Sunday, October 5, 2014

Drought

I haven't had sex in a really really long time. If I were to calculate the exact length of time for you, my eyes would well up with tears, and none of us wants that. (They might anyway, 'cause that's what's going down these days. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

I hadn't even had sex with my damn self, which is weird, because I'm a pretty easy lay. My life situation right now is such that people are pretty much always around me, none of whom want to see or hear me sprawled in my bed, wantonly having my way with myself.

But the other day I decided I should probably have a damn orgasm--for health reasons, if nothing else. I locked the bathroom door and started drawing a bath. I slid down to the spigot end of the tub to angle myself so the water stream could go where I needed it to go.

I don't know if you've ever had sex with water stream but if you're a woman, it's kind of a sure thing. Usually this would have been a two-minute and out kind of deal. But for some reason, it took just... so long. Perhaps it was because I was slippery and kept sliding away from the water that was supposed to be fucking me. Or perhaps it was that I had become so divorced from my passion that I actually was doing this "for health reasons." 

I finally came for no other reason than I was determined, which, for the record, is quite low on the list of arousing thoughts. I don't remember if it was even good or not. It was just something I needed to happen that did. Check.

The next day, I woke up and my legs were completely sore. Probably taking a long walk in flip-flops, I thought. Note to self: wear more supportive shoes. For health reasons.

Later I realized, Crap, it was the bath fuck. I had been clenching my legs so desperately, for so long, trying to have that lame-ass orgasm, that I, like, hurt myself.

For the next few days, my sore legs reminded me of several things, none of them horribly pleasant:
1.  I had sex with water.
2.  I had unsatisfying sex with water. 
3. Though I consider myself to be in fine shape (Mighty fine! How it is that am I sex-less?) if there were ever a situation in which I had to do some sort of under-spigot competitive clenching, I would not end up on the winner's podium. 
but worst,
4. During one of California's worst droughts in history, I had wasted water.

I'd like it think it wasn't entirely wasted. But if you want to report me, here's the web site for the Long Beach Water Department. There you can find several categories of water wasting such as "watering (with potable water) on a day other than Monday, Thursday or Sunday." I'll leave it up to you to figure out my specific violation.

xoxox
jill

(photo source)

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

True Sex Tale: Cici, "We have made love five times this year. It's September."

I was working on some boring-ass other thing when this plinked into my in-box from "Cici Sparkle." Holy fuck, this chick can write. Her story is so...dark and true. (Displaced/unfullfilled passion, it is motivating...)

I am just gonna run it without comment except to say that if you want to tell your own true sex story, face up to what's going on and send it in.

Here then, Cici Sparkle:

A “sexless marriage” is defined as one where the couple has sex fewer than 10 times in a year. We may have made love five times this year. It’s September. We have been married for 15 years.

I find him attractive, cute, boyishly, geek-ily sexy. I'm independent, feminist, loud, fun, reformed wild-and-crazy; he is passive, quiet, thoughtful, brilliant.

He doesn’t look at my body, doesn’t try to touch me, never sneaks in while I’m showering or grabs my ass while I’m cooking or talking on the telephone. He has never seduced me; has never unhooked my bra or looked at my body as he removed my panties. Sexy pictures and suggestive text messages make him uncomfortable and angry. He accuses me of being unstable - to whom else are you sending these photos? - and unsafe with technology when all I want is to tap into the primal, animal instinct that he must have… doesn’t he?

I approach him while wearing lingerie, bluesy-sexy music playing in the background, feeling lascivious and tasty, and he turns on the TV. I wrap my arms around him, throw my legs over his lap, gently nibble his earlobe and he freezes, almost as if he is afraid of what I may “do” to him.

He stays up all night either consciously or unconsciously to avoid coming to bed. Lovemaking, when it happens, is only in the morning. That way he can pull away from me afterwards, bounding out of bed to get showered and dressed immediately so I won’t have further expectations to be held or kissed or, heaven forbid, to reach climax. I make him feel dirty, I suppose, but not in a good way. If I’m on top - most times - he doesn’t move, save to hold my hips lightly. Occasionally he’ll cup my breasts and kiss them tenderly if they are right in his face, otherwise there is no foreplay. Perhaps this is my own fault. I am so easily - physically - turned on, so he never had to try very hard.

I can’t help but keep track. very Monday morning, after another weekend that we didn’t make love, I pick a fight. When he is sick or we have overnight weekend guests, I am irrationally angry and bitter: another lost opportunity for intimacy. Every time my period starts I rage, the pain and exhaustion mocking me, Mother Nature marking another month that he hasn’t even tried. When we do make love successfully, I am angry, too, because I know that the next time could be months away.

I don’t think he’s vindictive. He somehow doesn’t know what else to do, can’t read my body language, and follows instruction poorly. We used to have a good time together, even after our children were born. I had a lot of experience with men and sex but not with love. Our relationship was never passionate, but there was always deep caring and trust and a desire to please.

Have I mentioned that my husband is an alcoholic? Over the years he has progressed from being a social/heavy drinker to being a drunk, an habitual drinker, a selfish fuck of a man who drinks steadily until he passes out or until all of the beer is gone. He doesn’t yell or throw punches; instead he leaves a trail of beer cans and potato chip crumbs for me to find the following day, falls asleep in front of the blaring TV, lights blazing, with a beer can in his hand, spilling on the couch and the carpet. He wakes up sticky-eyed and confused just before dawn and rambles to bed as quietly as his lanky 200 pounds can be. He sleeps through his alarm, occasionally getting up in time to walk the kids to the bus stop with pungent, yeasty sweat coming out of his pores. My favorite mornings happen every few months when I wake up to him having pissed on his side of the bed.

Al-Anon tells the enabler not to manipulate situations so the alcoholic will pay bills, eat, go to work, or sleep. We are essentially told to get out of the way and let the train wreck happen. I have stopped fighting with him about his drinking and sleep habits and our terrible, sad sex life. He has worn me down and I can’t bear to be rejected any more. “You know I’ll never leave so the pressure is off. I’m trapped and unhappy and you don’t care. So, you win. I will not pursue you any more.”

There is a specific point in his drunkenness when he can be coaxed into bed. Too little alcohol and he wants to stay up later and party; too much and he is sloppy. Thursday was one of those nights. I was asleep although not soundly, too dead tired at this late hour to greet him but alert enough to hear him close the door and lock it. He crawled into bed and put his arms around me, my back to him. I lay uncharacteristically still and hoped he would get the hint to leave me alone. My instincts told me that if I woke up fully and encouraged him I would be disappointed, left aroused, alone, and wide awake. He nudged and snuggled me until he finally persuaded me to turn over on to my back. Despite myself, my arms went around his neck ... he is my husband, after all, and I love him in an unrequited, desperate way.

We lay quietly, close together. His tongue slithered into my ear, big and wet and invasive. I shuddered and pulled my head away. He kissed my neck and my face with lips that felt flabby and loose, smacking noisily. I tried to kiss him the way we used to - a light touch, gingerly sucking his bottom lip, gentle, tentative tongue - but he was too drunk to follow my lead. Instead he pressed my lips too hard with his mouth, hurting them against my teeth, jamming his tongue inside my mouth, licking and swirling with the finesse of a sixteen-year-old. He tasted like beer and smokeless tobacco, which he probably flipped out of his mouth when he came to bed. My skin crawled and I pulled my face away. He reached his hand between my legs and pushed them open gently, then used one finger to part the outer lips of my labia as he began recklessly jamming his hips into mine, not guiding himself or exploring, just poking until he found a warm spot.

He is well-endowed and was hard enough to penetrate me but I knew immediately that he wouldn’t finish. For several long minutes his efforts were on straight fucking, all pelvis and cock, pressing his full weight on me, banging away and breathing heavily. The alcohol rendered him incapable of multitasking so I raised my hips, moving with him, encouraging him, but also reaching for the tiniest bit of pleasure for myself. I was wet but not fully aroused so I wasn’t “open” enough to take his full length; I winced and tried to move away every time he thrust and hit my cervix. Tears rose in my throat as I whispered to him to slow down. He feels claustrophobic when I hold him too closely or wrap my legs around his hips so I lay my open hands lightly on his shoulders, my feet firmly planted on the bed, waiting for him to exhaust himself.

Finally I could feel him getting tired, losing his erection, breathing heavily, slowing down and stopping, at last, to catch his breath. He stumbled out of bed and went to the kitchen for glasses of ice water. When he returned and deposited my glass on the nightstand, I pretended to be asleep and made a small noise when he patted my head. Wide awake now, my back to him in the darkness, feeling light-years away, listening to his breathing as it became deeper, I thought about all of the reasons that I hate him.


Hope you can use this ... thank you for your beautiful blog.

****
Thank you for being such a bad-ass, Cici. And yes, of course, I can use it. Hope it finds its way to who(m?)ever might be needing it in their day today.

xoxo
jill 

(photo source)

Monday, August 25, 2014

What would your ideal sex life look life? If you could pick up a new lover every night, would you?

Man demonstrating "The Takeaway"
I just finished* The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artistsby Neil Strauss. Now my head is swimming with questions about what men and women want, male/female mating habits and what sexuality might look like if there were no societal constraints. I have a bunch of questions for you--maybe we can muddle through this together.

If you haven't read the book, it's about this nebbishy guy (shy, skinny, glasses, thin smattering of frizzy chunks of hair) who studies pick-up artists to learn their secrets. First, he shaves his head, gets Lasik, goes to a tanning salon, and starts going by the moniker of Style. Despite going by the name Style (and even worse, giving himself that name) soon he can pretty much pick up whoever he wants. Seriously.

Style gets deeply involved with the pick-up community, an online group of pick-up artists (PUAs) who--with the laser-focus characteristic of their geekdom--have broken down all aspects of social interaction into identifiable and repeatable chunks. PUAs work with manipulation, an understanding of natural human tendencies (seeking approval, wanting unique experiences, etc...) and sometimes a bit of waking hypnosis to work towards an "f-close," that is, a fuck close.

PUAs have developed their own jargon honed over years of "field reports," that is, sharing what worked or didn't work during nights of "sarging" (picking up chicks). Going over and talking to a group of three people is "opening a three-set." The girl you want is your "target." To get her, you must become the Alpha Male of the group by entertaining the group at large while--at first--pointedly ignoring your target. When you finally decide to gift her with some attention, you toss her a "neg" or sort of meanish comment-- "Do you always interrupt people like that?" or "You would look good if you wore your hair up." In other words, you start fucking with her mind, playing on her insecurities, making yourself the arbiter of what she's doing right or wrong, and soon she'll be pressing you for an f-close.

You might, for example, make use of the "push-pull," a technique identified and named by Style (though judging from my dating past, most assuredly not originated by him.)

Push-pull (noun): a technique used to create or increase attraction, in which a man gives a woman indications that he is not interested in her followed by indications that he is. This sequence can take place in a few seconds--such as taking a woman's hands and then dropping them as if you don't trust her yet--or over time, such as being very nice during one phone conversation but then very distant and abrupt during the next.

Oh, there's more.
---False time constraints: Creating a false time constraint ("I can only talk to you for five minutes") relieves a woman of wondering how she's going to get rid of a PUA, yet also gives her a sense that she must vie for the PUA's attention so that he won't leave.
--Demonstrating Value: A PUA will carry around a pre-selected group of photos designed to portray him in a flattering light. (Picture with beautiful woman = desirability, picture on a boat = sporty, etc...)
--The Takeaway: If a PUA is making out with a woman, but she changes her mind about progressing things further, a PUA hops out of bed, and ignores her by checking email or something. The woman, feeling she has screwed up and lost the PUA, will try to lure him back to bed.
--Chick crack:  Chicks love fortune telling, ESP games and other psychological tests.

I really can't believe that it actually works because a lot of it seems indistinguishable from...well, what jerky losers do. PUAs "peacock," that is, wear outrageous clothing to attract attention like "bright shiny shirts, light up jewelry, [or] colorful cowboy hats." PUAs say cheesy things. For example, if the target inadvertently brushes against them, they say, "Hey, hands off the merchandise." And part of "opening a set" might consist of doing magic, for god sake.

So how does it work?

Have PUAs really hit upon a particular sequence of moves that can work on anyone? Or are the women they pick up drunken bar chicks, the sort of easily impressionable types who are always whipping out their boobs for Howard Stern?

Or more frightening, are we women so precarious that, with a few "negs" tossed our way, we too would be begging for affirmation and angling for an f-close? I have totally fallen for such tomfoolery in the past and--who knows?--maybe that stuff would still work on me. Or anyone. In her maligned/beloved book, Vagina: A New Biography, Naomi Wolf  posits that women are more likely to become biochemically addicted to love and, thus, highly motivated to attain their goal. Get those chemicals activated, gentlemen, and you're golden.

Also on my mind: Style seems like a smart and thoughtful guy, but armed with his new pick-up powers, he's sarging all the time. Everything he says and does is part of the game and human interaction is reduced to a series of moves to be parried. The girls are a blur, known only as Jennifer 2 or the blonde with the pixie cut.  He and the other PUAs only go for "10s," which invariably means fake boobs, blonde hair, 19 years old and preferably a stripper or porn star. Which is sort of depressing for every woman who is not like that. That is, 99.999% of women. Even 19 year old strippers only get to be that for one year.

The supposed happy ending of the book is that Style "wins" the game by finding a girlfriend, a hot blonde rocker chick who played with Courtney Love's band The Chelsea. But I googled his girlfriend (indeed quite beautiful) and discovered that they broke up after two years. Style is back in the field, sarging and hawking pick-up lessons.

If a seemingly nice, smart guy like Neil Strauss so easily turn into a disconnected heartless asshole, would any other guy do the same if given the chance? If men were unfettered by societal norms, is this how male sexuality would look?

I'm asking in a serious way. These guys are going through the same routine--even down to using the same words--to pick up different women every night. According to Sex at Dawn (quite thought-provoking--read it at once!) men generally like to do the same thing sexually but with novel partners. Is this the epitome of that desire expressed? And--this is probably hopelessly naive--but would men, with the exception of that Iron & Wine dude, be perfectly happy with new-chick-every-night relationships? And do most men really want that 19 year old fake boobed stripper? And if so, is that a natural inclination or a societal construct of what is hot?

I'm not asking in a judgey way, I'm honestly curious. Are men and women really so fundamentally different?  Because I would be completely disinterested in the new-dude-every-night scenario. A guy who was the physical equivalent to the blonde stripper, say, some extremely buff dude, would not be an immediate turn-on for me. (Unless he was wearing a shiny shirt, light up jewelry and doing magic!) I would care about his sense of humor, his intelligence, how his voice sounded and how my body was responding to him. There would have to be some sort of backstory to create/fuel my desire. Women? Is this true of you as well, or not?

And if an ideal male sexuality would be new chicks all the time, what would an ideal female sexuality look like? (Obviously everyone's different, blah blah blah, but I'm talking in general terms.) What do women pick when they are allowed to design their sex lives?  Women with financial stability, desirability and the balls to do whatever they want--someone like Angelina Jolie--seem to opt for a version of serial monogamy. Is this what we'd opt for as well? Women, what would your ideal sex life look like?

And if men want a new girl every night and women prefer serial monogamy, why would nature fuck with us so much by giving us largely incompatible mating styles? Or maybe there isn't a gender divide and we do want the same thing?

So curious to hear what you think. Answer one question or all of them. And feel free to comment anonymously if you don't want everyone knowing your business.

xoxox
jill

*"Just finished," meaning "read two years ago" because you are performing the miracle of time travel via this rerun.  Enjoy! I'm putting you all on the honor system for this trip to 2012, so don't fuck with the space/time continuum or anything. Although if you come across the 2012 me, don't tell me how it all looks for me in 2014, because that will just bum my $%#$ out.

If you commented in 2012, see if you agree with your 2012 self....

 Rudolf Koppitz - Sculptor and Nude, 1926

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Things I Learned From Books, and Other Product Placement

Image bears no resemblance to my actual life. Which is not ideal.
Having been through several weeks of working solely for pay, I can report from the midst of it that it is no fucking way to live your life. I am currently humorless and dull, without passion, spark, and creative outlet--that is, anything that makes life worth living. People need Art and Love and Fucking--whatever it takes to give you your glimpse of the divine.

What I am getting at is: feed your soul, motherfuckers. This is not negotiable.

At least I've been been feeding my literary soul and tearing through Philip Rothas well as a stack of vaguely smutty books I got at the library. (With no mishaps. True: My friend K checked out the Jenna Jameson book How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale which she of course has every right to do, and the librarian quickly wrapped it in a plain brown bag for her. Unasked.)

Here's what I'm thinking on:

--According to Debra Ollivier's What French Women Know: About Love, Sex, and Other Matters of the Heart and Mind little girls in France don't say "He loves me, he loves me not" when pulling off flower petals. (Which is sort of cruel, now that I think about it, but perhaps such cruelty is appropriate for matters of love.) Instead they say: "Il m'aine un peu, beaucoup, passionnement, a la folie, pas du tout" which means: "He loves me a little, a lot, passionately, madly, not at all."

"How unfair," writes Olliviers. "While we American girls are stuck in the absolutes of total love or utter rejection, the French girl is already primed to think in nuances and in an infinite gamut of romance. While we lust after happy endings and closure, they're comfortable with emotional subtleties and ambiguity."

Hmmm.

--Esther Perel has talked a lot about marriage and passion and the struggle between the strong desire for intimacy, comfort and stability with the equally strong drive for excitement, passion and unpredictability. (Here's her TED talk and a link to her book Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence)

In Kosher Sex: A Recipe for Passion and Intimacy Shmuley Boteach, offers a Jewish spin on how to work the comfort/passion balance. "Every month, there must be two weeks devoted to physical love, and two weeks devoted to intellectual communication and emotional intimacy," he writes. When the women starts her period, you abstain for two weeks. The original idea was probably about women being "unclean" during that time (bosh!), but the on/off plan does neatly correspond with most women's monthly swings of desire. Plus you get to build up lust during the abstinence weeks.

Maybe it would be kind of hot. What do you think? Has anyone tried this? Or are you willing to try it and write about it?

--A Billion Wicked Thoughts: What the Internet Tells Us About Sexual Relationships by Ogi Ogas and Sai Gaddam examines internet searches to figure out what men and women are actually into. It's all completely fascinating--Why men want to see other men fucking their wives! Why men like to look at other dude's penises in porn in a totally not-gay way! Why the hell women flash their boobs in "Girls Gone Wild" videos! It's all very scientific and smart.

Women, for example, tend to have an arousal cue for "competent" men. In romance novels (i.e. female porn, for some), the hero is always some dude at the top of his game. "Men who don't know what to do with their life, who are midlevel bureaucrats, or who sit around the house watching TV are never heroes," they write. (Problematic since that also = most men.) Men, by contrast, don't seem to have the competence cue. What a woman can do (aside from presenting their various holes, "fuckyeah"ing and such) is totally irrelevant to their arousal.

The very different drives and desires between men and women (in general--relax) makes me wonder yet again, how we manage to ever find ourselves in bed together in the first place.

--And finally, in Emily Southwood's memoir Prude: Lessons I Learned When My Fiance Filmed Porn Emily--as the title kinda spells out there--has a fiance working as a camera man on porn reality show. She was not especially a porn watcher in the first place, and becomes a bit unhinged by a comment Fiance makes about a porn star named Cytherea and her prowess at squirting. It is real? Fake? What the hell? She gets one of C's films and watches it. Then watches it again. And again.

"By viewing number five I'm turned on, despite myself. I decide to tire myself out with some angry masturbation.  Five orgasms later, I've discovered that it's entirely possible to hate-fuck yourself, all the while mentally reapplying someone's eye make-up," she writes in an incredibly beautiful sequences of sentences.

****

Fuck, I feel so much better now.  Now go do your thing that you do. This is an order.

xoxox
jill
 
 P.S. If you want to see a wee compendium of my stuff, do see my new page on Contently.

 P.P. S. Thank you, thank you (!) for your orders via the Amazon link. Though I an now needing to know--and am possibly concerned about--the back story with the following purchases. Sequential? Cause and effect? What do you make of it?
1.  Sex at Dawn: How We Mate, Why We Stray, and What It Means for Modern Relationships
2. How to Help Your Spouse Heal From Your Affair: A Compact Manual for the Unfaithful
3. All American Whopper Vibe 8"

(image via Lady Cheeky, just cuz)

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 anc@ancmovies.com.

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?

xoxo
jill

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.
     Hi.
    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:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GehwctOX1GI


*****
So. 

"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.

xoxo
jill
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