Monday, October 15, 2018

Parker Marx and Fucking Art

photo by the unlinkable Lenore Holloway
A few months ago, I spent an entire week watching porn for a magazine article. Perhaps it was the total porn immersion and the resulting heady delirium, but when I finally emerged, bleary-eyed and shaken, I'd had a porn epiphany.

It was mostly due to the discovery of Parker Marx, a fucking genius, a genius of fucking.

Parker Marx is an English porn performer based in Prague. He is lovely to look at, but that's not what it is about him. When he performs, Parker is absolutely in the moment-- or at least does an incredible simulation of that--and clearly relishes a good fuck, completely conveying all that is sublime and intense and connected and primal and hungry about your best sexual encounters ever. Everything from the quick intake of breath when someone first touches their tongue to your flesh to the moment when your eyes meet and you share the giddy realization/mental high five of "We are fucking!"  Whether there's a plot or not in his films doesn't even matter, the sex is the plot and Parker finds the story within every encounter.

So yes, there's humanity and depth and connection and--holy hell--and the eye gazing alone could wreck you, but his work is also very sexual, primitive and animalistic. Marx, like, luxuriates in whatever bodily fluids happen--sweat, tears, a newly soaked pair of panties. In a recent, uncharacteristically conventional-seeming scene, his partner squirted what to me looked like a possibly alarming amount of whatever women squirt, and he burst out laughing, delighted. And, dear god, the man cums spectacularly.

I said something to this effect on Twitter because what better place for private thoughts on someone else's cum and @Jessie67878604, despite their bot-like name, had this insight:  "I think his genius comes from the presence and devotion he brings to each partner."  It's true--his partners emerge from their scenes together changed somehow, as though they're illuminated from within.*

Parker Marx in repose. Kind of.
If you're in public and can't click over to some of Parker's work (here or here), or you've left your porn budget money in your other pocket, see also the self-portrait on the right for a quick visual summation of the above. It's a naked man there presenting his cock, as primates do, but it's also incredibly lit, classically composed and there is more going on in the photo than Man Holds Dick. Arty, sexy, suggestion of possible existential angst. Plus, man holds dick. 

One of the gifts Parker Marx has given me--besides the odd feeling of being well-fucked remotely, simply by witnessing a really great fuck--is that he's been my portal to thinky porn/art/something else entirely.

The one that got me the most was Bright Desire, where filmmaker Ms. Naughty totally mucks around with the genre itself -- it's porn about ideas. Like, what if the performers moved incredibly slowly, almost excruciatingly so? (Linger with Parker and Kali Sudhra) What if you wandered far, far away from a typical "straight" porn script, with no cum shot, no female penetration plus a little pegging and afternoon tea? (Since You Asked So Nicely with Parker and Pandora Blake). "Pandora’s orgasms are intense but they take a while," writes Ms. Naughty of the film. "There’s also a lot of laughter and discussion and guidance. In short, this scene totally queers straight sex and shows that pleasure can be attained in multiple ways, no matter how you identify." Right the fuck on.

On about Day 3 of my private Porn Fest, I wrote something on the IBWMW Facebook page like "Back to the porn salt mines" and most people assumed I was excessively jilling off (a real term and oddly prescient name choice by my parents.) But in this case, it wasn't even true, what was going down was more of a mind fuck, the good kind, if there is one. It was more that arty fuckery lent a background hum of sexual charge to everything and left me with the lingering afterglow from a major mind-blowing.

My week-long porn fever dream, which I am desperately trying not to call a pornucopia, was incredibly empowering. I absolutely loved seeing a woman on top with a belly hanging over a pair of panties (Porn performers: They're Just Like US!). I loved that Lina Bembe spontaneously burst into tears after an orgasm in Trinity, (with Parker and the multi-talented Rooster X-Ray) because weeping means you've tapped into something so deep, metaphorically as well as physically. I loved that some women had to rub the living hell out of their clits before they came or twisted their faces up unprettily (that is, raw and beautifully) or that weird awkward moments happened or that it took a really long time to find an orgasm and some straining was involved or that couches were stained.

I loved that all of it was not only completely fine, but even better, porn-worthy. Representation matters, not just in the way we look, but the way(s) we fuck. We contain multitudes, my friends, and this, this is the real stuff, the very stuff that makes sex so deep and rich and personal and good.

So thank you, brave and honest porn makers, performers and Parker Marx, thank you from the bottom of my whatever.

xoxo
jill
#PayForPorn

* Not ruling out possible infusion of magic via cock.

PS Do the blog a solid and go vote for In Bed With Married Women at Kinkly for favorite sex blog.  Just click the link, click “vote for this blog” and you're done.

(2nd photo:  Self Portrait by Parker Marx)

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Overthinking the Magic Bra

Sandra and I were shopping for bras in what is still called--in this day and age!-- the "Intimates" department when I saw it: the Maidenform Women's Ultimate Push Up Bra

Have you seen this thing? "Add two cup sizes!" it promises, as well it should, since it seems to contain a small throw pillow's worth of padding in each cup. The bra was pretty ridiculous, really, so we gave it its proper mockery then continued with the special hell that is bra-shopping. [Oh, men, you don't even know! The egregious misstocking, the deciphering of strange terms (is "demi" good or bad?) and the hideous also-rans (I'm talking to you, green pin-striped push-up bra.) It's enough to drive you to the smelling salts, quite honestly.]

After some time (hours? days?) I had gathered a few bras that appeared that they might work (though "gathered" is not nearly a strong enough term for the savage, skillful foraging it took.) Though oddly, as though guided by some sort of unseen force, I kept finding myself circling back to the Ultimate bra. "Oh look," I thought to myself, with a forced casualness that didn't fool me one bit. "It's that ridiculous bra again." In a jump of logic that remains unclear to me even now, I concluded, "Well, may as well try it on."

I did, and well....DAMN! I had huge boobs, insanely inflated porno boobs, boobs that could not be tamed by man nor bra. My bosom, as they say in the romance novels, was swollen. My cups runnethed over. I was like the chick in this photo modeling the bra in question, but...more. Way more. My boobs were so huge, I was unclear on which side of the sexy/comically large divide they fell. "Sandra!" I called to the other dressing rooms. "You must come in here and behold my giant boobs." She looked. "Damn!" she said (as well she should.)

"I don't know...I look...different," I said, hoping Sandra, who knows about such feminine matters, would tell me whether to get it or not. Sandra took charge immediately. "Well, girl, I look different when I'm not wearing make-up--that doesn't mean I don't wear it, " she said definitively. "You Are Getting That Bra."

So I got it. And it sat, unused, in its preternatural perkiness on my dresser. I put it on only two times. Once to show Leah and once to show my husband. "Look at my boobs!" I said. Leah looked. My husband looked. "Damn!" they said.

I liked it. Kind of. I think. I don't know. The bra was becoming... problematic. I just couldn't bring myself to wear it. Was it indeed sexy, or was it just too damn big, borderline silly? Would I feel comfortable showing up to my usual haunts with my suddenly gigantic rack? (It should be noted that I already have a pretty smokin' D cup, but the difference with the magic bra was noticeable, way noticeable.) What if someone started flirting with me just because of my big fake boobs? Would I be irked that they were into something I didn't actually possess? Hey, my eyes are up here, Mr. Big Boob Lover.

And what if you were still dating and wearing this bra? The padding was so flippin' thick--would you even notice when things had gone to, as we used to say, second base? And what about a "home run"? As you flung your bra to the floor, so would go your boobs, piled there on the carpet, still waiting perkily at attention. (Warning: never do your real boobs look so dreadfully inadequate than after taking off the magic bra.)

The magic bra was causing me to overthink. I mean, not that I control the direction of society with my bra choices, but did I really want to be promoting this as what a women's chest should look like? By wearing the bra, in some small--albeit, incredibly busty--way, I would be raising the bar of what a woman's chest was supposed to look like. If my D-cup needed enhancement, what about my C, B and A-cup sisters? Would they be forced to don a completely fabricated chest, similar to those boys' superhero costumes with the build-in foam muscles? Would we one day just all don our blonde-haired, big-boobed, sweetly smiling full-body foam costumes, completely covering our unworthy, misshaped, shameful selves? No, by jingo! I would not be a part of it!

I found the tags and the receipt for the bra. I had to return it--for the Good of Society.

But first I tried it on one more time.

Damn.

xoxo
jill

Addendum: Btw, if you, like some of the commenters below, wish to play your part in bringing down society, you can get the thing--it's full of lies, I tell you!--at a department store like Kohl's or order it via In Bed With Married Women through the link above:

Sunday, June 24, 2018

"Don't You Fucking Move," Letter from a Feminist Submissive

Didn't I tell you not to strive for
equality in the workplace?
(Hey gorgeous, found this in the backwaters of the blog today and I loved it all over again. Just ignore the highly untimely Fifty Shades of Grey tie-in, and you'll be good.)

Today's letter came in response to a Newsweek cover story on Fifty Shades of Grey, the insanely popular S&M-y mommy porn, unpromisingly spawned by, of all things, Twilight fan fiction.

Reader Submissive and Truly Fine With That was but one of the people pissed off by the article, which tied (yes, and I'm too lazy to think of a better word) working women and feminism to S&M. You can read her response below.

If you are unfamiliar with Fifty Shades of Grey, see this Daily Beast article on the book's 14 Naughtiest Bits (a genius idea!) Here, you can witness Perfectly Good Smut being ruined by a few ill-chosen words. For example, when heroine/virgin Anastasia (she would so be named that) watches Christian's (same deal) "erection spring free" (so far so good), she thinks--unlike a young woman would, but exactly like a middle-aged fan fiction-writing author might--"Holy cow!"

Later, when she takes him in her mouth (again, a good start...) it's described thusly: "He's my very own Christian Grey-flavored popsicle. I suck harder and harder...Hmmm...My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves."

By the time Anastasia's "inner goddess is doing the dance of the seven veils," my own inner goddess is "confused, slightly icked out and ready to go to the kitchen and get a cup of coffee."

But I digress. Please give a warm welcome to Submissive and Truly Fine With That:

Dear IBWMW;
God bless you for being the one place I can send this email. I just finished reading an article in Newsweek about how (or why) today’s feminists have a more-than-passing interest in S&M, or more to the point, being sexually submissive. Now I feel the need to rant because of all the sources they consulted, they neglected to ask one of us, ie. a feminist who craves domination. (To be fair, they did quote Simone de Beauvoir, but, last time I checked, she’s dead.) I thought, what better venue to rant to than this column? (Actually, there is no other option. I really don’t want to disgust any of my friends with details of my sex life beyond relative wang dimensions or whether a guy was “orally efficacious” or not.)

For starters, I have to admit I believe I was born into this desire. My first sexual fantasies all involved bondage; usually, some guy I hated or found grossly unattractive would tie me up and have his way with me. In retrospect, I think it had to be someone I didn’t like for the submission to feel “honest”.  

If I go backwards in my life to my first physical sexual feeling, it was this: a happy little tingle between my legs while watching a TV episode of "Batman and Robin." The boys were tied up in a hot air balloon that was continuously ascending and their ultimate demise was imminent. I didn’t recognize it as sexual excitement at the time, but I do now. The numerous episodes of “Electra Woman and Dyna Girl” that followed elicited the same phenomenon. And they were tied up or trapped at least once per episode. No wonder that was my favorite show.

Saturday, May 26, 2018

Reader's New Dude Has Too Much Stamina. What Should She Do?

"Marjorie, hold all my calls. Gonna be a long night."
One among us has a problem! Quick! Grab your rescue bag* and let's go help!

This urgent query has come in over the wires: 

Jill, my favorite sex writer, who knows all the good shit. I have a question that I simply refuse to google or tweet. So I'm going to throw it your way... I've recently taken a lover who has stamina like I've never experienced. So much so, it is almost a turn off. Despite hours of hot sex, full of variety, it's nearly impossible to get him to orgasm. In fact, it's taken him manually handling business. This is a blow to my fragile ego. I've pulled muscles I didn't even know I had. What's a girl to do?

NAP 

So. Besides bowing in admiration for the phrase "I've recently taken a lover" (~swoon~), here's what I've got:

 --My friend had this identical problem with some dude she was dating from Tinder. Meaning, you are not alone, this is a thing that happens, and actually, I'm not even going to call it a "problem," I'm gonna say "situation."

--Maybe he's watching "too much" porn (whatever that means) and now needs that kind of hyper-stimulation to get off. So a). a l'il porn diet. Yes, tragic, but perhaps necessary. Or b.) bring whatever porn he may be into (or may not--I'm already accusing this unknown dude of overwatching porn) into your fuckery. Imitate it, fetishize it, watch it during, whatever. If something super turns someone on and it's not actively horrible to you, I say take advantage of that passion and explore the sordidness together.

--See if he'd be willing to switch up his jerk off habits. Dan Savage, who knows things, says everyone should change up how they jerk off (other hand, new positions, lighter touch) so they'd don't become over-accustomed to it and only able to come in that one specific way. I personally never follow this advice, but it's something I know I should do, and intend to...someday, like going vegan. (I just read Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer and holy fuck.)

--Work within this framework.  He needs a hand to come, so do a lot of us. Maybe you can go with the amount of P-in-V fucking that seems good to you both, and y'all just accept that a handy is gonna be how it ends for him. This is not failure. This is kind of a more queered attitude to hetero sex and is super cool and progressive of you. Celebrate that shit. Let him come all over your tits or something spectacular.

That's my part. This chafed reader also wants to hear your advice, dear Internet stranger. Whatcha got?

xoxo
jill 

*Rescue bag suggested contents:


And yes, I did just see Isle of Dogs last night. How did you know?

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Sedes Libidinus, if you know what I mean

Name this body part. Go on, take a guess!


That, my friends, is the full structure of the female clitoris*--including the extensive internal parts. Yes, the clitoris has internal parts! Extensive ones! Am I the only one who didn't know this? I thought a clit was a tiny button there on the outside--the end. For 46-friggin'-years (many of them, to be fair, non-friggin' years), I've been walking around ignorant of my own damn anatomy.
I could choose to wallow in shame over this, but I'm not gonna be too hard on myself because a) I generally cut myself way too much a lot of slack and b) practically no one knows this stuff. 

We should have been learning about our extensive clititude way back in 1844 when Georg Ludwig Kobelt published his seminal (though that is undoubtedly the wrong word) clit research in Die männlichen und weiblichen Wollust-Organe des Menschen und einiger Säugetiere (The Male and Female Organs of Sexual Arousal in Man and some other Mammals). 

Kobelt discovered a bunch of highly useful info--that, ahem, science, would have been NICE TO KNOW--like: clitorises (the whole extensive lot) become erect when aroused, and have all sorts of parts that you (and by "you," I mean "me") never even heard of like crura, bulbs and other clitorally-related new words I will probably not be incorporating into my sexy talk. "Oh my God! My clitoral vestibule is sooo hot for you."

Although maybe I should be talking vestibules and such. If you're a guy and plan to be sliding your manhood into her sweet feminine folds, you actually do want her clitoral vestibule, as well as her two corpora cavernosa, to be hot for you. When these parts are erect, they'll tighten quite nicely around you.

According to the anatomical explanation in this article on the Museum of Sex blog which I could barely understand without consulting the drawing frequently:


Most of the clitoris is subterranean. The glans is connected to the body or shaft of the internal clitoris, which is made up of two corpora cavernosa. When erect, the corpora cavernosa encompass the vagina on either side, as if they were wrapping around it giving it a big hug! Near each of the crura on either side of the vaginal opening are the clitoral vestibules. These are internally under the labia majora. When they become engorged with blood they actually cuff the vaginal opening causing the vulva to expand outward. Get these puppies excited, and you’ve got a hungrier, tighter-feeling vaginal opening in which to explore!

If you're feeling sciencey, I highly recommend you have a look at Helen E. O'Connell's Anatomy of the Clitoris in the Journal of Urology. (Important caveat: article contains photos with such labels as "Fig. 2. Lateral view of dissected clitoris in fresh cadaver of 57 year-old post menopausal woman." Which, as a sentence, contains a surprisingly high amount of unpleasant imagery.)

"The tale of the clitoris is a parable of culture, of how the body is forged into a shape valuable to civilization despite and not because of itself," writes O'Connell.

In the oddly enjoyable article (Journal of Urology, who knew you were such a good read?), O'Donnell rails against the medical establishment for not providing decent diagrams and accurate info on clits--a "blinkered approach," she writes. (A blinkered approach that still exists.) She also describes the history of clitorical research with its ever-changing ideas about what goes on between a woman's legs, and the comical regularly that men throughout history have claimed to "discover" the clit, each one giving it names, culumella (little pillar), sedes libidinis (seat of lust) and landica (shhh, Latin profanity!)

In the 1500's, Flemish anatomist Andreas Vesalius disagreed with Falloppia (yes, he of the tubes) that "healthy women" had a clitoris and wrote: "It is unreasonable to blame others for incompetence on the basics of some sport of nature you have observed in some women and you can hardly ascribe this new and useless part, as if it were an organ, to healthy women." (On a related note: I can find no mention of a Mrs. Vesalius.)

So why isn't anyone bothering to tell us this stuff? It sure would explain a whole fuck of a lot and clear up the vaginal vs. clitoral orgasm debates, what a G-spot is, etc...  I mean, it seems like it's all just stimulation of various parts of the clitoris. Right? That said, I do think that orgasms feel different depending on what spot is being stimulated. An orgasm from the G-spot area, or cruca or whatever the fuck we're calling it today, really does seem deeper and richer to me than the more tinny, shallow feel of a clit only orgasm.

And...I can't believe I just wrote that sentence. I am writing to complete strangers (and worse, people I know) and describing the color and tenor of my orgasms. That, my friends, means it is so time for me to go today.

However, if you want to weigh in on matters orgasmic, bring it on. You know I like it when you talk like that to me.

xoxo
jill

* Is it CLIToris or CliTORis? According to Wikipedia, which offers audio pronunciations so you can hear the words, each is correct. So use them both as you please! Wikipedia also offers a pronunciation guide for the UK version, /ˈkltɒrɨs/which is completely non-helpful gibberish to me, and sadly, does not come with a corresponding audio version. Because my inner 5th grader would really really like to hear a crisp British voice intoning patiently, /ˈkltɒrɨs/.


For more IBWMW info on orgasms (or, in light of new developments, possible misinformation):   



This is a rerun. Please direct further concerns to our customer service number. 

Monday, April 23, 2018

My New Dick

My new dick arrived the other day.

His given name is Buck and he was sent to me by Good Vibrations for a story on pegging.

Buck came in a clear plastic cylinder, as though he'd been captured in the wild, mid-fuck, but only temporarily subdued. Even after his long journey through the postal service, he remained swollen and hard.

A few days later, when no one was around, I pulled him out from under my bed--where the pervy things live--and held him tentatively.

Not to brag, but he is pretty fucking glorious. Buck's not too long, but super thick--like so thick that when I tried to wrap my hand around him, only my thumb and middle finger could touch. He is firm but has a soft outside that feels preternaturally realistic. His girth makes him seems sort of brutish, like the kind of dick who would fuck while wearing a wife beater.

According to random internet articles, upon receiving a new penis, you should first get used to wearing it. I guess it's like trying on new shoes and walking around the shoe store, except not with shoes and certainly not at the shoe store because although I suppose the specific law "don't walk around a shoe store test-wearing your big ol dildo" is not on the books, it's probably still some sort of misdemeanor.

I was too wigged out to do the test run at home--the thought of anyone coming to my door and seeing me wearing Buck about the house was unacceptable. So I snuck him out in a bag and took him to a house where I was dog-sitting. (Um, if I happen to dog sit for you, this was totally not your house.)

I was weirdly elated as I got out all the new paraphernalia. There was Buck standing erect, as is his way, plus a black leather harness thing. (Not this one specifically, but kinda like it.) It's like a string bikini, with a dildo hole thing on the front ("dildo hole" is not its actual name, at least I hope not) and adjustable straps on the sides. My particular harness was truly one-size-fits-all. Not only did it fit me, but it could accommodate up to a 52 inch waist. If nothing else, I could always save it as a pair of makeshift fat pants, in case nothing else fit.

After an embarrassing amount of time, though one could argue that this is the least embarrassing thing I've told you so far, I finally figured out the tangle of leather straps and saddled up. I stuck Buck out through the dildo hole, adjusted him so he was sticking up and out at a jaunty angle and walked out to the kitchen to get a feel for dick-having.

It seemed, actually, normal enough. I felt that if called upon, I could wield this cock. I knew what it was to be well-fucked and I could simply do those things from the other side of the equation. So with both of the kinds of cockiness inherent in my situation (jesus, sorry, what's wrong w/ me?),*  I wandered back to the bedroom to behold myself, be-dicked, in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

It was at that moment that the dog came into the room, poked his nose between my legs, and immediately started licking Buck.

As I yanked my penis away (for better or worse, Buck, sensationless, felt nothing) I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror--wearing a silicone penis and being fellated by a dog.

It was, to date, the most fucked up moment of my life.

I'm not sure if it was the existential absurdity of the moment or the magnitude of wrongness going on at once, but as I drove home to wash the living hell out of Buck, I was  sort of pleased with myself. Like, "Yeah, I'm the kind of chick who has subversive #@%$ like this going on." It's probably not the correct way to respond, but that's what happened with me. 

xoxo
jill

*It says a lot about me, none of it horribly favorable, that I feel way more embarrassed about the bad joke than the general content of this entire post.

[This is a rerun. Please remain calm.]
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