Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Formative Smut Contest Winner! Plus (Arguably) The Most Delightful Entry Which, In a Cruel Twist of Fate, Did Not Win

"Before I was out of the 5th grade, I had read Judy Blume's 'Wifey,' repeatedly perused a number of Hustlers, and watched (and re-watched a few times) 'Clockwork Orange.' I turned out OK, but I don't recommend that course of study for anyone," read MattM's excellent, yet also cruelly non-winning, entry in the What Was Your Formative Smut? contest.

There were so many good entries that, in the end, I just went with first responder @empiregrrl. For empriregrrl's promptness, she gets her choice of the highly fuckable Pearly Waterproof Vibrator from Good Vibrations OR a $50 gift card, also provided by Good Vibes.*

So yes, completely loved everyone's entries and it was so good to know I wasn't the only Jr. Perv skulking around in the back aisles of book stores looking for dirty information I might one day need. Back then--I said, sounding like a fucking grandma (a phrase which, now that I write it, sounds like it could be interpreted another way entirely)--such activities were absolutely not discussed. I think this was especially true for girls, but maybe for everyone. I felt like what I was doing was wrong, pretty shameful and I was probably the only one in the world who did such things. I never mentioned any of it to anyone, ever. 

(Until now, that is, when I'll tell all of y'all, plus any weirdo who happens to wander in via some fucked up Google search [like today's Misguided Googler who arrived via "Demi Moore anal." Sorry to displease! Come again any time!])

I hope it's different for curious kids today. No one should feel like a creepy weirdo because they want to know about a damn basic fact of human existence. I mean, we don't keep the Knowledge of Eating secret, forcing kids to sneak online to see how to cut a steak or something. (Although if the secret food porn was like regular porn, it would show cutting the steak easily with a butter knife, the steak would be moaning "ohyeahohyeah" etc...) My point is, we really need to stop being such babies about sex.

We *may* be getting better about this. The sex ed at my daughter's middle school, according to my interpretations of the giggling from the back seat during carpool, actually shows kids how to put on a condom. Though, weirdly, they demonstrate this using a pear instead of a more obviously penile-looking fruit (Banana, I thought you had this gig!) I can see this causing further confusion as girls faced with their first set of dick n' balls try to decide which part looks more pear-like.

At the end of the class, my 13 year old daughter will be coloring a picture of "The Uncircumcised Penis" which I plan to display on my refrigerator because I think the idea of a penis coloring page so perfectly captures the awkward, uncertain space that a 13 year old kid occupies--no longer really into coloring, but sure as fuck not ready for "The Uncircumcised Penis."

Anyway, like I said, I loved all your entries, especially this one from Keppie. It's kinda long, but if you have the time, it's totally worth it--funny, true and containing the phrase "he thrust his man-meat into her pulsing velvet cavity."

Love you hard. That is, a lot. Not, you know, hard. Though that's pretty good too.


The Guide(s) to Good Sex
by Keppie

Dr. Ruth's Guide to Good Sex, by Dr. Ruth Westheimer

The huge red and black block print on the cover gave nothing away other than the title, but wasn't that enough? Good sex, it screamed in inch-high letters. Guide. A book that was confident enough to put that on the cover had to deliver. In the late eighties, I was still naive enough to know I didn't want to be naive anymore, and this book promised a good solid start in losing some of that innocence—and in a practical way, to boot! It was written by a doctor, so it had to be a reliable source. Of course I had sat through “the talk” with my mother and the requisite basic sex-ed course in school (I was of an age that it was still given on filmstrip. Filmstrip!), but I was ready to learn more than the fundamentals. I wanted to know ... what it was no one was telling me. In short, the good stuff. The fun stuff.

I had recently begun reading romance novels (known charmingly and colloquially as bodice-rippers) for the informative smut to be gleaned from them. Janelle Taylor, Danielle Steele, Johanna Lindsay, to name a few. I quickly learned to recognize which authors were “soft porn”: i.e., mostly kissing and some canoodling scenes before cutting back to the plot (yes, there is some plot in those things), and which authors featured all-out X-rated passages, with the whole deed spelled out in lurid detail. The thing was, as a young reader, it wasn't quite explicit enough. I say that because while the scenes were invariably exciting, the flowery language used phrases like “he thrust his man-meat into her pulsing velvet cavity”. While this is undeniably specific and leaves no room for doubt about what is happening, as I reached an age where I was starting to wonder how I would one day fit into this scenario, it left me more and more terrified. Did I want man meat shoved at me? Did I want to pulse like that? Could I? I looked at the boys in my band class and in the hallways of my school who I had known for years and on whom I'd developed crushes, fleetingly and somewhat regularly since puberty, but I couldn't link liking them to what I was reading in those novels. Man-meat indeed.

Beyond the somewhat skeptical education they endeared, romance novels had left me with another, less tangible yearning: the idea that I wanted to be part of a relationship like the ones I was reading about. Apparently, relationships that were blissful, romantic and ended happily also included man-meat and pulsing velvet cavities. Therefore, if I wanted to be happy, I'd better figure it all out. Since no one in band class was offering to help me, I had only my own ingenuity on which to rely. As a time-tested nerd, I turned to the resources that had never failed me in the past.

Which brings us back to Dr. Ruth.

I don't recall where I found the copy of it; I know I would have been too mousy to have checked it out from the library. It is far more likely that it was wedged on the shelves in our musty basement collection of rag-tag books for some reason. Wherever I acquired it, I squirreled it away under my Laura Ashley pillow sham for further inspection when I was sure not to be disturbed. Reading romance novels is one thing; you can always claim that you like the story. People may or may not believe you, but there it is. There is only one reason you'd be reading a guide to good sex, and it isn't for the plot. My underage cheeks burned at the notion that anyone would guess I was even interested. I cracked the cover and dived in, waiting to be overcome with tips to make me a sex goddess.

Suffice it to say that the book was a major disappointment. It was a somewhat dry medical text that was directed, predictably, at people who needed practical advice about something that they had been doing for a long time and, presumably, no longer found even the word “sex” titillating the way a teenage girl did. It was sex advice in print form as if your eighty-year old no-nonsense German grandma sat you down and told you the best way to bake a kuchen. Which is pretty much exactly what it was. At an age where the power of rampant hormones hijacked me into raging arousal for Kevin Costner in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (God, why?), I got nothing out of it. It was a disaster.

The next and last book in the my misadventures of my sexual awakening came not long after the Dr. Ruth incident. I had gone back to the solace of my romance novels, and I had recently found one at a bargain bookstore for a good deal. It wasn't the kind I normally read—I preferred wild time-travel fantasies or romps through the middle ages—as this one didn't have any swoon-worthy cover art featuring Fabio and some half-naked lady. It was a woman's face, clearly from present times, which was kind of a bummer. In its favor, however, it did feature glittery purple letters for the title, which read “Working”. At the price of only a quarter, how could I refuse? As an avid reader, I knew I'd be through it in a matter of a few hours. I bought it.

The book that lives in infamy is “Working” and in tiny letters, had I read more closely, says: “My Life as a Prostitute” by Dolores French with Linda Lee. I did not notice the subtitle until I had it home, wherein my eyes practically popped out of my head. As I mentioned earlier, though, I was an avid reader and curiosity got the better of me, so I began to read.

“Holy shit”, I would have said, had I not been a goody-two-shoes. Then “Holy shit” again and some more for good measure throughout the memoir, which was an extremely frank (and funny) recounting of this woman's years in the business of prostitution (not a surprise, since it clearly stated that on the damn cover). As a side note, she later goes on to become the president of HIRE (Hooking is Real Employment), campaigning for women's rights and becoming a real activist for the cause, but to be fair I was not interested in the empowering part of her story at the time. I was interested/horrified by the descriptions of sex, which were plentiful and detailed. In a way the romance novels were not, I might add. No man-meat to be found here.

Instead, my naiveté fled during the course of 200-some pages as I read about people doing things to each other that, in my brief and inadequate reading of Dr. Ruth and Danielle Steele, I had no idea was even an option for people to do each other. I read about people peeing on each other in bathtubs while being dressed up as cats and eating tins of cats food (why? why?), sex on canola-oiled up sheets, men who liked to smell farts, men who could only come if they were being spit on ... my brain rebelled. What if Adam from band class wanted me to smell his fart? Oh my God! But I was also undeniably turned on by all of the things I was reading. What was happening? Why was I so turned on by the clearly disturbing things I was reading? Was I a weirdo? Was I going to grow up to be a hooker, too? Cue: existential crisis in suburbia, big time.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

What Was Your Formative Smut? Plus, A Contest!

"Is it okay if the girls watch 'Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt'"? my friend texted pre-kid sleepover.

Considering my 13 year old had just seen the majority of the Louieepisode where Louis CK ends up in a sex toy store, yeah, Kimmy was fine. (In my defense, I kept thinking the Louie ep was somehow gonna become more appropriate, like, any second. This, despite the fact that the characters were talking about vibrators and it was Louis CK, for fuck's sake. #MagicalThinking)

"I was reading Harold Robbins, Jackie Collins and Xaviera Hollander at their age," noted my friend. "The basement bookshelf was where my mom kept all the smutty books. The Story of O. Lady Chatterley's Lover. Portnoy's Complaint. I spent entire summers down there. She. Had. No. Idea."

You see, my pretties, back before the Internet, when you wanted sexual information, you had to cobble together what you could. It involved a combination of covert reading sessions in back aisles of book stores, excavations under the beds of pervy neighborhood dads (that is, all dads) and checking out the bookshelves of your parents' more free-thinking friends. My own sex ed was an unwieldy mash-up of:

--Sidney Sheldon novels
--Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex: But Were Afraid to Ask
--Where Did I Come From? in which 1977-era cartoon grown ups offer mildly helpful/icky information such as "The man pushes his penis up and down in the woman's vagina, so that both the tickly parts are being rubbed against each other. It's like scratching an itch but a lot nicer."
 --Fear of Flying
--Playboy, Penthouse and the rare Hustler
--The Sensuous Woman by "J"  (at the time her advice on giving proper head and the like was apparently so scandalous she couldn't even use her whole name.)
 --National Geographics (there is no such thing as a single issue of National Geographic--they travel only in packs) for boobic studies.

And yes, Xaviera Hollander, aka The Happy Hooker How strange to realize I'd gotten a ton of my sexual information from a hooker. A happy one, but still.

I studied these books like the Quran, looking for clues on how to behave once naked with another--and to figure out what the hell words like "necking" and "petting" meant. (Actually that's probably not what people are studying the Quran for.) My furtive peeks at these books, for better or worse, shaped my sexual worldview and informs my life even today. (Thank you, "J," you little hussy, for the "silken swirl.")

So yeah, was it the same for you? What was your formative smut? Where'd you find it? What did you learn?  Did any salient passages stick with you to guide your later sexual self? 

Here's the contest part

To enter, tell me what your formative smut was. That's it! From among your answers, I'll pick a winner, semi-randomly, depending on the vagaries of my mood. Deadline is Wednesday, May 27. You can comment below, use the comment form at right, or email me at

The winner gets a choice of:

-- a $50 gift certificates to Good Vibrations, fine purveyors of sex toys.


--a Pearly Waterproof Rechargeable Silicone Vibrator ($100 value) also donated by Good Vibrations.

"So....wanna fuck?"

Sex Museums!
My story "9 Amazing Sex Museums That'll Blow Your Mind" is running on AlterNet, featuring the highly important information that at NYC's Museum of Sex, there's an G-spot exhibit that's a Hall of Mirrors Maze. If you find your way to the spot, you can move your hands around to play the theremin. Which is genius.


"I had to donate! Otherwise I was just exploiting your blog for sex," Phebie wrote, sending money I plan to blow on household electricity. Thank you, Phebie!

"It's about time I paid a subscription fee for the wonderfulness that is you delivered straight to my inbox!" wrote Ada, who signed up via PayPal to make automatic monthly donations, thus forcing me to change the honorary title for Robert, formerly IBWMW Minister of Being the Blog's Only Patron.

To Phebie, Ada, Robert, all those who've donated before, plus anyone who shares posts (like Juanita, who bravely shares practically every post, even the ones with unseemly words like "VAGINA" in the title) and the tons of people who provide smart/funny/deep comments, you keep me out of the Pit of Despair and more like Pit of Despair Adjacent, which is a much nicer area.

Now go think of your formative smut and write me back.


(Photo source)

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Bikini Condom, We Hardly Knew Ye

Pity the poor Bikini Condom. Launched in the early 1990's, it was overshadowed by its more popular cousin, the female condom. Both were part of the contraceptive group the FDA gave the perfectly hideous label "vaginal pouches." ("Hon, I need some quarters for the meter. Can you check your vaginal pouch?") 

And when you're playing second fiddle to the female condom--a device most Americans have never actually seen, let alone used--let's just say you're not gonna be sitting at the popular table. Not that there is a popular table for contraceptives. Or if there is, I was, sadly not invited to sit there.

Bikini Condoms look "like a g-string panty with a condom pouch" wrote an unnamed author in a 1991 issue of Contraceptive Technologya magazine which I get only for the crossword puzzle. 

The condom "is automatically introduced into the vagina with coitus," the writer continues, masterfully making a sentence about sex totally void of eroticism. The odd language continues to the last sentence: "They are so novel they appeal to people with an 'open mind.'" "Open mind" is inexplicably in quotes, signifying, to my mind, that the author is does not particularly care for people with open minds. Or perhaps "coitus."

So why aren't we all sportin' vaginal pouches this very second? I mean, they empowered women and junk, right? Well, offhand, I can venture several guesses:

1. The term "vaginal pouch" could be entirely to blame.

2. Its look and feel and pretty much everything about it. "Manufactured all in one piece from thin, cream-colored latex," according to the Powerhouse Museum in Australia, "It consists of a belt, which fits around the hips, attached to a pouch-like tube." In summation, it combines a pouch-like tube (oh yeah), a belt reminiscent of grandma's old-timey maxi pads, and cream-colored latex, which we all know is the very sexiest latex color.

3. It is thicker than a regular condom, for those who like their sensation reduced as much as possible.

4. The whole clothing-as-contraceptive idea. (However, other clothing/contraceptive combos such as pleated khakis, holiday sweaters and men's jeans shorts, are still in widespread use.) 

5. Reusability. It can be reused 5 to 10 times. I'm as green as the next girl,** but even I would be hesitant to drag out some raggedy-ass cream-colored condom for the 9th time.

6. General confusion/inherent paradox: "Bikini" = sexy. "Condom" = not that sexy, but sex-related, at least. And yet, "bikini condom" = so not sexy. This, my friend is your Zen koan for the day, bikini condom-style.


* (if you'd like to read more about "vaginal pouches"--and who the hell wouldn't?--see also: Female Condom, Where Art Thou?How to Behave in the Presence of a Female Condom and  Someone Who Actually Used The Female Condom.)

** I have been known to force only-marginally-interested children to behold my compost pile, which in several states is legally considered eco-terrorism.

Monday, May 11, 2015

"My 7 Most Erotic Experiences," Guest Post from Erica

After finding herself divorced, in her 50s and recovering from a tepid sex kind of marriage, Erica created A Sexy Woman of a Certain Age to explore, celebrate and encourage sexual confidence in older broads. Who, I will remind you again, are sexy as fuck.

Her blog is smart, sexy and real and I admire Erica in all kinds of ways, not the least of which is that her Twitter handle is @OhGodErica. (Is there really any better sequence of words than "Oh God (insert your name here)"?  But, you know, with your actual name instead of "insert your name here.")

If you haven't been over to her blog, do so at once.  But first, have a lot at Erica's "My 7 Most Erotic Experiences," take a shower, then head over after you look presentable.

Erotic: of, devoted to, or tending to arouse sexual love or desire.
I live on the tenth floor of a high-rise and my bedroom windows give me a wide view into the rooms of the surrounding apartment buildings. I love the feeling of sun on my skin so I tend to leave the blinds open while I get dressed in the morning. I’m a bit of an exhibitionist — shocker, I know! — so I also tend to leave the blinds open when I get undressed at night.

One evening I was traipsing around my bedroom in my lingerie looking at the neighboring building. Directly across from me was a man standing perfectly still at his window. Peering at me. There was too much distance between us to make out his face, but I could see his torso. It was shirtless, lean, and lovely. We stood like that for a bit, until a woman appeared behind him. He continued facing me and I felt a surge of warmth from my groin as I inhaled sharply. But the woman must have said something because he closed the blinds.

I stood there, irked that my erotic Rear Window fantasy had been cruelly yanked from under me. Ever since I’ve moved into the high rise, I’ve hoped to catch a glimpse of a couple in flagrante delicto.

And I’ve hoped that the man in that couple would watch me watch him.

* * *
Last Sunday morning I laid in bed sipping hot coffee and gazing out my sun-streaked bedroom window. I remembered the moment with the man across the street and wondered if he would ever indulge my voyeuristic inclinations. It was a such a brief snapshot in time, but one with a visceral pop in my erotic memory.

As I made my way to the bottom of my coffee mug, I thought about what makes some sexual experiences sexier than others. Sometimes it’s the level of emotional intimacy. Sometimes it’s the degree of novelty and risk. And sometimes it’s just an exquisite blend of pheromones: a profound chemistry with someone who, at first glance, might not even be someone you would normally choose to be with.

So before it was time to drag myself out of bed and dive into my weekend to-do pile, I decided to play a game with myself. I let my mind drift back over my sexual history and pick the first seven erotic memories that materialized — and that still left a palpable charge.

The Voyeur 

One summer afternoon when I was nine years old, I was doing underwater somersaults in a friend’s pool. When I came up for air, I saw my friend’s older sister french-kissing her boyfriend. They were kissing beautifully, passionately, oblivious to the gawking string-bean treading water nearby. I heard moans and murmurs. I knew I was witnessing something private, and I should turn away, but I was mesmerized. Whatever they were doing, I wanted it. Maybe not now, but someday.

That make-out session was soulful, and blazingly erotic. It is etched into my arousal template, a visceral blueprint for passion.

The Erotic Kiss 

I grew up in a university town. Every year at graduation time, high school kids would wall-vault their way onto campus, cavorting with drunken graduates and alumni during a three-day long bacchanal. The summer I was sixteen, I was desperately in love with a 15-year-old Adonis. Rumored to have lost his virginity at 13, he was a star athlete and a bad boy. Every girl wanted him. We had had an ongoing flirtation, and that balmy night, buoyed by beer and hash, we drifted from the pack. We stood in the middle of the quad, wondering where our friends had gone. I looked up to see him flashing that rogue smile as he drew me into him.

No one had ever kissed me like this. His lips and tongue moved expertly over mine, and I could feel his erection as he pushed his pelvis against me. Lurching footsteps and peals of laughter swirled around us as we melted into each other in a sensuous embrace that I hoped would never end. I wasn’t just aroused; I was transported. My body felt that it had merged with his. I had crossed over from garden-variety adolescent make-out sessions into an almost mystical realm of lust and tenderness.

We dated for a few weeks, but I wasn’t ready to surrender my virginity. He took his coke-can sized penis elsewhere, leaving me in a heartbroken heap.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Reader Mail: How to Tell Your Husband You've Been Faking It, Numb Vagina Syndrome and "I Saw This and Thought of You"

"Oh yeah, right there. Perfect."
So much to cover today. Hop aboard and hold on.

Two final spawns from my article on the Science, Sex and the Ladies doc and the oddly-controversial statement that most women need some kind of clitoral stimulation to come:

--First, reader "Allie" needs your advice!

"I hope this is anonymous. I am obsessed with your writing and views. I really want your advice even though I don't know you and you don't know me. I'm gonna get right to the dirt[y]:

I love my husband but he only makes me cum about 25% of the time we have sex. I've hinted and basically told him that I can really only cum when he rubs my clit. I really want him to read your article. I think he would finally get it. But I am also worried that there would be a fight because he might realize how often I've faked it to spare his ego...I love him and don't want to make him feel inferior even though that is not my intention. Do you have advice for me? What should I do or say?"

Got anything for her, brothers and sisters? 

Being Publicly Flogged--Not Nearly As Hot As It Sounds!
I went and looked (again!) at the comments on the above article even though that is always, 100% of the time, a terrible idea. However, this time there was a highlight, and that was the women who decided--quite on her own--that I what I was really saying was that a woman couldn't feel if a man was penetrating her. (Clearly, she doesn't know that I, like, live for that particular feeling.) Anyway, just before the comments closed forever and I couldn't respond, she started yelling at/toward me that I clearly had "Numb Vagina Syndrome," as I'm sure she would have done were we to meet in person.

She was quite insistent on her NVS diagnosis, despite the fact that I hadn't actually mentioned my own personal vagina. However, to be safe, I will ask my doctor to check me for Numb Vagina Syndrome. Though I think I'm okay, at least according to my medical book. Which I read in Braille, using my vagina.

Reader-Penned Books!
The Jezebel Effect: Why the Slut Shaming of Famous Queens Still Matters by perennial bad-ass/historical writer Kyra Cornelius Kramer is a smart fiery rant on how we throw the slut label on chicks for doing pretty much anything. I am in particular admiration of Kyra's skillful wielding of slut synonyms including "slammerkin" and "Tarty McHo, Mayor of Skeevyburg."

The Orgasm Rebellion by Frank Lingo, a former Kansas City Star columnist who wrote about environmental and social justice issues, is "an erotic historical novel set in 1899, when women went to doctors for treatment of 'hysteria.'" he writes. Women fight for equality and social justice--but with sex scenes.

Thank you to this month's dear, dear donors who used the link there at the right to make sure I can maintain my Lexapro supply:  Dana, Sarah of Sarah's Silks and especially Robert, the IBWMW Minister of Being the Blog's Only Patron, who has set up an automatic donation to go through every damn month--even those months when I just put up lame ol' reruns due to existential crisis, despite aforementioned Lexopro use. Viva Dana, Sarah and Robert!

"I Saw This and Thought of You!"
That is, the subject line of any email I get whenever someone happens upon some weird/funny/completely fucked-up sexual thing. Lately, people kindly thought of me when seeing:

--A glass dildo you can put your dead loved one's ashes into and do dildo stuff with it (Tara)
--A permanent vibrator you can install in your vagina ("brilliant in theory but I'd be scared to try it out," says Christina.)
--3D printed sex toys  ("Think of the possibilities! So cool. Also potentially creepy, because a lot of public libraries and schools are trying to have 3D printers, which is how I ended up stumbling on the article. Still. So cool," writes A.)
--A knitted version of Kama Sutra positions, shown above (Carrie)
--8 Weird Porn Genres including one in which men post pics of cum-covered figurines. ("I'm surprised you didn't write this," says Cathya, who may or may not be dissing me.) 

Robert, Dana, Sarah--hope you got your money's worth. I'm off to check my vagina for cocks, chihuahuas or any other errant objects my Numb Vagina Syndrome may have caused me to overlook.

(photo News Dog Media)

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Semen Strips are Still Not Candy, Vaginal Oppression, and other Reader Mail.

Grapes: A more suitable snack choice
--Semen Strips--Still Not Candy
"This stopped me dead in my tracks," wrote the apparently recovered William Quincy Belle, sending a screen shot showing IBWMW is the #1 hit on Google Canada for "semen strips are not candy." (Sadly, we still languish at number 3 here in the U.S.)

Still, I stand by the "not candy" statement regarding Masque--a kind of watermelon fruit-roll-up product that you place in your mouth before giving head to neutralize the taste of your lover's very Life Essence--despite the company's confusing assertion in their FAQs: 

"They are certainly not candy and were created for an intended purpose. However, we have many people in our office that eat them merely for the taste."

Which indicates to me less about semen strips' deliciousness and more that the Masque corporate offices are in dire, dire need of a decent vending machine.

--The Misguider Googler of the Day
The dear soul who found us via the search term "woman has fat camel toe vagina."  

--My Work Sullying Other Places
The brave and beautiful Erica at A Sexy Woman of a Certain Age is running my piece The Appeal of an Older Woman. She also called me a "debauched ninja" which I fucking love. Look for her piece about her 7 most erotic experiences appearing here anon.

My article about Trisha Borowicz's bad-ass film Science Sex and the Ladies and how it's pretty much biologically impossible for most women to reliably (or ever) come via p-in-v fuckery is currently running in Salon as The Simple Secret To Making Women Orgasm No One Understands and AlterNet as The Simple "Secret" to Making a Woman Orgasm That Way Too Many People Don't Get (it's the number one story!)

I made the mistake of reading the hatey comments, which for the record is not a good way to start your day, and got all bunged up when people said stuff like "I come vaginally--that's BS, you're oppressing me, etc..." (Note:  If the majority of people have an experience but you don't, that doesn't mean the statement is untrue, it just means you're in the minority.  Because that's how statistics fucking work.)

Anyway, tons of nicer, more logical people shared the story via Facebook and Twitter and totally got it, like Jane Rising who wrote this today: 

I was raised Mormon, and Mormons are taught that masturbating is BAD BAD BAD. I was a good Mormon girl, so I never ever touched myself. For reals. I got married at age 22, and was expecting all of my sexual frustration to come to an end in holy matrimony. But my husband didn't seem to know anything about sex, either, and it just never felt that good to me. We were just doing it the way we saw people do it on tv or in movies (the PG-13 ones, of course). It took about 5 minutes, and for me it was just wet and slimey and didn't feel like anything other than a mess. He seemed pretty happy with me, though, so I patted myself on the back for being a good wife.

As time went on, he seemed less and less happy with me. He wanted me to be thinking about sex all the time, and I wasn't. He wanted me to want him, and I didn't. He wanted me to "get into it," and I couldn't. So he sent me to a sex therapist, who was supposed to "fix" me. Nothing really changed.

After 16 years unhappily married to this man, I filed for divorce. And about a year later I stopped being Mormon. Imagine my surprise when I had sex for the first time with someone other than my husband. This new guy spent a few minutes with his fingers on my clit and I was through the roof. I started weeping. He wanted to know if something was wrong. Why was I crying? Because I had just had my first orgasm at age 39, and it was so easy. After all those years of anger, blame, frustration, guilt and pressure, I finally realized that I was not broken. Not broken one bit.

I haven't had a chance to watch this movie yet--I just read about it today for the first time. But the message of this film needs to be spread far and wide, and hopefully make its way to women like I used to be--women trapped by ignorance in a miserable sex life. We need to know our own bodies, claim them, and love them.

--"Gigantic and Instantly Fun"

Murca, a blogger in Estonia, wrote this about In Bed With Married Women:

Minu see lemmik väljamaa blogi peab juba mõnda aega suurt pidustust avaldades ja taasavaldades lugejate päris (voodi)elu lugusid. Ja see on nii hiigla tore ja kõhe ja huvitav ja veidral kombel haarav, et ma just mõtsin, et üks blogi ei saa enam paremaks minna ja siis see läks.

which according to Google translate means:

My favorite Väljamäe this blog has been for some time, and big parties by publishing a pretty taasavaldades readers (bed) life stories. And it is so gigantic and instantly fun and exciting and strangely captivating, so I just mõtsin that one blog will no longer get better and then it went away.

Which, for me at least, could also use a Google translation. If you speak Estonia, let me know what it means. Unless Väljamäe means "you're vaginally oppressing me," in which case, keep that $%## to yourself.

--Why I Can Never Get A Real Job, Reason #47
A friend who moved away said her daughter remembers me as "the penis and vagina pals lady." Which is awesome and totally what I'm doing the very next time I'm called upon to do an animated feature and/or children's puppet show.

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