrading discarded tubes.)

Quickie to Go also comes in “Mouth” and “Ass” versions and, if you look the products up on Amazon, Amazon will helpfully also recommend “Crisco All-Vegetable Shortening Sticks, 2 pack.”

2. Beauty Hole Ass Vagina With Egg Vibrating

Beauty Hole Ass Vagina With Egg Vibrating is...exactly that. And also not to be confused with Big Breast Beauty Hole Big Ass Pussy Vaginal w/ Vibration Egg which is completely different, you rube. To make sure you've ordered the right product, check your box. It should contain “1 x pussy” with “the feeline of mridens's skin.”

Among Beauty Hole Ass Vagina With Egg Vibrating's many mysteries is the fact that there is only 1 of these vaginal assy things available for sale. Why only 1? Seems like if you were taking the time to get out the Beauty Hole Ass Vagina-Making Machine, you may as pop out a full run of 50 or, hell, even 100.

3. Blow-Up Sex Dolls

Blow-up dolls are semi-inexpensive, but there's a reason we haven't all run off to live with our inflatable lovers/cheap lays and that reason is seams. “I was sore after one session from the beach ball openings,” wrote one presumably chafed reviewer of the $44.95 Sexy Flight Attendant. “I had to struggle with it just to get it to 'submit.' I did not expect this from a plastic lover,” wrote another reviewer of the $19.43 Wraparound Lover, who thus entered the infinitesimally small demographic of people who have been spurned by blow-up doll.

Note: The holes on blow-up sex toys are sealed with pull tab-like strips of plastic "for hygienic and safety reasons." (Warning: removed tabs may alert the blow-up doll's watchful friends that you two did more than just "go get coffee.)

4. Onaholes

Onaholes are kind of like Cup O' Noodles, except all flavors are “vagina.” For those who want some backstory with their wank toy, there are holes representing brides, virgins (hymen included) and even a deserted island survival version with three holes. There's an Advanced Fellatio Hole that can actually bite (!) and a Hairy Pussy Powered anatomical mashup featuring—ack!--a tongued vagina. Onaholes can be tricked out with a variety of accessories including an onahole-holding butt that you can stick on your fridge, something unpleasantly called "Saliva Lotion,” and uber-specific scent sprays like wife's armpit.

If aroma is important to you, maybe spring for the special onahole cleaner first. As one reviewer noted of his well-satiated onahole: it “starts smelling after repeated use.” (He also noted that it was “tight to the point where letting go will just launch it right off of you.” Which is kind of funny--except no one's gonna be laughing when someone's stinky old flying onahole puts someone's eye out.)

Extreme Onahole

Extremes Onaholes enhance man/machine love with an alarming array of moving mechanical parts. The A10 Cyclone "has a series of brushes that rotate back and forth over the item in question. Think of it as a shoe cleaner for you weenus," wrote John Biggs in TechCrunch, who called the Cyclone "overwhelming" and, less importantly, called his cock a "weenus." The Cyclone sounds pretty hardcore, like the male equivalent to the jackhammer intensity of the Magic Wand, so use caution putting anything in there, including one's weenus.

The top-of-the-line VORZE A10 Cyclone costs $566, has 8 “simultaneous stimulations,” seven customizable speeds/vibrations and can be hooked up to your computer to sync with video. For women worried about being replaced by machine, this may be the toy to fear. No matter how delightful in bed we all are (which is plenty delightful. Plenty, I say!), none of us are sportin' a series of varying-speed rotating stimulators between our legs. Which is probably for the best.

6. Love Doll Brothels

Love doll brothels offer disease- and sex trafficking-free sex, plus a complimentary fresh replacement hole for every new man. (I say “man” because the chance for eerily quiet companionship and non-responsive, one-sided cunnilingus tends not to appeal to Sapphic lovers.) Love doll brothels challenge the natural tendency to anthropomorphize. The dolls wait pleasantly seated in the lobby even though, really, stacking them in a pile in the corner would work just as well. And when that creepy dude comes in, it's hard not to feel at least a little bad for the doll he chooses. If you plan on going: According to this video (NSFW), be alert to the alarming possibility of the doll's head falling off mid-coitus.

7. Sexbots

Even though it's been predicted that we will be having sex with—and loving—sexbots by 2050, the technology is so not there yet. Check out these sexbot demonstration videos featuring Susie Software and her counterpart Harry Harddrive demonstrating their indeed-quite-robotic thrusting techniques near a really unstylish blue Pennsylvania Dutch love seat. Especially good is the one where Harry is flipped on his side, yet continues his grim air-thrusting, like a sexed-up fish washed ashore. Real Dolls look a whole lot better but lack as much movement. And ordering them requires a certain level of comfort with facing options like “elf ears,” “extra faces” and “labia repair kit.”

Most dauntingly, sexbots are still crazy expensive. Susie and Harry range from the just-lyin'-there version at $6000 to the remote-controlled, touch-activated model for $11,299, and a high-end Real Doll can run $51,000. If those prices are too steep, both Harry and Susie are available for rent, which, well, let's just end on that.


*Have actually changed my opinion on that one. See forthcoming story!

PS Dr. Andrea is IN and taking your questions on health, sexuality and other embarrassing issues.  Send it your shameful concern to jillhamilton001@gmail.com. You can be completely anonymous (except for me, and I'm not gonna tell anyone about your weird growth.)

Thursday, January 22, 2015

My Day at the Orgasmic Meditation Class--The Unexpurgated Version

Results may vary
I was lying on the floor, naked below the waist with my knees apart, next to a stranger with two fingers full of lube. The stranger was planning to stroke my clitoris for 15 minutes, no more, no less. I was in a room full of other women, similarly splayed open like Thanksgiving turkeys next to their lubed-up, fully-dressed partners

Strangely, this was not my most uncomfortable moment last weekend at the One Taste's How to OM class in Los Angeles. 

That would be earlier in the day when our teachers Maya and Eli bounded into the room as Bon Jovi was cranked. They were dancing, doing that thing were you point to the ceiling, signifying that the song, indeed, rocks. We were to stand up and do the same thing, including the pointing part. I was mortified. Not only am I petrified of public dancing and forced group merriment (“I can't heeeear you...!”) but... Bon Jovi. I stood stiffly, not able to bring myself to point, not even just a little. It was a really long song.

So to sum up my personal boundaries thus far, Bon Jovi = no, clit stroking by stranger= totally onboard. You might see the situation differently.

Sometimes a lifetime of societal conditioning can fall away in a matter of hours. It happened to me that day at the OM class. And not in a I-drank-the-Kool-Aid way, but in the kind of way where your ideas are flipped but at the same time enhanced, it blows your fucking mind and you emerge better for it.

OMing, or Orgasmic Meditation, is a practice taught at OneTaste, a company founded by Nicole Daedone, author of Slow Sex: The Art and Craft of the Female Orgasm. OM is a practice in which clarity, mindfulness, and general in-touchedness with the universe is reached through extremely focused touch. Specifically, the touch of a partner's hand slowly and rhythmically stroking a woman's clitoris in a particular way. Sessions last 15 minutes and the goal is not orgasm, but rather heightened sexual awareness. And, as it turns out, having someone lavish attention on this particular body part for 15 minutes is extremely effective at heightening sexual awareness.  OM practitioners supposedly develop a heightened sensuality that extends into the rest of their lives, and can experience intense, deeper, fuckier fucks.

That sounded pretty good. I was in.

The class was filled with a balance of men and women, most from late 20 to 40s, I'd guess. The practice was all about experiencing sensation, whatever it turned out to be, explained preternaturally upbeat instructors Maya and Eli. Instead of the goal-oriented, orgasm-chasing sexual experience that we generally go for, we were to focus on the ride, letting things go wherever they were going to go. It was about surrender to the experience. According to the OneTaste philosophy, making focused contact with the incredibly nerve-rich clitoris can generate all kinds of electric sexual energy that can take both parties to amazing places. Additionally, the female gets to feel safe, accepted and non-pressured enough to dive into the depths of wherever her desire's gonna take her. The male gets to explore and enjoy the more (traditionally) “feminine” sexuality of goalless sensuality, plus, quite frankly, he can learn his way around a woman's genitalia.

There are rules. The practice is to be distinct from sex. Practitioners set up a “nest,” with pillows, a soft cushion and towels. The stroking can't go on longer than 15 minutes, even if one or more parties are begging for more. There is to be no exchanging of favors, i.e. “I stroked you, now you finish me off.” An OM is not something a man does to a woman, but something they do together. Gloves are worn. Lube is a must. Orgasm is not defined as the few seconds of contractions that we generally think of as orgasm, but rather the entire experience, starting with the first feelings of desire. The contraction part we generally refer to as an orgasm is called climax and may or may not happen.

By mid-morning we were ready to see a live demonstration. A table was wheeled out and a woman named Rachelle hopped up, lifted her dress and spread her legs. As Marcus, a serious looking computer guy-type with large black framed glasses, put his fingers to her pussy (that's what they call it there-- pussy.), my classmates craned their bodies to see. I looked at Rachelle's completely hairless nether regions and regretted my morning grooming decision to go with a landing strip.

In some sort of weirdly personal hierarchy of discomfort, I didn't mind that there was a half-naked woman groaning evocatively as Marcus (apparently quite masterfully!) stroked her through what seemed to be three climaxes. My problem again was with the whole group participation aspect. As a class, we were to participate by calling out the physical--not emotional--sensations we were having as we watched the OM. “I feel a heat in my face,” someone called out. “I feel a heaviness in my arm,” said another. “I feel wetness in my pussy,” several women said. “I feel completely icked out by the rest of you,” I would have said, especially as someone notified us of how their anus was responding, but I wasn't sure how to describe it as a "physical sensation."

At this point, we were sent to lunch after which we would try the practice ourselves. Because we all knew this and most of us had not come with a partner, there was a strange pick-up bar vibe to the day. Instead of just talking with your seatmate, you'd be assessing them, wondering if they should be the one who'd be touching you. For me, there was also a tremendous anxiety. What if it was like that one 7th grade dance in Atlanta, Georgia, 1977, where all my friends got asked to dance and I didn't? Would I have to get one of the teachers have to OM with me? Would I just sit in my chair trying to act like it was ok while everyone got down to business?

It was all too much for me and when I got back from lunch, instead of mingling, I studied the commerce tables the OneTasters had set up. There were lots of higher level classes, semi-Scientology-style, that people could sign up for. One was a week-long intensive with Daedone. It was $36,000. Holy fuck. There was also a t-shirt that said “Powered by Pussy.” Even among this group, I couldn't imagine that being a big seller.

Finally I went up to Eli, hoping he might let me OM with a teacher. I was wishing that it could it be Marcus, because that dude really looked like he knew what he was doing. He looked like a master playing a rare instrument as he strummed Rachelle. But to my horror, when Eli nixed my idea about OMing with a teacher, I burst into tears.

“Just go ask that guy,” he said pointing to some guy, after comforting my sorry-ass unresolved-issues self. So I asked him. Oddly, the idea of doing so intimate with a complete stranger was way more okay than I thought it would be. When you OM with someone, it doesn't mean you are dating or that you will see them again or that you are even attracted to them. It just exists in this “container” as they call it and is nothing beyond the OM itself. Eli described a woman he had OMed with in Colorado. She was a super-butch, biker-chick lesbian, not someone he was attracted to at all or vice versa, but the electricity they generated together was, well, electric. “It's insane--I go blind from it!” he enthused.  I found this idea to be incredibly freeing.

Thus I found myself pantless and splayed open next to the lubed-up Peter*. I knew his name was Peter because his name tag said so. I found it somewhat amusing that we were like this and wearing name tags, but I didn't say anything.

Peter was to make a C shape with his left hand, lifting the hood of my clitoris with his thumb while stroking the upper left hand quadrant with his index finger. His right-hand thumb was to rest on my introitus, the opening to the vagina. (You can watch a how-to video at the OneTaste web site.) As we got down to it, Peter wasn't actually that close to where he was supposed to be, but instructors came around the room and guided his hand to the proper spots. I felt happy that, if nothing else, Peter was getting an education in finding a woman's clit.

As he rubbed, I could feel myself begin to throb and contract. It wasn't a orgasmic, I mean, climax-reaching kind of thing, but more an aliveness. It felt like maybe Peter's finger wasn't moving over my body, but rather that I was moving his finger. “Behold the glory of the pussy!” I thought to myself, thinking that Peter was—possibly for the first time—seeing the subtlety and great beauty of a woman's body when it is alive, open and free. I felt a bit beneficent about it, if you must know. Like I was schooling him on something really Big and Important.

However, I am 49 years old and about midpoint, I started feeling a shooting pain in my left butt cheek. Sciatica. Crap! I shifted my legs and re-shifted, but every way still hurt. I finished out the session experiencing the sensation of “Ow.”

When it's all over, you're supposed to give each other a “frame,” that is, describe one moment of physical sensation that you had experienced. I was expecting to Peter to say something about how he had been schooled on pussy power but he said, “I didn't think anything was happening for you until the end part when you started moving your legs around.”

So. Yeah.

However, we both experienced something big, I think. It turned out it wasn't the same thing the other had felt, but maybe that doesn't even really matter. It seemed like Peter and I had ended up with a connection, of sorts, and I felt kindly toward him afterward. After, when he was told he had to pay $15 for the lube a OneTaste teacher had handed him, I felt kind of bad I didn't have any cash to pitch in.

In the end, I'm glad I went. It's heartening that there are so many people who want to connect on a deeper level sexually and were willing to explore. And, oddly, I feel empowered that I let a stranger stroke me and that it meant nothing beyond that.

As I drove through the hideous LA evening traffic on the way home, instead of blaring the radio and getting angry as is my usual way, I sat in silence, feeling chill and enjoying the quiet. And I didn't feel like crying anyone.


*Not his real name. Which was Ben.

An edited version of this first appeared on Alternet and Salon. I like this one a little better, but maybe I'm like a home seller with the purple walls who refuses to paint over them for the Open House. 

Photo: Rudolf Koppitz

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Why We Fuck

I was sprawled across my bed, utterly wrecked, one morning many years ago. I'd just had amazing amazing phone sex with someone who, to this day, remains the most attachment-avoidant person I've ever met.

"Holy fuck," I mumbled, made dreamy by ravishment. "Why was that so...good? We were on the phone."

"People need connection," he said simply. To my surprise, even he had known this, deep in some barely accessible part of his poor love-avoidant heart. And it had been a connection, an intense sexual communion that felt like something real had happened, even though no body parts had been touched or even seen.

This private connection between lovers--This is why we fuck each other, even though there are plenty of promiscuous toys, pillows, and shower spouts that can do the job quite well. And, yes, it has to be fucking (of some sort) because other human interactions--a nice chat in the bank line, for example--just won't do it.

Bearing witness to someone surrendering to their instincts--just being with them in the moment they lose themselves--is fucking powerful. And to find someone you trust enough to fall into that void with them, well, it's a rare and beautiful gift.

On a less sublime level, I think it's also about being present in the Now and existing in a state of Flow, where you are wholly consumed with what you are doing. These are purportedly optimal (and often needlessly Capitalized) states for achieving happiness, inner peace and well-being. (See also: Ekhart Tolle's  The Power of Now and Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi's  Flow). The orgasm is, like, a bonus to what's really going on.

Caitlin Moran describes this kind of focused-attention-on-another in her book How to Build a Girl about a teenage Brit who transforms herself into a badass music journalist/sexual adventurer:

"Here's the amazing thing about sex:  you get a whole person to yourself, for the first time since you were a baby.  Someone who is looking at you--just you--and thinking about you, and wanting you...You are in a room with a closed door, and no one else can come through it....It seemed to me that this was the real reason people wanted to fuck so much. To get here. To get to this tiny, quiet place where there was nothing else to do but be with each other. Just to be two humans who had--for a short while--stopped wanting."

That idea fits nicely with what I discovered when I looked on PornHub the other day for the Top Rated Video of All Time. It wasn't "Bitch takes cum in her hair" or whatever I was expecting, but a sweet little clip of a sleepy, tousled-haired woman waking her lover up and giving him a blow job. 

This top-rated video--OF ALL TIME!--showed two people portrayed as affectionate, familiar lovers happy to be waking up together in such a nice way. They weren't over-the-top porn excited, but just enjoying the everyday-yet-so-amazing swollen pleasures of taking someone you like in your mouth and/or being taken thus. In the world of porn, this was maybe about the squarest, most vanilla thing ever. And yet it was the most loved...of all time! (For that one day, at least. Today, alas, I can't re-find it. It has been replaced by "Hot blond maid having anal." Top-ratedness is apparently fleeting. )

The point of all this being: sexual connection, in whatever form it takes, is something we all seek, including the millions of surreptitiously wanking users of Porn Hub on that particular day. Even my old friend, dear attachment-avoidant boy, needed this intimacy, albeit from the distance that felt safe to him.

We all need to get this place, however we can--where you get to be two humans who have--for a short while--stopped wanting.

Go find your place.



Monday, January 19, 2015

Dating in the 20s vs. 30s, Men's Sex Toys, Reader Bad-Assery, and Much Much More!* (*not actually that much more)

Possible outcome of successful date.
20s vs. 30s and The Agony of Being Too Fucking Old to Recall the Difference:  The delightful citizens of the IBWMW Facebook page have been, like, total geniuses responding to my desperate-ish post the other day: 

Problem!! A magazine just offered me decent money for a funny list on the difference between dating in your 20s and your 30s. Except I am 40 fricking 9 and have NO IDEA. Anyone have any insights??? Heeeeeeeelp!!!!!!

Hmm, now looking at it in the clear light of day, that sounds completely desperate and, it was, but less so now because of all the insanely great answers I'm getting there and via email. My favorite thus far is this one from Suzanne:

Dating in your 20s - YES! I got my period! I'm not pregnant! 
Dating in your 30s - WILL I EVER BE WITH CHILD!?

If you have any ideas/insights, send them on in, or just go see what other people put. And just ignore my cousin Brenda's (cousin IN-LAW, actually) comment, "Suzanne, you practically wrote the article! Watch for credit." Brenda put a smiley emoji at the end, but I know when someone's ratting me out. 
Men: Need Your Thoughts on Sex Toys for Guys!

Panic x 2. I am also working on an article on sex toys for men and my editor wants to know:
"Why are sex toys for women more advanced and more popular, when women are supposed to be more ashamed of sex/masturbation? Why is it that vibrators are basically mainstream, while male sex toys -- real dollz, blow up sheep or whatever -- are supposed to be the purview of losers or a joke?"

Do any of you guys use sex toy (on yourself)--why or why not? Have any thoughts on them one way or the other? Need you, man.

IBWMW Financial Upturn? The Evidence:

 --We have a Monthly Subscriber, like NPR!
IBWMW, also known as one of the least catchy acronyms around, has its first Patron. Yes, I know! A guy named Robert, who I've never previously heard from, somehow figured out how to make automatic monthly payments to the blog via the Paypal link at right and he's really doing it!  This completely blows my mind and floats my boat--though not simultaneously because that sounds dangerous. Yay Robert!

--This month also brought in two donations (!) which is approximately two more than usual.

I tried to donate from the FB page, and I got a different page, and no place to donate. Nevertheless, I really like your blog, Jill (or whatever your name really is)" wrote distrustful new reader Mark. Mark found a way to donate anyway through sheer force of determination and full-on manliness. And Mark, my name is actually Jill as listed. Jill Hamilton, in fact, because when I was considering whether I should link my real name to a fuck-filled blog for the rest of my life, I thought "Eh...why not?"

"If a new reader's donation makes you so happy, we seasoned readers should do our part too! Thanks for making me and BF LOL on a regular basis!" wrote Yinna, who makes it sound like donating is some sort of pitching in/good deed sort of thing, like picking up litter. Which, for the record, I am "for."

--I got a surprise check for $250 and my dog Daisy's vet bill the next day was only $249. 

Important Love Is... Update:

 And finally more of my continuing Love is... obsession.


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