Monday, February 18, 2019

Sex Toys! Get Your Sex Toys!

I can show you the world
Due to my inability to say no to free things, I have amassed an embarrassingly large collection of brand new sex toys for both men and women--especially, for no reason in particular, butt stuff for men. There are only so many things I can put in, on or around my own parts, and I'd absolutely love to get them into the orifices of people who really want them.

The thing is, I can't afford to pay for shipping to send you all this stuff just free, especially those of you who live in other countries and don't tell me 'til the last minute.

Ideas? Should I create a Google doc of what I have and you can peruse my wares? Silent auction? Weird online garage sale? Should I only make you pay for shipping? Or should I charge a little extra for my Travel To Europe To Engage the Services of Parker Marx fund, which is on the secret bucket list in my head and presently contains zero dollars (which according to today's currency exchange rate is equivalent to zero Euros)?

I do want to get these toys in, on and/or under you, somehow. I have a deep love of giving out sex toys, especially when I feel like I'm really helping someone. Like, I gave some really great high-end toys to a non-rich new widow in Michigan the other week and honestly, I felt like a fucking fairy godmother, one who hands out literal Magic Wands.

So think on it, will you?

xoxo
jill

~~Disappearing magically into a cloud of fairy dust, or maybe it's just shimmery lube~~

P.S. I did sell the non-joy sparking Sex Machine and when I went to the local postal store to mail it, a mother at my daughter's school was working at the counter. I don't know her but I know she is a member of a religion that is not known for sexual tolerance.

On the advice of someone I shall not name, I lied and said the really really heavy package contained "books" because it was gonna cost over 90 bucks to mail as "non books." I thought I'd pulled it off and was emailing the buyer to tell her of our good fortune, and at the same time the school mom--perhaps guided by wisdom not of this world--OPENED THE PACKAGE.

Which is simply not done, but that's exactly what she did.

This is what she saw:

basically an onslaught of panties and a big pink dildo

Our eyes met for 4 million years while the box still sat wide open and radiating its pink shame, and even though I am 53 fucking years old and write a sex blog, I could feel my face go hot and red. She finally said, "I didn't see anything."

But she saw it all.

I will never go there again, but I did get the way cheaper book rate which, yes, is mail fraud, but I don't care because rules don't matter in our country anymore and anyway I felt I'd earned that money.

Friday, February 8, 2019

Heart-Shaped Box

I don't believe in illness as metaphor.

Proponents like Louise Hay claim illnesses can be traced to some sort of unresolved psychological issue, (i.e. dis-ease. New Agey types looooove them some etymological wordplay).

According to Hay--who, notably, is not alive: Back problems = "carrying the burdens of life,"  Cellulite= "stored anger and self-punishment," Cancer = "deep secret or grief eating away at the self" and so on.  I'm not onboard with it mostly because I despise when people say stuff like "dis-ease," but also because it's victim-blaming--what the hell kind of "deep secret" could a sick baby with cancer be harboring?

And yet. Several of my friends have recently gone through health scares with parts of their bodies that are called (not here, but somewhere) "female parts." Each of them is sexually dissatisfied.

After some fretting and hand-holding, the tests are back and everyone is fine.  (For now! 'Cause none of us are ever really for sure fine.)*

And now I'm having a thing too. A part of my body is asserting itself by becoming inappropriately thick. Which is not the same as being thicc, though I do like the idea of my uterus being "fat in the right places, creating sexy curves."

It's probably no big deal, but I am a big fucking worrier, and have suffered many tragic and inevitably fatal, imaginary maladies. (Although I do professional-level work, worry-wise, I am not paid for this particular skill.)

Illness is the night side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place,”  wrote Susan Sontag, who is also dead, because death cares not for your philosophy on it.

If I were going with the metaphor thing, I'd guess mine was about unresolved issues with the deepest part of my sexuality (need to develop a thicker skin? swollen with desire? being unfilled/unfulfilled--bonus for wordplay?) Louise Hay says the uterus represents the "home of creativity."  Damn, girl.

Whatever happens with my sisters and me, I'm gonna take our unwanted citizenship in the kingdom of the sick as a welcome chance to do some personal reassessment--a Gift of the Vagi of sorts. 

So today I'm gonna do some re-gifting and remind you to go out there and fill your own box with what it truly desires.

xoxo
jill

*The inevitability of mortality--hahahaha! I'm also super fun at parties.

Please tip your server.

Sunday, January 6, 2019

The Sex Machine

It's all in your head, really
The sex machine arrived at my doorstep in a large, blessedly unmarked box. Inside was The Motorbunny, all 32.9 lbs of it, prone and ready for all manner of fuckery.

The Motorbunny, a more "affordable" version of the famous/infamous Sybian, is ride-on sex toy that's somewhere between ride-on lawn mower and the mechanical bull in Urban Cowboy, a movie I never saw but feel comfortable citing in an outdated, possibly incorrect reference.

When it arrived, I peeked inside the box and saw a padded half-cylinder thing that you* sit on. There were also a variety of attachments that look like pink dicks and/or pokey things. Not included was an add-on ass/vagina combo called "Jiggle Butt For Men." (Surprisingly, even though Jiggle Butt For Men is, by its very name, forbidden to me as a woman, that didn't make it all the more darkly tempting.)

And, well, that surreptitious peek was my one and only encounter with my fuck machine. Since then, that big-ass box has sat unmolested in my bedroom for, dear God, maybe like an entire year now.

I've been trying to figure out why. 

Part of it is its size. Right now, it's just a large box storage problem. Once I take it out, it becomes a sex machine storage problem, an entirely different matter.

The second reason is the price, $950. I'm guessing the depreciation on such a item would be similar to that of a car, but subject to a more immediate and drastic price drop after I "drive it out of the lot," so to speak. Maybe I'd get a decent story for you, but how could I possibly justify $950 for what might be single, alarmingly bad fuck?

The third is that I've finally realized... I just don't want to. Yes, I read reviews about women screaming in pleasure for hours, endless orgasms and squirting various substances all over the place. But even though my body parts have not (yet?) known the love of the fuck machine, I felt more of a kinship with other reviewers who'd used phrases like "like blasting your bits with a car engine" and "like a Rage Against the Machine song....transformed into a sex toy."

That's not to say real beauty cannot arise out of harsh, literally mechanical sex...


 from the Motorbunny Art Project

But the kind of sex I seek is not what the Motorbunny is offering.

It was 1.5 episodes of Tidying Up with Marie Kondo (thx for the rec Caitlin Grace) that finally did it. The main idea is that items in your home should "spark joy." I was all in with this Life Changing Magic, despite my daughter Ava muttering, "Does your Social Security card 'spark joy'? Does the cats' litter box?"

No. They do not spark joy. And, I realized, neither does this stupid big box in my bedroom, its fuck machine contents and its brutish love. For me, the daring choice was not, as I'd long assumed, getting on that thing as anyone would expect I'd do, but letting it go without riding it, and opening the space for something I truly desire.

All that to say: Sex Machine For Sale. Never Used.

Make an offer.

xoxo
jill

* By you, I mean, you and not me. 

Saturday, December 15, 2018

RIP Critique My Dick Pic

(Since Tumblr has made ridiculous new "anti-pornography" rules that make zero sense at all, I'm re-running this to memorialize the work of my favorite Tumblriste ever, Ms. Maddie Holden, whose labors (oh, you'll see) might soon disappear forever.  You can read her own eulogy of the brief shining moment that was her righteous blog, Critique My Dick Pic here.  

And for the record, fuck this shit. Facebook is cracking down, or whatever, too. I was just banned from Facebook for a month for the very photo that is, ironically, still running as the photo for IBWMW's Facebook page and has been there for years. (I suspect I was reported by a stranger who took offense at some political thing I wrote. It will not surprise you that I'm kinda outspoken on social media. And yes, I'm working on it.) 

This insane prudery isn't helping any of us. We need to be able to talk to each other about sex and our orientations and share what's really going on. Shoving it down, banning it--all that stuff takes away access to real, decent, information, connection and so much art and beauty. 

This doesn't help "the children" either.  When they can't see a sex educator showing them what a vulva is, then their most easily accessible sex ed is gonna be porn.  Which, porn is fine and you know I love it, but there is a whole lot of really crappy porn with dudes spitting on women or even just not fucking them in a decent manner. That's not helping the kids, my friends.

For the rest of us, we should be allowed to freely talk about so-called adult matters.  Because we are fucking adults.   

Anyway. We were talking dick pics. Let's do it WHILE WE CAN, shall we?

xo
jill 



Consider the courtship practice of the Sending of the Dick Picture.

Men like sending them, but few women -- and only under very specific circumstances -- like getting them. (I think they're sexy, but I get that impression that I'm unusual in that regard.) In any case, it seems like a bit of messed up evolutionary mating economics--all supply, little demand.

Supply's not going down any time soon, so it seems the best solution is to create more demand. In this case, creating a better quality--hence possibly better-received--dick pic.

This is the mission of Critique My Dick Pic.  Writes site creator/judger of peni, Madeleine Holden:

this is a tumblr with a simple premise: send me your dick pics, & i’ll critique them with love.
'with love' is an important addendum. i'm never going to shame you about the size of your dick or what it looks like; i'm not about that life. i will, however, be ruthlessly honest when it comes to things like angles, lighting & general tone. i'm trying to help you improve, because in all likelihood your dick pics are artless & dull.

The girl is ruthlessly honestly and is against "Porky Pigging," that is, wearing a shirt but no pants, and photos featuring "the log," (says she: "the log" is when you take a bird’s eye view, close-up shot of your enormous dick, with your dick taking up most of the frame & with very little surrounding detail. dudes, they’re boring. they’re ~so~ boring. they say "look at my fat cock" & fuck all else.") She ends each review with a letter grade. In bold.

Consider this poor guy who sent in an uninspired shot of his dick hanging over the edge of a kitchen sink. (You'll have to look yourself b/c as Holden puts it, this site is "Not! Safe! For! Work!")

um no this is definitely not very good.
your dick is unceremoniously flopped out of your pants & you look like you’re about to piss in the sink. your right arm is hanging limply & the top right hand corner of your pic is straight blur. sender, this is very bad? you didn’t try very much here? it is extremely unlikely that this picture would arouse anyone?
if i were you, sender, i would scrap this entirely & start again, with 100% less sink, 100% less blur, & 1000% more effort.
thank you for submitting to critiquemydickpic.tumblr.com. your dick pic gets a C-.

I am completely in love with this site and wish I could just run a bunch of the pix here so you don't have to be clicking around, but Google gets a little peevish when I get too racy.  Do hop over, then tell me what you think. I welcome any and all dick pic stories you might send me as well.

xoxox
jill

ps yes I do appreciate the absurdity of kowtowing to Google's prudery while running afoul of Porky Pig's copyright holder.  Though I give part of the blame to him for not wearing pants.

Hey. Been drinking?  Leave a little tip today. 

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:
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