Wednesday, July 9, 2014

How to Make a Woman Come--Even If You Are That Woman. AKA Things I Learned from Science, Sex, and The Ladies

Louis CK has a bit on how men complain about women's "neediness" after sex:

“After sex, you’re looking at two very different people. The man just wants to lay there and be cool and the woman wants to cuddle. 'Why is she so needy?’ She’s not needy you idiot, she’s horny, because you did nothing for her. You did absolutely nothing. Her pussy is on fire because it's gone unfucked completely. Of course you’re fine, you climbed on and went “KFHGSKG” and rolled off. And she’s on you because she’s like ‘WH-at SOMETHING ELSE HAS TO HAPPEN! This is bullshit!!' If you fuck a woman well, she will leave you alone. ‘Thanks a lot, buddy. Zzzzz.’”

Louis says this happens because men are "bad at sex." Perhaps, but I think a lot of us are kinda bad at sex--just by default, because we never got the proper instruction. People want to be good lovers and fuck well. But it's incredibly difficult--ridiculously so--to get any sort of reasonable, real-world education.

Even today, we know so little about women's bodies. So very little!  It was only in the past few years that I learned that the clit occupies an extensive bit of pelvic real estate, that scientists still don't know what the fuck women are squirting when they ejaculate (it's "not pee," which just leaves...every non-pee substance), and that the cervix is so insensitive that 95% of women can't tell if it's being rubbed with a cotton swab. (This being the primary reason that the Gentleman's Cervical Swab Rubbing Courtship Technique of 1847 has fallen out of favor.)

In other cases, we know very well what's going with on women's bodies, but for some reason, bury or don't acknowledge this info.

The most egregious form of our sexual ignorance/denial is about how most women actually have an orgasm: A woman comes from having her clitoris rubbed. There are a lucky few (very few!) who can get the job done via p-in-v fucking, but even then, what's going down with every woman is that:

1. their clit is rubbed.
2. they come (or don't.)

That's it.  

This is pretty much contrary to every depiction of women's sexual response we see in porn, mainstream films, and read about in books. Even books written for women by women.

Trisha Borowicz got all Fight-the-Power about this (yay!) and made a smart, funny, cheeky film called Science, Sex, and The Ladies "for all the women who have felt confused, frustrated, or ashamed about their ability to orgasm."  

 I learned all kinds of things from Science, Sex, and the Ladies, up to and including:

--I couldn't tell a whit of difference between the photos of the Aroused Clitoris and Unaroused Clitoris (possible future lesbian lovers: you have been forewarned.)
--Women have their strongest orgasms by their own hand, second strongest with someone else's hand, and weakest via fucking and the frustratingly indirect stimulation of a penis rubbing-near-but-not-quite-exactly-where-you-need-it.
 --Contrary to popular belief, women don't take forever to come. Women come as quickly as easily as men, given the right stimulation. Men would also take forever to come if they were only being stimulated by, say, someone diligently rubbing their pubic hair.

My favorite part of the film depicted scenes of people engaged in various forms of sexual congress--a blow job, fucking, etc...--when a cheery actress would walk into the each scene and advise the female participant to "Rub one out!" to enhance her experience. It was fun, breezy and educational--like a particularly racy episode of The Electric Company.

I actually do wish this was the sort of stuff young people saw. And, while I'm at it, I wish more sex scenes depicted women being stimulated realistically, in the way that women actually need to be stimulated, so that women would no longer have to think they were somehow broken, doing it wrong or hadn't yet found the proper dick.
There is an orgasm disparity among women and men that drastically affects the way each understand themselves and each other. The truth is, women go through their sexual lives having very few orgasms compared to their male partners, and this has become a matter of course, a sort of unspoken accepted reality. This discrepancy, however, is not a result of innate differences between male and female biology, but a result of how we as a culture have come to understand, teach and experience sex.

Science, Sex and the Ladies aims to make it known that this orgasm disparity is culturally created, harmful, and in no way inevitable. It's actually quite an appalling and over arching problem that creeps into every aspect of our lives and relationships. Neither modern women or modern men are fully responsible for this problem, but a change in both are necessary for a solution. Science Sex and the Ladies, as part of a larger Orgasm Equality Movement, is a call to action.--Science, Sex, and the Ladies.
Anyway, if you want to be part of the Orgasm Equality Movement--and I do, although I'm totally not going to refer to it as that--the film makers are offering screeners of the movie if you'd like to host a small group showing. It's free--all they ask is that you send them a photo of the festivities. For more info, email

I watched it alone, but wish I'd been with a group because I have all kinds of questions now. Like:

--Why are women writing romance/erotica about easily orgasmic p-in-v sex? Are all erotica writers among the tiny percentage of penis in vagina cumees? Or are they writing about how they think sex should be? Or how they wish it could be?
--What is the connection between emotions and sex? I'm totally onboard with Naomi Wolf's ideas in Vagina about sexual/spiritual/emotional connections, heady neurochemicals, and the transcendence that can happen in a really good fuck. And yet..... While emotional connection and getting "in the mood" is great, and certainly something to strive for, it's clearly not absolutely necessary for an orgasm. A woman masturbating with a showerhead or something can come plenty easily without having a big emotional experience and/or scene-setting. And yet... I have also burst into tears after an orgasm. Why and how are emotions all mixed up with sex? Or do we just assume they are, ergo, they are?
--If you are like pretty much every other chick and need to rub your clit to come, do you do it during sex with someone else? Or have you been among those (and, yes, I have been there as well) making "secret, quiet circles on disappointed clits next to sleeping lovers."

What are we all gonna do about this?


P.S. In Bed With Married Women recently got its 1 millionth page view!

PPS. I recently was also cited on some Spanish-language anti-gay site (blergh) for my supposed anal bleaching expertise.  "Una experta en el tema, la Sra. Hamilton entra en grandes detalles sobre la historia de esta reprobable t├ęcnica."

PPPS. That site has 2 million views.

(photo via Church of the Victorian Cult, not sure where Wendy Rose got a hold of it.)

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Reader Stories: Crossdressing, BDSM, Possible Domming and Other Things Your Cubemates Desire

Ah, my dears. You are so good to me. Always sending me funny little stories, smart thinky articles, and heartfelt missives on your sex lives (or lack thereof).

And I cruelly repay you by saving them for later, then forgetting to run them. But today, I shall make up for this, putting some of the backlog into a big ol' virtual sack and depositing it unceremoniously on your Internet doorstep.

In some of the stories below it was hard for me to find a point of reference for the particulars involved (and even got a little cringy at times), but what I find fascinating is the fearlessness all the writers had in uncovering and exploring their desires. Maybe they didn't want to want what they wanted, but they kept wanting it anyway.

"Underneath it all, we are wild and we know it"--Reginald A. Ray

--Let's start with this one from..let's call her Pia: "I have always been very adventurous in bed," she wrote, by way of introduction. "Even my virginity was taken in a kinky way. I have been in a relationship for seven years with a wonderful man but I was getting very bored and needed to let my kinky side come out again. He was not kinky at all. I was the closeted freak. I finally came clean early this year and he was ok with me exploring within a clear set of boundaries. Doing some research, I found FetLife, where I talked with local people. I found a submissive's discussion group, met some wonderful people, got invited to a tasting of kink party, and the rest is history. This is my journaling before my first scene. I thought it would give you a good intro.  I have been journaling every scene I have had so far, some are more graphic than others."

The Nerves of My First BDSM Scene
     As Saturday approaches, the nerves and butterflies increase. I have been pondering a lot about having the guts to do what I am about to do on Saturday.
     Since I decided to go into the community, I have met a number of wonderful people and I have gathered the guts to surrender to my desire. This particular lady has given me the warm and fuzzies since I met her. She is wonderful, open, warm, welcoming, and a bunch of other things that make you want to trust her. Her girlfriend is also super nice, caring, protective, funny, etc. What I want to say is that I really like both of them. I am not bisexual but BDSM is about much more than just sex and I feel very comfortable with her.
     That is the reason why I decided to go for it. I trust her, and I have become a Violet Wand fan, or like she put it, a juice bug. I never in my life thought I would enjoy and crave electricity!
     I have been so nervous about it, not it it ... but about the party attached to it. Since the first time I went to a play party, I have been in a constant state of admiration; admiration for the freedom and acceptance of women of all shapes and sizes. It was a huge lesson for me from the beginning. Every time I went to parties I thought that I want to be like that when I grow up; I want to be that free. I want to disrobe not worrying about what someone else might think, but just for the pure pleasure of it all. Just because I cannot wait to feel that intense sensation on every inch of my skin... and oh my god, I do! I wanted a seasoned Violet Wand user to show me new heights. I just cannot wait.
     A friend of mine just told me how hot it is what I am about to do and he also told me that the one block I have is my own thoughts. He is so right; I get too deep in my own head and overthink everything. His advice: just do it. He sounds like a Nike commercial but he is right, and I want to do it. I want to close my eyes or look deep into His eyes and get lost in the raw sensation of it all. All I want to do is feel and not think.
     Ironically, today I read the following:  Love YOU. – Let someone love you just the way you are – as flawed as you might be, as unattractive as you sometimes feel, and as unaccomplished as you think you are. Yes, let someone love you despite all of this; and let that someone be YOU.
     And I think I usually do ... but this ... this is a huge deal for me. I will do it and I will enjoy it, because it is totally out of my comfort zone; and someone once told me that life begins at the end of your comfort zone. So life ... here I go.
     Can't hardly wait for tomorrow!
--The next story is How I Became My Wife's Wife.  I'm not sure if the author wants me to put his name so I'll just say his name is D. D, if you want to write in and claim ownership, I'll be happy to put your name on here.
    My story is a bit unique, but I thought I'd share. You see, my body isn't always right. I enjoy being a man. I enjoy it immensely. I love using my penis to take my wife to the brink of ecstasy, hold her there, and with a lunge, send her into a blacked out world of fireworks that has a population of one: The entity we become together.
     I love being a man who's unabashedly and irresistibly attracted to women who outweigh me, and at 6'1", you know what that means. I love all the sensuality available from such a body. Easily my favorite thing about being a man is feeling every inch of my penis moving inside my wife's finely textured pussy. See, what passes as a g spot for other women, my wife doesn't have. That peculiarly textured area occurs right behind the bone, and is easily tongue-accessible, making her one of those few women that come hard from being fucked hard.
     She gushes cum and covers me with it.
     And squirts.
     Oh yes, I love being a man.
     As both a former cheerleader and a former stripper, you can imagine the body issues my size 22 wife had when we started dating. She's down to an 18, now. Nevertheless, she bought this outfit early on to wear for me. The top is sleeveless with a plunge neck, and the skirt is my favorite length: long enough to cover her ass, but not long enough that she'd wear in public.
     A few months before we got married, she wore it for me again, we screwed like porn stars (again), And she went to eBay to find a new outfit.
     A few days later, It arrived, and we immediately covered it with cum.
     The following evening, I asked her What she wanted me to wear. She told me to pick something, so I put on her sleeveless plunge top. Nervously, I looked at her. Surprise flew across her face and was gone. She said "well, there's a skirt to go with that..." So I put it on.
     She adjusted it until I was wearing it correctly, then had me turn around. She lifted the skirt, rubbed my ass, dropped the skirt, then pushed her lighter on the floor and giggled an oops. I put my ass as high as I could as I bent over to retrieve the lighter, and she gasped in my general direction.
     "NOW I see why you like the skirt," she managed to get out.
     I turned towards her and handed her the lighter. She threw it and surrounded my dick with her mouth. I stood perfectly still as I received the most passionate blowjob she'd ever given me, making it the most passionate blowjob that ever happened. 
     A new feeling had awakened inside of me, and I had to put it inside of her.
     So I did the only logical thing I could do. I grabbed her ponytail and pulled her head off my dick. She resisted, hard, but I overcame, grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back on the bed. Then I hooked my arms under her knees and pulled her close.
     My dick knew where to go, and I took the next five minutes slowly inserting it. She was dry when I started, but dripping wet when I bottomed out.
     Holding steady, I moved my lips to her ear, pushing her legs back as I did so. I asked her if she'd like her husband to be a woman, and she started to cum. She couldn't speak or move. All she could do was quiver against my hips and pulsars.
     Since the first insertion went so well, I followed it up with as many rough insertions as I could, moving around to hit as many spots as I could in a vagina that was increasingly voluminous. 
     2.3 minutes later, I dropped down on the bed next to her. We'd each had an orgasm, hers was still happening. We were both unable to move. So we did what you'd have done instead: we passed out.
     I woke up in the morning feeling great. I put my hands on my chest and the feeling was gone. I hadn't magically grown breasts overnight.
     We repeated the experience with her new outfit. ...on me.
     The next day, I spent a great deal of time trying to understand what I was doing and why. Even though I had embraced feminism and done any and every thing I could to abdicate my own male privilege, I was still subject to 38 years of conditioning telling me it was bad/wrong (badong) to be a woman with a penis. I stood for transgender rights, but I was uncomfortable with the idea those might be my rights.
     That evening, wrestling with my inner demons, I started the conversation my wife didn't even know she never wanted to have it.
     In the couple of years since then, we've both learned a lot about ourselves. We understand that I'm a crossdresser, and we share clothes. We understand that women and men can't be equal until I can put on a dress and breast forms and walk around in public in safety.
     Most importantly, we understand how awesome it is that we're together.

--And finally, here's this one. I couldn't tell if this was a bit spammy ("Dear 'Ms. Hamilton'") or not (used the correct, awkward acronym for blog), so I give it to you as is.

Dear Ms. Hamilton,
I greatly enjoy IBWMW and thought you may be interested in a short cartoon I made. "So, You Want to Be a Dom?" is about a man who wants to be a Dom, but doesn't actually want to be a Dom, or even know what one is:


"Desire presses ever forward unsubdued," said Freud. You can try to smash it down (note: this does not work) or you can leap right the fuck into it and see where it takes you.

Let me know which you pick.


Monday, June 23, 2014

What is "Adult Content"? Hell, I don't even know anymore.

Please avert your eyes.
The first time I went into a gym locker room when I was a kid, I was completely wigged out that grown-ups were walking around naked. Not because adults were naked--I had seen plenty of that--but because it seemed so arbitrary. Naked in locker room = a-ok. Naked in KMart = alert the police. How could rules be so iron-clad in one place, then completely disregarded in another?

It was a dual morality that seemed a bit pointless. Why were we pretending to be shocked by nudity, when it was obvious from the locker room experience that we could all handle it just fine? Yes, I get that the gender-segregation made it "different," but I think that's crap. If some chick was walking around naked in the Winn-Dixie, we would need to giggle and/or pretend to be scandalized.

I think the same phenomenon is happening right now with sex--this sort of weird combo of pretending, denial, and reacting like we think we're supposed to react.

We are all here via fucking--someone did IT with someone else. Our ancestors made love, they had tepid sex because the ovulation thermometer said it was time, they co-mingled souls and saw God, they slam-fucked on a dirty old couch in the dorm. Everyone* came from someone coming. To ignore that and pretend that sex is still some sort of unspeakable thing that adults cannot even discuss without everyone needing to giggle and/or be scandalized is ridiculous. Ridiculous! And yet it's STILL happening all the time. I don't mind the giggling part, sex is funny, but the scandalized bit, I am just so...done with that.

To wit: Trisha Borowicz has made a smart, funny, amazing film about female pleasure called Science, Sex and the Ladies. It's educational and cheeky. She's been shopping it around to festivals but reports they flat out won't run it because it's "too explicit." "Even festivals that are known for taking risks," she reported via email, though I've added in my head that she was also shaking her head in disbelief.

The film is sort of "explicit," in that it shows stuff like photographs of an aroused clitoris vs. unaroused clitoris, but it's not porn. It's about biology and the history of how society views women's sexual pleasure and how women can best have an orgasm. It's for learnin'. And besides, even if it was porn, these are film festivals, for fuck's sake. When the hell did film festivals get all uptight?

I honestly don't know what's acceptable anymore. Every night on TV there are shows about grisly sexual/violent crimes, but this month Facebook made me take down a photo of a vaguely naked woman. Everyone's mom has read Fifty Shades of Grey, and there were articles in major publications about it, but Google has docked me for my supposed "pornographic content." My friggin' Sunday paper supplement has coupons for vibrators and lubes, but my blog provider (Google, again) has threatened to take down all Blogger blogs with ads for "adult products." Seriously? The dorky newspaper coupon section is more progressive than these supposedly modern, forward-thinking tech companies?

Do we really not get the difference between supposedly offensive content and regular adults just trying to figure out how to have proper sex? Why do we have such a nonsensical patchwork of rules that apply here, but not there? For this body part but not that one?

So, yes, this was supposed to be about Science, Sex and the Ladies, but kind of digressed into ranting. Fear not, next post I will tell you how you can see the movie, for free. People, especially women, need to know how their bodies work. Why is that even controversial? It's madness!

Anyway, tomorrow we talk about the movie and female pleasure.

Til then.

*Test-tube babies: even you came from some jizz.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

True Tale: I was a Grade School Nudist

Yes, I know that every kid is a nudist.  But I really was one.  Like, officially. As in, card carrying member of the ASA (American Sunbathing Association.) As in going to special places--nudist camps, or if would want to make them sound really creepy and culty, nudist colonies--which were created for no other reason than so people could walk around naked.

This was the Shameful Secret of my childhood, like having an alcoholic mother who hit or an uncle who touched you in the areas where the bathing suit covers. No one was to know. As you may recall, I grew up in the 1970s, the time of hippies, macrame owls and mushroom decor, but I grew up in 1970s Georgia, a place of macrame owls, etc..., but also a very conservative, uptight place. It was a place where every white family had a "nigro" maid named something like Mavis, vegetarians were suspect and you sure as fuck weren't supposed to be something as whack as a nudist.

Nudism, then as probably now, was considered to be something weird, at the very least, and at the worse, probably sexual. Not sexual in a particularly nameable way but just...wrong. Naked=sex, end of story.

The reality, which would become apparent to anyone who spent 2 minutes at a nudist camp, is that they are about a sexual as any average RV park. Picture the folks in line at your Target store. Now picture them naked. Now picture them naked and running for a tennis ball, their own balls flopping in the wind. Feeling sexy? Exactly.

Every nice weekend in the summer, my dad would load up the car with camping equipment and we'd be off to a campground in nearby Florida. It was run by a sweet old man named Uncle Sammy who was also, incongruently, incredibly racist. And, if you must know, he had rather large testicles that were kind of a blueish hue.

My two sisters and I hated going. HATED it. And it wasn't because of our unfortunate kid's eye view of Uncle Sammy's literally blue balls. Being nudists was the thing that made us different.  Made us weird. Made us wrong. "How was your weekend?" our neighbor Mrs. P would leeringly ask me when we got back. "Did y'all go camping?" She knew what she meant and I knew what she meant, but both of us were loathe to acknowledge it. "Yes," I would admit, mumbling. "Oh, reeeeeeally?" she would smirk triumphantly.

It was this sort of insinuating attitude about nudism that was what was so shameful about it to us. The actual nudism was no big deal. Really.

People find this really hard to believe. Even today, if I mention it to someone--I mean, people who know I write this blog, friends who know me well--they get that Mrs. P look on their faces. It's a mixture of judgey, sort of aroused, completely intrigued, yet put off at the same time.

"It's like a KOA, but everyone's naked," I say, lamely. They never believe me and press for more details. Because surely--surely!--there's more to it than that. But really that's it. Here's what people do at a nudist camp: swim, play old-school sports like horseshoes, ping pong or pool, sit around and play cards, sit in saunas or whirlpools, lie out in the sun, eat dinner and so on. All of this is done naked. Or naked but wearing the appropriate gear like tennis shoes. (If the idea of a bunch of your average Appleby's customers walking around naked isn't non-sexual enough, seeing those same folk naked but for a pair of socks and tennis shoes should do the trick.)

BTW, if you were wondering, the cliche about nudists and volleyball is totally true. Nudists love their volleyball--love it! Every camp has a court, no exceptions. Another nudist thing is the Importance of Towels. Nudists have an inordinate faith in the power of towels as all-purpose protectant. Every nudist carries a towel so that can put it between their sweaty naked ass and whatever surface they put said ass upon. The towel, you see, magically protects everyone from...well everything. I'm not sure why no one considers the "towel flipping factor," that is, once you re-use the towel, can you really be sure you're putting the butt side on your butt? Nonetheless, it seems to work. I don't know the science behind it, but to my knowledge, nudists don't suffer from any greater incident of butt-transmitted disease.

Because everyone is naked there probably are some things I've seen that most people haven't seen. I have seen flaccid penises covered in tanning oil (it was the 70s, remember). I have seen very obese men walking around naked, their genitalia tiny and cowering under the massive flap of their bellies. I have seen boobs hanging down to stomach level, all kinds of scars, varicose veins, sunburned boobs, flat wrinkly bums, prodigious bushes (70s, ditto), and balls that hang down nearly to knee level. I have seen women walking around with a tampon string hanging out their wangs (the accepted nudist procedure, by the way, is for a menstruating woman to don a pair of underpants. Why they couldn't just tuck the string inside and try to "pass" as a non-menstruating woman remains unexplained to me. Perhaps many women of the day still had the whole belt and pad apparatus?)

What I did not see includes: orgies, sex of any kind, an erect penis. (As a child, I read a Q&A pamphlet for new nudists featuring naked cartoon "Love is..." looking folks. For the question "What if I get, you know, aroused?" naked cartoon man was advised to take a quick jump in the pool.)

When teenage nudist kids start rebelling against their parents they do so--seriously--by wearing clothes. Every nudist camp has kids in their awkward years Fighting the Power by wearing a long t-shirt or--fuck it!--even a full pants and shirt combo.

As I said, my sisters and I hated our nudist secret. It wasn't the actual nudism so much because, in truth that was kind of fun. Not the naked part, which we really didn't care one way or the other about, but going on adventures-- running wild, exploring woods and creeks, water skiing, climbing trees and getting to play grown-up games like pool. Nudist camps are like a secret club. They are all over the country and--at least at the time--you had to know where they were (invariably down a long dirt road in the middle of nowhere), the secret code to unlock the gate or who to ask for at the intercom when you pulled up. When we pulled up to the gate at a new club, we'd ask for whoever--Dottie, say--and Dottie would come to the gate, bronzed, wrinkled and wearing only a terry cloth wrap around skirt.  The Dotties always seemed to smoke and had a vague white-trashiness about them. The Dotties always had the nicest mobile home in the place, but nudist camp nice, which is not really that nice.

For my sisters and I, it was the secret part that was so bad. We weren't supposed to tell anyone about it. Knowing that I had a thing about me that people couldn't know gave me a sense of shame that took years to shake. I thought if anyone ever knew this horrible nudist thing about me...well, that'd be about it. I, seriously, didn't even tell my husband until we'd been married several years. I still haven't told my children, or many of you guys. I don't think either of my sisters have told their husbands. (uh, til now. Sorry! Hope you enjoy your Big Talk tonight.)

It is not right to make children keep secrets and, well, let's just say that perhaps the situation could have been handled differently. Though I don't know how. There really was no good way to present the whole nudist family idea to my Georgia neighbors. And I still think there's something a little weird about needing to be naked in public, among other naked people. Couldn't people be just be fine walking around naked in their house without formalizing it, building camps, forming the ASA and whatnot? Was there something sexual about it that I wasn't getting?

That said, as an adult, I can see some of the advantages of the whole nothing-to-hide aspect of it all. I recently went to a Korean spa with my friend Janet. It was hardcore. Old Korean women were squatting down by these sort of low faucets scrubbing the bejesus out of their nether regions. (For a really long time too. They are either really really clean or there must be some sort of pleasure in taking to your crotch with a scrub brush that I'm not aware of.) Everyone was naked because you had to be--sign on the door said so. As I soaked with Janet in the hot tub (making, like, constant eye contact so I wouldn't appear to be staring at her boobs in an unseemly manner*), I looked around.

Everyone looked bad naked, and yet everyone looked good. That is to say, we all looked human. Clothes give the illusion that other people have perfect bodies and that, plus general media bombardment, etc... gives us the idea that most everyone else looks fucking amazing. Of course we "know" that's not true. We know models are genetic rarities, culled from millions of others, and that they are strategically posed, photoshopped, etc... But seeing these regular bodies made me really know it, in a deep way. The chick with the amazing boobs had a bit of a wide ass going on. The trim woman was also a bit gaunt. It was incredibly liberating to realize that we all looked...well, okay enough.

The other day I had the experience of being on the other side of the naked generational divide. I was pet sitting for friends who have a pool. I invited my husband and two daughters over to swim. When they got there, I shouted, "Woo! Let's go skinny dipping!" I peeled off my clothes and dove into the pool. When I surfaced, my three family members were staring at me in semi-horror. "Woo!" I said, again, defiantly. I swam around briefly, to prove my point that they were missing out--big time--but it was half-hearted. I felt foolish and suddenly way way too naked. Soon I climbed out and grabbed my towel. I was half-embarrassed, half-hating their prudery.

Despite that, at 47, I think I've pretty much come to peace with my supposedly sordid past. At least enough that I feel fine telling you, Dear Internet Stranger, and who knows who the hell you'll tell. The good part is that I don't really care any more.

In an interesting coda to all this: My nudist connection which had always been the Worst Thing of my Life also turned out to be one of the best things. When I was looking for an idea to pitch to Rolling Stone, my dad told me that a local nudist camp was hosting bands like Foreigner and Loverboy for a concert, a two-day Nudestock festival. This, anyone could see, was comedy gold. My piece on Nudestock (thank you to my RS editor, the amazing Jancee Dunn) was my first national story.

So what have we learned here? Here are your takeaways: Things are never all good or all bad, they just are. Keeping secrets=bad. Some men have really really long balls.

Now you know the worst,

* For the record, Janet has an incredible ass.

(Note: names, places, and such have been changed to protect the privacy of various pissed off family members)
(photo source)

Friday, June 6, 2014

On the Benefits of a Smaller Penis by Blue

Oh god, please tell me I didn't send an email last night to
 IBWMW about my lover's ruddy, noble, well-formed penis
Reader Blue sent in the following missive. When I asked her what pseudonym she'd like, she answered, "I can't believe I sent that! I wrote that while drunk a few weeks ago and sent it while drunk last night."

Don't worry, Blue, lots of people write to me when they're drunk, which is probably not at all flattering, but I'm just gonna decide that it is actually highly flattering and be done with it.

Besides, the whole drunk Internet/texting/sexting possibilities available to Today's Modern Drunk makes me so so so happy that my own drunken days were pre-all of that. I can't even fucking imagine the hideousness of waking up all bleary-eyed and hung over and having to face my Sent Mail folder to see what horrors might lie within.

To her credit, Blue is not the incoherent mess of a drunk I was, so I reprint her story here in its full glory. Enjoy.

a few weeks ago i saw your invitation to "Just sit down at the computer, rip your heart out, and jot the results down"  and started writing this.  i don't know if this is what you want, and that was awhile ago but here's my story: 

i started writing this because of the part of dusky's letter where she writes "the idea that naturally the greatest sex of your life will be with the love of your life."  for me sex was indeed "a litmus test of the true inner feelings of two people" although love has always been a Big Deal for me, sex had never been the highest on my list of priorities.  i had attributed my lackluster sex life to my complete disinterest, not the other way around. it had kind of escaped my notice that the way people feel physically and the way they feel emotionally have a lot to do with each other.  there is no aphrodisiac like love... 

so i didn't know this but not everybody is know... anatomically compatible.  there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.  sorry guys, but now you know.  it CAN be too big.  but i didn't learn this little secret until i cheated.  and let me tell you, for those lucky people out there who have never cheated on anybody: it a repulsive experience, don't do it!  but then, the marriage sucked and sometimes you don't know the grass is greener until you get on the other side of the fence.  sure it looks greener, but.... now i know.  

there are people in the world who are really good at having sex.  just like mozart was a great composer, da vinci was a master painter, and stratavarius made the best violins ever, some people are really REALLY good at fucking.  

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Bad Erotica, that is, Erotica Other People Like

Somebody mentioned erotica for folks over 60, which reminded me of this post. Pretend like you haven't met before.  

As part of my affiliate deal with Good Vibrations, I get to pick from an assortment of free stuff each month which I can offer to you as a prize or keep for myself*. (My motto: if you're going to sell out to a corporate overlord, do it for a sex-positive, girl-power one that showers you and your loved ones with free sex toys.)

Usually I pass the free sex toy love on to one of y'all, but a couple months ago, Good Vibes was offering a book called Lust: Erotic Fantasies for Women. Oh yes, I decided selfishly--giving not a whit of thought to you and your needs--this one's for mama.

When it arrived in its discreet brown wrapper, I snuck away to be alone with my new smut and started reading. There was a story about an anonymous encounter on a subway which was kinda good. Something about a lady working at a fruit stand and a TV star who comes and whisks her away, eh... Next. I kept reading and reading, hoping to get to "the good part," as it were, but it started to become apparent that, for me at least, there wasn't gonna be a good part.

By the time I got to a story about retiree sex, I stopped looking to be aroused by the book and started reading as sort of a sociological study. (Yes, I am this nerdy. Reading porn as an intellectual exercise. I would appreciate it if you'd not bring it up again.)

I am not at all against retirees having sex. I'm all for it, I swear! But seriously, listen to this supposed "erotica" in "Moving" by Susan St. Aubin.
We trade medical notes: he sometimes takes Viagra in the afternoon. Mornings he can do without. I tell him about the hormone cream I've started using in my cunt to bring back its raw silk texture.
What. The. Fuck???

My point here is not that it is unsexy**, but that yes, though it is unsexy to me, it's completely fucking off-the-charts sexy to someone else. For all I know, writing it was so fucking hot to Susan St. Aubin that she had to slip away several times while writing it to push her hand between her legs to relieve the growing pressure in her hormone cream-covered raw silkiness.

I find it fascinating how different people are turned on by different things. Your particular biological predilection, plus snippets from your experiences--people you knew growing up, a sexy movie scene you saw in 2003, an early lover, an idea you saw in a book--all converge in your brain to form an idea of what is erotic to you.

A friend of mine lent me a book called The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Vol. 5. I turned to something called "I Want to Watch you Do It" because I liked the title. In it, the girl makes the guy jack off in front of her while she watches, then he takes charge and bosses her around. She, overcome with lust, can do nothing but obey his sexual commands. "Just do what I ask and don't say a word until you come at least twice. Nod your head if you agree," demands the guy, as her puts her through a series of moves. Oh, darling, I loved that #$##! But that's because it happens to fire up whatever particular erotica neurons I have set up in my brain. You, by contrast, might be left completely cold. Perhaps you need a vampire involved, or a fetching Scotsman, or a fierce dominatrix wearing a specific brand of blue boots.

I can imagine that Mammoth contributor Joshua Hoobler would be among those unaroused by my beloved story of sexual instructions. His story, "Not at Risk," lavishly shares the details of some dude giving himself enemas (5 of them!) and having sex with a series of three dildos. (Each oh so very very special.)
On Sunday morning I wake up early, have my regular bowel movement, wipe thoroughly, take the enema bag out from the bathroom cabinet, fill it with warm water, hang it on the towel rack, grab the Astroglide, slip on some latex gloves, lube up my asshole and commence upon a series of two quart enemas...It takes me at least three and sometimes up to five to get to where the toilet water is as clear when I'm done as it is when I sat down. 
Again, the point is not that this is unsexy***, but that this guy and I have a vast chasm--oh so very, very vast--between what we each consider sexy. When he was describing the particular quality of his friggin' poo, I not only wasn't turned on, I was whatever the complete opposite of turned on is. In truth, I really kind of wanted to retch.

However, if me retching turns you on, I would direct you to Puke Planet, a site for those with a vomiting fetish.

Which, I think, kind of makes my point...


*I also get a 20% commission on anything you order from Good Vibes through In Bed With Married Women. Might I suggest the We-Vibe couples vibrator thing? The woman wears it during penetration, while it hums along outside and inside at the same time. Haven't tried it but, damn, sure sounds good.
**Though, c'mon it totally is!
***But, holy fuck, it is so so so unsexy!!!
Related Posts with Thumbnails