Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Holidays I Forgot to Celebrate and Other Things That Are Not About the Man Fucking the Hornet's Nest

Right, so I was all primed to write about that Swedish guy who died after fucking a hornet's nest (64 stings to the genitals! Hideously enlarged genitals!) except for the very annoying fact that the story turned out to be a hoax.

That's all I had, so I turned to you, dear readers, to come up with the rest of the post. And luckily, you were all over that.

Tricia, for example, shared the news of International Clitoris Awareness Week with the 1,295 citizens of In Bed With Married Women's Facebook page.  The event was organized by "Clitoraid," a Las Vegas-based group usually devoted to helping victims of female genital mutilation around the world. Unfortunately, the holiday was last week, so you are free to resume your usual baseline level of clitoral awareness. I bring it up, however, just so that I can say that "Clitoraid" sounds like the worst drink ever.

However, if you bought a bunch of festive clitoral holiday lights on clearance, hang 'em back up over the mantle, because Leah emailed the important news of a Masturbate-A-Thon to celebrate Masturbation Month.  "Are you participating?" she wrote, in what I took to be an unkind manner. I actually should have known about this since it was started in 1995 by my corporate overlords at Good Vibrations. (2 day free shipping if order something thru this link and spend $150+, which is spendy, but it is your genitalia...) Unfortunately, Leah, I will not be participating in any of the festivities because public masturbation and ejaculation contests just make me want to put plastic slipcovers over everything. And not in a cool plastic fetish way, but a weird uptight lady way. 

Meanwhile, lovely Brit Dicky Carter, who uses excellent words like "knackered" (translated from the British="tired"), sent along the article "Deep Inside the Biggest Little Dildo Factory in Texas" which is worth it for the pictures alone. Like this one of a woman facing yet another day of dildo vein-painting:

P.S. I am housesitting and using my friend's computer.  Should I leave the photo of the dildo-painting lady on her computer? Her search history is already now a ravaged, slutty mess and I've only been here a couple hours. (Moral: It is unwise to let me housesit.)

(photo: Lady Cheeky)

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Donald Trump and Pegging, Both Together and Separately

Oompa loompa doompa de doo
Bonjour! Here's what happening right now.

Contest Winner: The winner of the Best Worst Erotica contest is the Anonymous commenter who chose the unintentional BDSM erotica of the Good Housekeeping article I Tried to Wax My Own Bikini Line--And It Was a Disaster.  The reason I chose this--if you're looking to rig the game next time--is because this guy expressed a clear interest in the prize. (A Cadet dildo, courtesy of Good Vibrations!) Although other entries were super fine and completely amazing, I wanted to avoid creating an Unwanted Surprise Dildo in the Mailbox situation.

The contest also possessed a bunch of people to write me lengthy, super personal emails. Some of them were beautiful and touching, some were just fucking weird and creepy. Try to figure out which category you fall into and adjust your behavior accordingly.

Super Gay:  Speaking of dildos, as I often am, I was assigned a Cosmo piece on 5 Positions for Pegging Your Man. Which, whatever. But what completely shocked me was how many Cosmo readers were totally freaked out about pegging. On Cosmo's Facebook page, there were thousands of comments, with about 70% saying that any butt stuff was "super gay." Which, a. who cares? and b. what???  Over at the IBWMW FB page, where it's way more sensible, Rusty wisely noted, "A man and a woman having sex is the very DEFINITION of gay!"

Super Gay, Donald Trump Version: Some guy on Twitter threatened to get drunk and compose Donald Trump gay erotica. Using the single-minded vision of a drunken man, he did just that in a 4 hour "wine and weed fevered dream" creating Trump Temptation: The Billionaire and the Bellboy.  Pretty much anything associated with this is great, including the Amazon reviews, author Elijah Daniel's Twitter feed, this interview with Daniel, and of course, the book itself i.e. “His gorgeous ass flapped behind him like a mouthwatering stack of pancakes in his pants. My hunger for pancakes had never been stronger."

"I Saw This and Thought of You":  Among the things that greeted me in my inbox recently because...well, it's my own damn fault, were:
--The Dicture Gallery, featuring photographs of penises dressed up in little costumes. Thanks to Christina G. who has a knack for finding such things.
--This insanely fascinating video of hetero missionary sex filmed with a camera inside the woman. Thanks to Lily R. for scienceyness!
--A New York Times video on the New York Public Library's collection of vintage erotica featuring seedy Times Square ephemera, early transgender magazines and copies of Playboy. This was sent in by my Mom, which perhaps explains a few things. 

Viva Bowie!

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

"Our Genes Can Be Heartless Puppeteers"

Note the grim, bored faces.
Too many orgasms for the Coolidges?
"Pete and I haven't had sex for awhile," said a friend. "I'm not particularly in the mood, but I feel like we should. You know, for the good of the marriage."

I murmured in an affirmative manner, conveying something along the lines of "Yeah, go hit that dutiful marital sex." After all, sex--even possibly tepid sex--has all kinds of benefits--the immune system boost, happy endorphins, lower incidence of incontinence and all that.

But, at it turns out, not only am I a sucky friend for putting her personal business all up in my blog, but I also might have given her exactly the wrong advice. At least according to the limbic system, a primitive part of our brain that doesn't care a whit that we've based our entire societal structure on the responsible-sounding, seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time ideal of monogamy.

By having sex with good old Pete, my friend would be inadvertently setting off a chain of neurochemicals that would actually increase marital ennui (it means boredom/lack of interest, if you happen to be afflicted with dictionary ennui). Surprisingly, sexual satisfaction kicks in a biological impulse full of monogamy-unfriendly side effects like making a couple more irritated with, and less attracted to, each other.

Marnia Robinson in Psychology Today reports that sexual satisfaction, specifically orgasms, actually compels us to want to move on to a new partner. 
[A] mating frenzy (hot sex, lots of orgasms) resulting in sexual satiation (that "I'm done!" feeling) plays right into Cupid's plan. Decreasing dopamine (after the delicious neurochemical blast of orgasm) tells your limbic system, "Fertilization duty is done here; time to find this mate less alluring-and respond to any potential novel mate with gusto."
The same cruel, cruel swirl of chemicals that make you swoon over another's perfection and general dreaminess, then:
 --makes you think it's a swell idea to bear children with this lovely person, 
-- fills you with a fiery rage toward this person who can't seem to fucking realize that wadding up a wet towel makes it moldy,
--makes you think a new partner would be a much more suitable mate. (I'm keeping a shortlist, just in case.)

Our bodies are, annoyingly, designed to make us stop desiring a mate once we've had our way with them. It's all about creating genetic diversity in our young, maximizing our fertility and all sort of other biological constructs that don't go over too well with a certain monogamous mate.

It's called the Coolidge Effect, and refers to the tendency in mammals to develop deadened sexual responses to their familiar mate while miraculously having no such problems with a novel mate. The name comes from a story about Calvin Coolidge and his wife touring a government farm. After hearing that a particular rooster spent a good part of each day mating, Mrs. Coolidge, in a moment of First Lady TMI, supposedly remarked, "Tell that to Mr. Coolidge when he comes by." When told, the president asked the farmer, "Same hen every time?" "No, sir," answered the farmer. "Tell that to Mrs. Coolidge," retorted the President, thus ensuring that no one in the Coolidge house would be doing any mating that evening.

In the Coolidge Effect, a male rat will mate with a receptive female (so made that way through chemical injections) until his libido dies out and he gives up and ignores her, doing whatever the male rat equivalent is of grabbing the remote. However, if a new receptive female enters, he jumps out of his stupor and begins banging her with a fresh vigor. The effect repeats--Mr. Rat rising to the occasion with each fresh female and giving them sweet, sweet rat love--until the dude is overwhelmed with exhaustion.   

I know this is science and all, but part of me wants to take the Creationist Approach to Science and just declare that, hey, I don't believe and/or like this idea, ergo, it's untrue. Despite all the testing, data, chemical analysis, carbon dating, friggin' dinosaur and early human bones littering the whole fucking globe...er, sorry, off topic.  

I mean, I get the whole fresh-excitement-with-new-mate part. Anyone who takes a look at the latest celeb pairing on US Magazine's cover can see that clearly enough, but the rest of it is so counter-intuitive. Having sex with your mate is...bad? And orgasms are especially bad because they make you want to leave your mate and move on? 

So where does this leave us? We live in a society that at least nominally supports families and lifetime pair-bonding. But our uncouth biological impulses are fighting us with every one of our well-intentioned, sanctioned-by-marriage thrusts.

It is a bit of a pickle and I don't have any great solutions for you yet. In the meantime, should you have sex with your mate? Hell, I don't fucking know. Play it by ear and we'll figure it out next time.


"Our senses crave novelty.  Any change alerts them, and they send a signal to the brain.  If there’s no change, no novelty, they doze and register little or nothing.  A constant state--even of excitement--in time becomes tedious, fades into the background because our senses have evolved to report changes, what’s new, something startling that needs to be appraised, a morsel to eat, a sudden danger.”  Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Bad Erotica All Over The Damn Place, Plus a Contest!

Still love him.
Today's story on weird-ass erotica was killed by an editor's editor who found it "too weird." Which to me is not a thing. Sort of like the sentence, "That's ok--I've had enough."  I'm running my reject here for you, even though it actually doesn't seem quite weird enough by the rather high standards of weirdness we've developed over the years. 

So to sweeten the deal, I'm adding a contest. Send in a link to the very worst erotica you can find. You can comment below or use ye olde email (jillhamilton001@gmail.com). Deadline is January 22, so you have plenty of time to look around, then set fire to your search history.  Winner will be the entry I deem the best worst erotica, as determined by a ridiculously unfair and unfathomable system based on funniness, personal taste and the ancient Mayan calendar. 

The lucky winner will, one day in the very near future, walk out to their mailbox and be shocked to find a discreetly packaged Cadet Dildo courtesy of Good Vibrations lurking within. It might be a vibrating version of the Cadet or not. We still haven't worked out the details on that part, but it will for sure look like a dick (in one of three colors!) and I think that is an important feature of a pretend penis. That's $42-80 of penis-shaped silicone that's pretty damn perfect for all your pegging needs!

Yes, we ARE happy to see you
In the meantime, I'm also pleased to inform you that dear sullen Morrissey was the recipient (winner, perhaps is too strong a word here) of this year's Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction Award. The judges were particularly swayed by this passage from Morrissey's List of the Lost which certainly lends credence to his assertion that he's asexual. 

"At this, Eliza and Ezra rolled together into the one giggling snowball of full-figured copulation, screaming and shouting as they playfully bit and pulled at each other in a dangerous and clamorous rollercoaster coil of sexually violent rotation with Eliza’s breasts barrel-rolled across Ezra’s howling mouth and the pained frenzy of his bulbous salutation extenuating his excitement as it whacked and smacked its way into every muscle of Eliza’s body except for the otherwise central zone"

Anyway, here's the too weird/not weird enough article. And don't forget to enter the contest. That dildo could soon inside you or inside an orifice of someone you love! Or at least someone you like well enough to feel comfortable sticking a fake penis (in one of three colors) in one of their holes.

Fuck, I've missed you.



 7 Least Appealing Objects of Desire in Erotica

We are truly in a golden age of erotica. Maybe not quality-wise, necessarily, but in quantity—we've got it covered. Anyone or anything that is even vaguely fuckable has fanfic or a cheapo Amazon book featuring their heaving bosom and/or throbbing manhood and/or whatever spiky thing they have in their loins. Within seconds you can access smut featuring Santa Claus, Dobby the House Elf or a pterodactyl “who might have carnal pleasures in mind.” (Sure, some of it's meant to be funny/parody stuff, but, well....there's sure a lot of it. There's clearly something else going on here*--like how vehemently anti-gay politicians seem to spend a whole lot of time talking about gay dudes.)

Here then are erotica's 7 Least Appealing Objects of Desire.

--Not Obviously Sexy Celebrities!
Celebrities who rarely make anyone's freebie list finally get to throb with desire in stories like The Audition in which a hopeful contestant walks into Pat Sajak's (!) office and “is shocked to see Pat Sajak with his pants on the ground and one hell of a hard-on.” As one would be. Other erotic fodder includes the “Happy Days” cast, Ray Romano, Beavis and Butthead, and Mowgli and the Village Girl from “Jungle Book” (who, apparently, also have balloon fetishes. Because Mowgli/Village Girl erotica wasn't quite specific enough.)

Best/worst sentence (from The Audition): “Pat uses each hole well, like the proverbial gopher popping in and out of Vanna and Lila’s boxes.”

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

I Had Sex With Something Called A Clitoral Stimulator

My pricey lover with unidentified companion
I don't know if I'm bragging about this or confessing, but Good Vibrations gave me a new kind of vibrator to test out in return for my honest review. Everyone has their price, supposedly, and I now know mine:  $189, the exact cost of  The Womanizer Rechargeable Clitoral Stimulator.

For your $189--or in my case, the whoring out of v. personal moments--you get a thing that looks like an ear thermometer, plus a USB cable, extra tip, fancy case and instruction booklet translated from the German with references to the KLITORIS and somewhat frightening/mysterious exhortations like "Turn the device off whenever unusual sounds are heard and do not continue using it."*

To use (fuck? make love to/with?), you put a little suction cup-like thing directly on your clit and it sort of vibrates and does something that feels a lot like gentle sucking, like someone's mouth is on you. It's a totally different sensation, as far as vibes go--sweet and nice, but not too ethereal. There are like 6 settings of intensity but I could only handle the first two.

The first time the Womanizer had relations, we had some first date issues. During some of it, it was insanely good, then it would somehow suddenly be just "meh" and I could have gotten up and had lunch or something with little regret. Then back to insanely good again.

Instead of a straightforward Masters and Johnson graph from arousal to orgasm:

...it was more like one of those Family Circus cartoons where Billy takes the meandering, long-ass way somewhere...

La de dah.

I think it was self-consciousness due to using it in front of someone coupled with the thing's notable resemblance to a wee little clit-sized milking machine. Still, I kept with it out of sheer determination, which is not exactly an optimal sex attitude. It was pretty frustrating. But then, when it finally happened, I literally screamed. Like, out loud. In a good way, in case you were wondering. This is not something I generally do.

Second time I snuck in the bathroom and put some porn on my phone (is this making you hot? No? Sex stripped of its mystery, connection and passion is so... almost workaday, like I'm describing how I changed the oil in my car or something. Which for the record, I don't know how to do, so don't bother asking me to). The Womanizer caused no screaming this time, but it was quick and easy, which sometimes is all you're looking for.

Third time, it was good. Real good. I'm a little bit in love with it, if you must know. If that thing had a varsity jacket I would so be wearing it.  

If you shell out for one, let me know how it was for you, 'cause then I will feel like we're even somehow.


*Because that's when the ghosts have taken over the vibrator. (Denn, wenn die Geister haben die Kontrolle ├╝bernommen Der Vibrator)

Monday, December 21, 2015

The Little Penis Inside You. Not what you think.

Ask me about my penis!
Janet and I were talking about the last post on how freaking huge a woman's clitoris actually is and she says, "Oh right, the little penis inside you."

I loved this phrase because it sounds so girls-only 7th grade health class. Like, after an uncomfortable and uninformative talk about fallopian tubes and such, the girls would file past the gym teacher, averting their eyes as she hands them each a pamphlet with the words "The Little Penis Inside You" written in swirly tampon ad font. Said brochure would be quickly shoved to the bottom of one's backpack, only to be retrieved for furtive study once in the privacy of one's own room.

Since you probably haven't yet received your pamphlet, I feel compelled to show you this "Clitoral cross section" photo from Wikipedia because it looks exactly like a little penis. So much so that, to be quite honest, it sort of freaks me out. Behold:

Umm, should it be bending down like that?

(I especially like that that one part is unhelpfully labeled "skin." Like the labeler got tired of being so damn specific all the time and thought, "Fuck it. I'm just putting 'skin' and going home.")
If you're feeling brave and want to see a video of this, this...little penis inside turning into what I can only describe as a lady boner, click here for Ed-Sim's sexy sexy video on "clitoral vascularization."  (note: The video keeps going after you think it's over.)

"According to the sexual response cycle, during the excitement stage, the body (shaft) of the clitoris begins to fill with blood and increase in size," it reads. Whew! Is it hot in here?

I'm not yet sure how I am going to deal with this new information. I kind of don't like the idea that I have a little penis inside of me, although it does explain some past decisions I made. You know, thinking with my little penis and all that.

Also feeling slightly less ladylike than usual and hoping my boob-hugging shirt will negate the effects of this post. Look, boobs! I'm a girl!


(photo: wicked knickers)
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