Thursday, April 13, 2017

Best Sex Ever Contest Winners! (Plus a l'il patriarchy smashing).

Clean up, clean up, everybody do their share.
The winners of the Best Sex Ever Contest have been notified and if it wasn't you, fear not, there's always tomorrow for dreams to come true (Clarice, 1964). And to dry your tears, I'll share two entries with you that I especially liked.

The first is from "Wilma" not her real name, nor near as I can tell, anyone's real name.

I could not pass up entering your cool contest because it involves a subject near and dear to my heart. Very sadly, for me, the best and most profound and powerful sex was with a man who destroyed my heart and soul so thoroughly, I haven't wanted to have sex with another man for several years. And goddamn it! I'm a woman who LOVES SEX!

I never should have gotten involved with him in the first place, as I was (very unhappily) married with two daughters. It was a simple and completely innocent Facebook post asking if any of my many musician friends happened to have a pair of bongo drums that I could borrow or buy to use at a middle school Earth Day garden party. Wouldn't you know, Mister Great Cock-Heartless Lover answered. From that moment on, I was in thrall to him, ultimately destroying my already wrecked marriage, shattering the trust between me and my daughters and spending the next 4 years in total, self destructive despair. Even after years of therapy, countless suggestions and support from friends and far too much journaling and self reflection, I am still pathetically addicted to this man.

It was because of That Moment, the first, single moment when I finally opened up, became totally and terrifyingly vulnerable and allowed my self to meld mindblowing sex with Love. I had never allowed it before out of fear of intimacy, and here I did it with the one man who would use it against me over and over and over again. But man, I still remember That Moment, and the power and beauty of it all and for that, I am grateful. Because at least now, I know what I am capable of. I still believe, after all these years of self afflicted misery, that I'll experience That Moment with someone worthy and who I'll feel worthy enough with.

Jill, going against all my better judgment, I'm shooting this email off to you without taking one moment to re-read, proof or edit what I've written.

Goddamn! It feels fucking great to get this off my chest! Thank you for offering the opportunity for your readers to participate in this endeavor.

Love you.

And this from Sky Roy, which actually is his real name. I love this because it's so outside what I've ever experienced. Also he used the phrase "sexual compersion." (Compersion, n: A feeling of joy when a loved one invests in and takes pleasure from another romantic or sexual relationship.)

One time myself and two women I am involved with decided to have a threesome. We all got tipsy and/or high, and sat on the couch together. We started talking, electricity just crackling around us, and finally somebody started touching in a way that was erotic. Suddenly everyone's clothes went flying into the air and we started having the most natural, effortless, astounding sex. We moved from room to room trying every configuration you can imagine, extending the session over about three hours.

The best parts of the experience were me having four mindbending orgasms, which given that I am male and pushing forty is pretty rare over that timespan, as well as two separate occasions where we had a simultaneous three way orgasm. We were so in tune that we were able to get each other to come just by proximity somehow, and the people just touching on the sidelines of the current action were able to climax just from sexual compersion. It was magnificent.

People talk about threesomes full of jealousy and and possessiveness, but I have never experienced that. It has always been good, and this one in particular was wonderful because we were all so happy watching each other be happy.


Thanks for your entries, loved reading them.  And if I could, I'd be mailing each and every one of you something to stick up a favorite hole.

****
I've been tossing around the idea of a post The 10 Most Humiliating Things About Being the Chick Who Writes Cosmo's Sex Positions, Ranked, with both #1 and #10 being "I am the chick who writes Cosmo's sex positions."

However, my 12-stepping friend says "Don't go pain shopping" which is the exact opposite of how I've spent my entire life. So in that spirit....

There is actually a lot I love about the gig, mostly that they pay me, unlike most of you cheap-ass motherfuckers (not you dear Ada, IBWMW Minister of Making an Automatic Monthly Donation), but also that I can use the sexual bully pulpit to tell younger chicks the Very Important Information that would have been VERY nice to know in 1989 that if they can't come via P-in-V (that is, practically everyone) then just getting on top or angling themselves just right isn't gonna make them start spewing rainbow colored orgasms. (Clean-up on Aisle 3.)

Filmmaker Trisha Borowicz of Science Sex and the Ladies and a huge inspiration to me saw through my secret plan. "The sacred institution of the Cosmo sex position list is breaking up the patriarchy, bitches," writes Trisha who says cool shit like that all the time. Check out her post "Cosmo Sex Position Lists Will Bring the Orgasmic Equality Revolution!"

To hear me talking me more on this, or just to deepen your stalking routine, go to iTunes and have a listen to the "Who Invents Cosmo's Sex Positions" episode on The Cosmo Happy Hour Podcast. 

Next time I will tell you the one easy trick that will make you come like a race horse every damn time.

xoxox
jill

PS Thank you Sarah and Aneros for the Helix Syn and the Evi!

Thursday, April 6, 2017

The Best Sex Ever Contest!

This, alas, is not the prize.
I've been thinking on what amazing sex really is.  For me, it's not about positions (shh!) or anything like that, but elements both subtle and sublime. It's seeing or feeling raw desire and being willing to follow that whether it takes you. It's fleetings moment of incredibly deep connection, like when you look in someone's eyes as they slide inside you and you think you see the universe there. (More likely just dilated pupils due to arousal, but still. Allow me my poetry.)

For me, the best sex is also about filling up the hole inside. Not the obvious one, though that goes a long way toward doing the trick, but more the metaphorical hole. The one where you don't feel quite whole or at peace. Some people fill it with God, but my brain didn't come equipped with those religious receptors, so my God hole is more like a sex hole. Which sounds plenty dirty, not to mention probably highly blasphemous.

In discussing the "problems" of sex in How to Think More About Sex, School of Life co-founder/semi-depressive Brit Alain de Botton writes, "Great sex, like happiness more generally, may be the precious and sublime exception. During our most fortunate encounters, it is rare for us to appreciate how privileged we are. It is only as we get older, and look back repeatedly and nostalgically to a few erotic episodes, that we start to realize with what stinginess nature extends her gifts to us--and therefore what an extraordinary and rare achievement of biology, psychology and timing satisfying sex really it."

Most sex, then, is just about filling your regular old biological holes. And as it happens, I have something for you today that does just that. That is:

The Best Sex Ever Contest
Your task: Tell me what your best sex ever was and why. You can write a big ol porny essay that may or may not gross me out or just a sentence like "the look on his face the first time I put my mouth on him" or whatever. Winning entries won't be chosen on "quality" (we're all different), but just chosen by a random drawing.

Your (Possible) Prize
Two choices!
--A Helix Syn, a hands-free prostate/male G-spot massager, courtesy of Aneros, who kindly sent me two of them. It's a training tool to encourage super deep prostate orgasms. It's like an $80 value and looks like this:
Hello, Sailor

--An Aneros Evi, the female counterpart that is a hands-free g-spot/clitoral stimulator. Again, battery free and you squeeze around it--kind of an exercise, kind of a way to get off. The idea is strengthening your responsiveness rather that just blasting your nether regions with vibrations. It's about $55 and looks like this:

Put me in your God hole
How to Enter
Send me your best sex ever and tell me which prize you're gunning for via comment below or super secret email to jillhamilton001@gmail.com. If you do send me something via email that's good and doesn't skeeve me out, I may post it, but I will give you a pseudonym so no one knows you really really liked it that one time someone put a wee bonnet on you and called you a filthy little whore. Get your entries in by April 12, 2017.

Bonus
You'll get an extra entry for sharing this contest on social media or just telling someone via old school conversation. Just let me know, and I'll put you in extra.

So get thinking about your best sex ever, as though you weren't already doing that, and enter and share.

Love you. Not in a creepy way.*

xoxox
jill

*possibly in a creepy way


(photo:  the dreamy Pinterest of Wendy Rose Watson)

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

What People Have Down Their Pants

That's me.
Yes, I know the whole fucking world is going to hell in a hand basket, whatever that means, and what follows here today is just silliness, but my present coping mechanism of staring at my social media feeds, impotently pressing the mad face emoji is not really doing the trick today.*

Anyway there's lots to tell you. Walk with me, will you?

My Weird Job
--I was on the Cosmo Happy Hour podcast! Which would be more exciting if I could tell you how to listen! (Try iTunes or Play.It) It's the Who Invents Cosmo Sex Positions episode and--spoiler:  It's *sigh* me. I come in about the 8 minute mark and talk without pre-thinking anything for even one second, as is my way.

Things People Saw and Thought of Me:
 --Matthew saw this underwear with a built-in camel toe and quite reasonably, thought of me. Not because I am known for anything camel toe related (...yet. though I do get an oddly high amount of traffic from the search terms "Jill St. John camel toe") but because I am a little obsessed with the stuff people put down their pants.

I'm guessing they're probably for people in various stages of transitioning because beyond clearing up painful front wedgies due to 1970s time travel/wardrobe problems, it's hard to see the appeal here. Like any of these body "enhancement" deals, why would your try to attract someone with the very thing you lack? If some dude/lady is into big-ass vaginas**, they're going to be mighty disappointed when you disrobe and that camel toe of yours is lying next to you, still puffed up and ready to go. Do they then fuck you out of politeness or go straight for the panties they really wanted to fuck? Do you really want to know? 

In any case, there's also a camel toe blocker (because no matter what you have going down there, somebody is gonna tell you it's not right. See also Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth.) The blocker, of course, creates the opposite problem of the enhancer. Someone who is into you because of your unobtrusive little cooter will likely be shaken when you unleash your formerly-contained camel toe, and it expands like an air bag, possibly putting someone's eye out. 

If you're undecided, maybe just buy some pants that fit and see who comes your way.

--Anne sends the important news of crystals dildos designed to "quiet the mind in order to feel subtle energies, develop emotional intelligence, strengthen self-awareness, and accepting every aspect of who you are." It seems like an awful lot to ask of a dildo--guess that's why it costs $149. 91. Anne, who is from a foreign land signed off, "Hope your vagina is feeling magical" which is the way they sign off in her country, I think, but it did made to pause for a second to consider if my vagina was feeling magical. Answer: sorta? I think?
 
Things People Saw and Didn't Think of Me, But I Looked Anyway:
--My friend Janet saw Disney Dudes' Dicks: What Your Favorite Princes Look Like Naked and cruelly did not think of me. But I looked anyway, bc pervy, and beheld some waaay over-Imagineered cartoon prince nudity. I'm showing you to purge myself, in the same way that you tell someone when there's an annoying song playing over in your head. Take this:

Gaston
 Gaston likes to take nude selfies. He has a small dick—very tiny—pube-less and uncut.
 

Which seems about right.  As for Prince Charming, I've never given it any thought, but if for some reason I were forced to speculate--which could totally happen--I would guess that Prince Charming is asexual down below and has just a smooth flap of skin, like Ken. But clearly I am wrong.

Prince Charming
Obviously, the perfect guy has the perfect dick: like eight or nine inches, thick—but not too thick otherwise it's painful—rock hard with a nice throbbing vein. He's groomed perfectly in a way that's considerate of lovers without being too gay porn-y about it. He's standing in front of the fireplace that Cinderella no longer has to rake, arm draped over the mantle.


Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go and try to grow the fuck up. 

Contest coming!
Stay tuned. Have the prizes. Need to think of what I'm gonna make you do.

xoxo
jill

P.S. Tell me what's on your mind. I miss your ass.

*Don't worry. I'm still all about the #resist and will be back on my mad face emoji pressing duties soon enough
**I know. LABIA. Piss off.. 

Monday, March 13, 2017

The Blow Job as Path to the Divine

I am not a religious person. I don't even know that I want to be. I have sort of tried, a little, but for better or worse, I don't seem to have the God gene. The closest I ever get to the sublime feeling of connection with the universe that religious people describe is generally through music. Walking at night, the wet smell of the evening mist, a full moon hanging overripe in the sky, and Pandora radio seducing me with exactly what I want to hear before I know myself (Damn, Pandora, I will tell you again, I would so fuck you if I could) is the closest I get to experiencing the Divine.

Except for sex. I think what's appealing to me about sex is not the actual friction between body parts-- although that's pretty damn good, too--but the out-of-body, out-of-your-fucking-mind, brain/body explosion that happens during the best sex. Good sex is just somehow...beyond. You're extremely focused on the Now, the line between you and other is blurred, and, in the best moments, you feel like you and the Universe are sort of throbbing together as one. Which sounds a lot like religious ecstasy.  (Other times it's just you and your partner, or your hand, or your vibrator--you get off, then go about your day. Which is fine as well.)

In an oldish issue of Playboy, Samantha Gillison wrote a wonderful essay "The Platonic Ideal" on this idea of sex as route to the Divine. I would link to it, but-- incredibly in this day and age--it is not available on-line! Well, unless you pay. That's why this month I am a member of iPlayboy.com, for you, dear reader.

In Gillison's piece, she describes the moment she became illuminated on the joys of giving head. It was after a Bad Brains concert, and in the darkness of the parking lot, she knelt before her date.

We could have been strangers--we almost were--and somehow the darkness, the anonymity of the situation liberated me from worrying about doing something wrong or feeling self-conscious. I allowed myself to sink deep into the fantasy of what it must feel like for him--the pressure, the warmth, the wetness. All of a sudden the only thing in the world was that cock and my connection to it.

Previously, Gillison had thought of blow jobs as something you gave, like a gift, or something you did as a favor. Plus there was some fear and uncertainty.

It was just that I was unsure of cock when I got up close to one; it contained unreadable male mysteries. I might hurt it or maybe just do nothing right. Maybe I looked ridiculous. I didn’t really know which parts of it wanted to be touched, or how. It seemed to be its own creature, almost uncannily separate from the man who owned it. Perhaps simpleminded but authoritarian and judgemental. 


This time, however, she had a revelation.

But starting that night in the parking lot, I began to understand the profound, dirty pleasure of giving blow jobs. It isn’t just that I discovered how much I like being in control, how much I like giving the kind of pleasure that makes someone helpless, and how intoxicating it is to be on the receiving end of hurricane-levels of desire. But, that night, it was also the revelation of the particular male smell you get up close with a cock and balls that turned me on in ways that are almost beyond description. It was like being inside sex.


"Being inside sex." Dear God. 

Plato said that human beings can only truly access the divine through sexual ecstasy, Eros. This has always made so much sense to me. When else are humans as rapt by feeling as when they come and when they touch God? That feeling of connection to the universal, the feeling of having exited my own body as I orgasm is nothing other than touching the infinite.

Yet I have never been able to get close to that Platonic, out-of-my-mind kind of sexual ecstasy unless I can satisfy a primal hunger: Whether in fantasy or reality, I need a connection to another equally raunchy human being. It has always been the case with me, since I was a teenager, that I have to see someone else’s horniness in order to feel horny. What I happily realized on my knees in the parking lot is that an erect cock in my face is among the most blatant ways of experiencing the realness of someone else’s desire I’d ever encountered. And every time, it spurs a response in me, hot and dark and if I’m doing something transgressive in the best possible way.


Blow jobs! Philosophical talk! The phrase "erect cock in my face"!  Gah, I am a goner! LOVE this $%$#!

I'll add a little bit more of her essay, because I want to make sure I don't stray from "fair use" territory to "stealing" and "copyright infringement." Here's Gillison on the experience of blowing a long time friend and feeling, then overcoming, the awkwardness inherent in that particular situation.

But then a supple communication started between me and his penis as I began to suck, a communication beyond words and much deeper than any we had ever had before.

His cock felt so sexy in my mouth, hard and hot and aching with desire. But I could also feel how much of this man was being revealed to me: his sexuality, his vulnerability, his musky smell.

Soon the connection started to feel like a merging, as though I was experiencing that blow job too. It felt crazy, off-the-charts raunchy, to fantasize that I was not only giving head but getting it. All of a sudden I was overwhelmed by pure animal pleasure. I was so turned on that I came.

Since that night’s discovery I always revel in the double fantasy of giving and receiving. And I honor the wisdom of the old Greek philosophers who pointed out that although the Divine is inscrutable, it is easy to find while sucking on a dick.


And there is no better way to end a post than what Gillison ended with right there, so I will leave you to your day.

xoxoxo
jill

* Afterword:  Do NOT do a Google image search for "penis public domain." Hideous medical photos!  "Lesion on the glans"! Holy crap! Look away! Look away!

photo: William M. Rattase

Sunday, February 19, 2017

The Lush Sexuality of a Woman in Full Bloom

I've been writing about vaginas a lot lately.

Which is weird, because I can barely even say the word "vagina." (I'm even a little iffy on "angina," though rest assured, if there were a medical emergency, I'd probably manage to choke it out.*) I'm not alone in this. Even Eve Ensler, Little Miss Vagina Monologues said: "Doesn't matter how many times you say it, it never sounds like a word you want to say."

True that. However, I think I am going through some sort of vaginal consciousness raising which, I know, sounds completely horrible, like it would involve attending meetings, holding hands with caftan-clad strangers, and answering dreadful questions like "What is your vaginal song?"

But you see, vaginas don't just exist as they are--well, I mean, they do--but they're also subject to the Prevailing Attitudes of the Day. In the 19th century, for example, girls who learned how to masturbate were considered to have a medical problem. Writes Ensler: "Often they were 'treated' or 'corrected' by amputation or cautery of the clitoris or 'miniature chastity belts,' sewing the vaginal lips together to put the clitoris out of reach.'" Which, I imagine, certainly did the trick.

It was only a few hundred years ago that the existence of the clitoris was still a matter of serious scientific debate. And even today, we're still sort of iffy on some pretty major issues such as the G-spot's validity, what the hell a woman's ejaculate is, and whether or not there are different types of orgasm. Science, it seems, doesn't quite know what to make of female sexuality, and by association, vaginas.

So, yes, vaginas are mysterious and hard to figure out. But guess what? That's what so good about them. What fun would it be if you solved it all at once?

I think that's why the Prevailing Attitudes of the Day re: vaginas and the stupid bleaching and plastic surgery are bothering me so much. Because all of those things are about making the vagina chaste-looking and less, well, womanly. Like a beginner vagina that doesn't know anything. The lips of a vagina that has birthed babies and been well fucked are lush and flushed and swollen. They are not tiny and pink and virginal. They are full and open and just...so ripe.

I started thinking of them as being ripe, like a rose in full bloom, after reading this passage from Michael Pollan's Into the Rose Garden on roses and female sexuality. (Yes, I said "like a rose in full bloom." And yes, I know I sound like I'm talking about singing your vaginal song and all that, but hear me out.) In the piece, Pollan writes about his Maiden's Blush rose, also known as Cuisse de Nymphe Emue which means "the thigh of an aroused nymph."

Maiden’s Blush...seems to press her sexuality on us. Her petals are more loosely arrayed than Madame Hardy’s; less done up, almost unbuttoned. They are larger, too, and they flush with the palest flesh pink toward the center, which itself is elusive, concealed in their innumerable folds. The blush of this maiden is not in the face only. Could I be imagining things?

No, Maiden’s Blush is certainly not the old lady I expected when I planted roses. And though Maiden’s Blush bears an especially provocative bloom, every one of the old roses I planted, and all I’ve since seen and smelled, have been deeply sensuous in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Compared with the chaste buds and modest scent of the modern roses, these old ones give freely of themselves. They flower all at once, in a single, climactic week. Their blooms look best fully opened, when their form is most intricate; explicit, yet still so deeply enfolded on themselves as to imply a certain inward mystery....More than most floral scents, the fragrance of these roses is impossible to get hold of or describe “it seems to short-circuit conscious thought, to travel in a straight line from nostril to brain stem." Inhale deeply the perfume of a Bourbon rose and then try to separate out what is scent, what is memory, what is emotion; you cannot pull apart the threads that form this . . . this what?...

If the allure of old roses is in the frank sensuality of their blooms, then what are we to make of the development and eventual triumph of the modern hybrid tea? Maybe the Victorian middle class simply couldn’t deal with the rose’s sexuality. Perhaps what really happened in 1867 was a monumental act of horticultural repression. By transforming the ideal of rose beauty from the fully opened bloom to the bud, the Victorians took a womanly flower and turned her into a virgin, "a celebrated beauty when poised on the verge of opening, but quickly fallen after that."

Deeply sensuous? Frank sensuality? Short-circuiting conscious thought? Oh, Michael Pollan, this is why I love you so! (Oh, also for your excellent points on monocultures, sustainable farming techniques, and whatnot.)

But I wonder, are we doing the same thing with our bodies? Will we keep trying to bio-engineer chaste-appearing closed-up girl vaginas, forever "poised on the verge of opening," while foolishly missing out on the best damn part--the extreme fuckability and lush sexuality of a woman in full bloom? 

xoxo
jill

*This is a lie. Instead of "angina," I would say "chest pains."

(photo source)

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

Did You Marry The Best Sex Of Your Life?

As though you didn't already have enough damn stuff to worry about, now two surveys have come out saying that if you're a married and/or olderish person, your sex life probably sucks ass. And not in a good way.

According to a survey in the Telegraph, three-quarters of people over 45 think sex became less enjoyable after they turned 40. The average 45+ person has sex once a week and this Sex of the Week--which is generally done in the missionary position, in a bedroom, with the lights off--rarely lasts more than 22 minutes, including any sort of foreplay.

And if all this weren't enough, 31% of people had cut a session short because as the Telegraph so Britishly put it, "They were too exhausted to carry on." "Simon, I do say, I am exhausted and can no longer carry on. If you've not come, perhaps a nice wanking off for you, old fellow?" (In marginally-related wanking off news: I was looking up British slang terms for masturbation and discovered --to my horror--that "jill off" is a vulgar term for female masturbation. How is it that they know?) But anyway, these Brits are so out of shape they can't even manage a boring session of weekly dutiful sex. Brits, mind you! Not drive-thru window-using, cheeseburger-eating, WalMart cart-riding Americans. I can (all too easily) see being too tired to start sex, but too tired to finish sex? Man, how crappy would you feel if your partner just stopped mid-thrust and said, "Eh, I'm too fat and lazy to continue banging you"?

The good news in a study from iVillage was that nearly half of the women surveyed married the person with whom they'd had the best sex of their lives. But it gets more confusing from there. Two-thirds of the women said they'd rather do something else like read a book, go to a movie, etc... than have sex with Mr. Supposedly Best Sex of Their Lives. A huge majority, 81%, described their sex lives as "predictable," but then they go on to report than most of them are quite happy with their sex lives.

I was confused by the whole survey until I saw that only 62% of women "admitted" they had fantasized about having sex with someone other than their spouse. Oh, come on! Clearly this survey is bogus. Never fantasized about another person ever? What are these 37% of women fantasizing about?
Mmm, my husband comes into bed for sex because it's Saturday. He is wearing black socks and turns off the lights. We discuss who will take the kids to the Brownie meeting, then with little to no foreplay, we get into the missionary position. After far less than 22 minutes, we have to stop because we are too tired to carry on. Oh, God, is anyone else totally hot right now? 
As you might have guessed, this is all leading to some questions for you. Namely:
1.  Did you marry the best sex of your life?
2.  Have you ever fantasized about someone other than your partner?  If so, who?
3.  If not, go back and answer question #2, this time telling the truth, and tell us who.
4.  Do you thinking jilling off is a really bad name for masturbating? Mark "yes" or "definitely yes."

xoxo
jill

(note: this is totally a rerun. Data may now be completely wrong so do not attempt any Major Life Changes based on information obtained herein.)
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...