Saturday, November 27, 2010

A message on behalf of the In Bed With Married Women Accordion-Playing Monkey

If you were going to do any holiday shopping through Amazon anyway, feel incredibly free to use the Amazon search box over there in the right margin. See it? Yes, there it is! Hmmmm...that baby sure looks easy to use. Your holiday shopping could be done in a matter of minutes!

Plus, each purchase tosses me and the monkey a few pennies, which helps pay for monkey food, tin cups, accordion sheet music, Lexapro, little red and white striped monkey-sized pants, matching grey top hats for the monkey and me (for winter evenings when we get chilly), and the expensive ten dollar vocabulary words we're so fond of. (Long term goal: a machine that will magically remove prepositions from the end of our sentences. See also: previous sentence.)

And by the way, let's see--together--what posts come up on the "You Might Also Like..." automatic feature below. I picture the algorithm that decides such things throwing up its metaphorical hands in dismay at the impossibility of its task with this particular post. "If they like accordion-playing monkeys, they will like, what...Manginas? NO, dammit, this blog--it gives me nothing to work with!" it shouts in its robotic voice, untying its apron, throwing it to the ground, and stalking off two full hours before closing time.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Guest Wanker Contest Winner + Egregious Sex Toy Gender Inequality

"Delilah! I didn't expect you home so early!"
"I wanna be a Guest Wanker!" wrote CkretsGalore, a Canadian chick who does not mince her words, and winner of the Tenga Egg Masturbation Sleeves* from Good Vibrations.  As Guest Wanker (translation for our U.K. readers: "Guest Wank-ah") CkretsGalore's duties include trying these space-age sex toy sleeve things out and reporting back to us with the details. (The sleeves, it should be noted, are to be used on a penis--either your own, or a local penis. They are ribbed in various absurdly intricate patterns for His Pleasure.) P.S. For those readers who are both highly moralistic and into reading about pervy sex toys, please note that Miss Ckrets will be using the sleeves on her fiancee, so fear not, they will follow their Sin with the sanctity of marriage.

In her contest entry, Ckrets, who writes Kick Her Right In The Habit, a blog about "smoking cessations, dreams and random shit," unwittingly leads us right into our Important Point of the Day:
We have purchased a few different [sex toys designed for men] without positive results. We have found plenty of things that work fantastically for my vajayjay but not for him.
YES, this is the aforementioned egregious sex toy gender inequality. Any woman who's ever tried a vibrating toy knows that it's like--cue the choir of singing angels**--well, amazing. If you do not possess female parts, or are still waiting for them to come in from the factory, sex toys for women are like MSG for your loins--all the sensations are enhanced and super-charged. Or, if a Fast & Furious reference is more up your alley: it's like nitro for your naughty bits.

From what I've heard anecdotally (you know, hanging out on the street corner with knicker-clad older kids playing Mumblety-peg for nickels), there is not the same sort of universal love for the male sex toys. Some men like them, others think "eh," and others find them somehow unsavory and won't even try them. Actually, a lot of men seem almost spooked by them--at least according to what their wives tell me. (FYI: Oh, that's right, we talk. Your wife's friends know everything. Yes. Every. Thing.) So what's up with the sex toy hatin'? Well, I dunno. My friend's husband offered this theory, after I accosted him with questions about male sex toys (yes, I am delightful at dinner parties!): "Men aren't supposed to need anything extra," he replied, backing away slowly.

Damned if he isn't right. When women use sex toys, it's all yay, female-empowerment, owning your sexuality, la la la, but when men use them, there's still a shred of shame. The bias is obvious even here at sex blog central. When I offered the Tenga up as a prize in this contest, instead of entering publicly via the comment section, the entrants surreptitiously slipped me emails, as though trying to purchase illegal fireworks or something. And as much as I try to be open-minded, I'm as bad as anyone. I wouldn't dream of mocking a woman for using a vibrator--even if the vibrator was decorated with Hello Kitty stickers, shot off sparks, and played "Too Legit To Quit," every hour on the hour. But I had no problem writing an entire post dedicated to making fun of a particular Fleshlight masturbator (although in my defense, the masturbator's color*** was listed as "anus.")

So, your questions for the day:
--Have you had experience with sex toys specifically for men? Found anything good?
--Are you one of those dudes spooked by sex toys? If so, what is it about them?
--My answer to why sex toys don't work as well for men was, as I recall, "dunno." Surely you have something more enlightening to say on the matter. C'mon, go all doctoral dissertation on my ass. I love that intellectual #%$.

*If you're feeling daring, get some of them Tenga things for yourself or someone you love by clicking this link:


**In the first draft of this, I wrote, "cue the choir of singing angles" which is also pleasing in a Sesame Street, After Hours, kind of way.
*** Note to Canadian contest winner Ckrets: that would be spelled "colour," though it still doesn't change the fact that "anus" is so not a color, or colour. (Full disclosure: I have not actually looked at Canadian Crayolas lately but I'm almost positive that "anus" is not among the choices.)

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Masturbation Devices, Anti and Pro. (Plus, the Guest Wanker Contest!)

I am thinking of masturbation this morning. Not in the sense of putting it on my morning "to do" list (although--what the hell--maybe I was, you don't need to know every damn thing), but in a more general sense. Specifically, how masturbation has spawned so many devices to deter the supposedly evil habit. (For other masturbatory writing--and no, I am not referring to this entire blog--see also: If You Can't Be With The One You Love).

My sinful train of thought was spurred by Stephenson Billings' The Anti-Masturbation Movement's 14 Greatest Inventions in ChristWire, the fake (I hope...) hard-core right-wing web site. The article details all kinds of dreadful devices used to stop people from touching themselves "down there." There were penis fans to keep one's member from undue warmth, full body suits to prevent lustful wandering hands, and alarm systems designed to alert parents to their children's nocturnal erections (not quite sure what the parent is supposed to do once alerted). Penis cages and trusses locked the guilty organ up or tied it down to physically prevent shameful erections. And when those didn't work, physical pain was employed. "The Timely Warning" (pictured) prevented "night emissions by arousing the wearer." "Arousing" is, at the very least, a curious choice of words. I guess it's an 1800s adman's best try at a positive spin on what would more accurately be described as: "being rudely awakened from your sweet dreams and pleasantly swelling erection by the sharp stab of a ring of metal teeth cutting into your wang."

It's strange that we would have developed such a virulent fear of self-love because throughout most of history, masturbation was considered natural, good, a sign of fertility and such. There are spurts of masturbation references throughout art, mythology and history. So accepted was the practice that nannies in 17th century Europe would masturbate young males who couldn't get to sleep(!) (Perhaps this is what people mean when they complain they can't get good help anymore. Carmen, the lady who used to clean my house before I became poor, never once even offered to give me a handjob. The bitch.)

In the 1700, it's like we all lost our minds and became dreadful prudes, enflamed by various influential pamphlets of the day detailing the hideous moral, religious and health problems caused by spanking one's monkey. In "A Solemn Appeal," Sister Ellen G. White lists a host of old-timey ails caused by "the practice" including the dreaded "dropsy." The alarmed Sister warns, "The mind is often utterly ruined, and insanity supervenes," which perhaps explains why I have been known to stare blankly when someone asks me my cell phone number.

At a certain point, anti-masturbation advocates sound less concerned with the moral health of our youth and more like completely insane sadists. Consider John Kellogg, the cereal guy, who claimed that the "solitary vice" caused a host of health problems, up to and including death. "Such a victim literally dies by his own hands," Kellogg wrote, perhaps chuckling to himself over his wit. I knew Kellogg was whack--I mean, the dude invented his own high-powered enema machine--but I didn't realize just how much of a nutter he was until I saw this in Wikipedia's History of Masturbation:
He recommended, to prevent children from this "solitary vice", bandaging or tying their hands, covering their genitals with patented cages, sewing the foreskin shut and electrical shock. He also recommended burning off the clitoris to prevent masturbation in girls.
As part of In Bed With Married Women's one blog campaign to counteract such nonsensery, our prize today is a pro-masturbation device--dropsy be dammed! The prize is a six-pack of Tenga Egg Masturbation Sleeves from sex toy company, Good Vibrations.  Each egg contains a squishy, tube-shaped thing with a different texture--ribbed, vertical ripples, and whatnot. It's not as "arousing" as the metal spikes, perhaps, but it does reportedly give a nice sensation to a man. Wrote one dude in a Good Vibes user review:
Wet and squishy. Delicious. And wow, your cock looks really strange and really cool—like a failed, cloudy aspic—bulging and pulsing through the translucent elastomer and striated or spotted with the texture. Is it weird to get off on how your cock looks in one of these things? Probably but I don't care. 
Here's what you must do to win:
--Have a penis, or access to a penis.
--Be willing to write up a short description of your experience with the Tenga (either on yourself or using it on another) to share with the rest of class here at In Bed With Married Women. (Note: the phrase "failed, cloudy aspic" has already been taken.)
--Leave a comment below or drop us an email to indicate your willingness to do a public service wank. I'll pick a winner Monday.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Vagisil Porn, Regular Porn and Transcendent Orgasms--Or, Just Another Friday Mail Day

Oooh, the mail's here.  Let's take a look!

In response to the Vagisil Porn post (aka "Oh yeah...there.... yes, yes, yes, MAKE ME FEEL FRESH!!!!") reader Chaffyn sent in the chart below and wrote,
Thought you'd like to know that this domain name is AVAILABLE!!! Unless somebody already grabbed it, we should.  Doncha think? It's only a dollar a month and I'll split it with ya.
Hmmm....

Well, the price is certainly right for the "vagisilporn.info" domain name. But unfortunately my one dollar of investment money is currently tied up in highly volatile derivatives. However, if you go the Vagisil porn route with Chaffyn, you might pick "vagisilporn.co" because it's listed as the "Premier Choice!" and that just sounds classy.  I also like "newvagisilporn.com" because it implies a certain modernity, not like the old-fashioned Vagisil porn your grandpa used to listen to on the Victrola. ("Claudine, head out to the shed and fetch me my douching bag! And I'm gonna need some sterno cans, barley malt and some extra lye...")

Meanwhile, back in 2010, reader DeliaDelish spilled her porn gripes in response to the post Considering Porn, Perhaps Too Much:
Oh, I'm so glad you asked! Husband and I do watch porn. Probably the typical stuff. Sucking and fucking, we call it. I have some basic beefs: 1. The word shit does not belong with sex. Can they not find better words to express their pleasure? 2. What's with all the spitting? Gross. Is there no lube in Pornland? 3. Pussy slapping? Really? And why is it always the girls slapping each other's pussies? Those three things have really been bugging me and until now I've had nowhere to vent, so thank you.
You're welcome. I soooo hear you on the spit thing. Recently someone sent me a supposedly "instructional" film on blow jobs to review. I watched the whole damn thing because I kept thinking it would get to some secret tongue move that would give me BJ Superpower, but no such magic tips were forthcoming. What there was was spit, lots of spit, friggin' gallons of spit. And worse, the people in the video were "real" people, i.e. "people who don't look good naked--not at all."  Oh, children!-- the pock-marked bottoms I saw! Lord, have mercy! I was so traumatized, I had to reenact parts of the video to my friend Heather--including sound effects and hand motions--to help purge it from my pysche. I honestly thought I might not want to have sex ever again. I was as grossed out as a kid hearing about sex for the first time--"They do WHAT? With their WHAT? NOOOOO!"

And finally, Anonymous sent this in response to the post on cervical orgasms, In Search of the Elusive Third Type of Orgasm.
i am 38 and i had one of these last night. i told my husband i had no idea what that was-- and he was in awe about how *loud* i was (i am usually very quiet...just a breather...) the only way i could describe it to him was that it felt like an orgasm that started above my chest and overtook my entire body, and it was like everything went white. i told him it was like my spirit split and was in him and myself at the same time. that was the most intense experience i have ever had. i'm sure the neighbours agree LOL i read about vaginal orgasms but those are what i normally have (i have vaginal orgasms way more often than clitoral orgasms) and i just knew there had to be something else. it was so intense that afterwards i said "I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M AN ATHEIST!" HAHA
I don't have anything to say about this except I am beyond jealous. Clearly this is something I will need to put on my To Do list.
1. Go to Trader Joes.
2. Have my spirit split in half while everything goes white during intense, screamingly loud cervical orgasm.
3. Whoops, first close window overlooking neighbor's yard, then spirit splitting, screaming loud, everything goes white cervical orgasm.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

"Vagisil Porn"

Loretta, grab your steno pad! I have
 an idea that's gonna make us a mint!
(***Important Note to Readers: the following post does not contain any actual Vagisil porn.)

I promised myself I would not write about Misguided Googlers anymore. But yesterday I looked at In Bed With Married Women's search terms because, well, I just can't help it. It's such a voyeuristic thrill to see what weird-ass things people are searching for. A peak into the hidden soul of humanity, if you will. And it was so worth it because, I mean, look at the kind of stuff fresh-scrubbed Citizens of the World eagerly entered into the (supposed) privacy of their search boxes:

--"my vagina smells peppery"
--"it's your anus" (True, that.  And the name of a great new sitcom coming this fall on NBC.)
--"how to make your butt hole look nice" (Um, it's a butt hole...)
--"Grandma 7 vibrator" (The Grandma 6 vibrator wasn't properly grounded, I'm guessing.)
--"how meny kind of penice&vegena foto?" (Is this rhetorical? A zen koan?)
---"really bad noises in bed" (Actually, that one sounds kind of interesting.)
--"Captain and Tennille Twenty Years of Romance" (Oh, dear.)

But my personal favorite was: "how to make a Mangina." For those of you didn't see this post, a Mangina is a fake vagina g-string thing that a man wears to create the (very weak) illusion that he's sporting a vag. Which is fine. Whatever, if you want to wear one, go for it. But my advice to you is, if you're going to wear an Mangina, don't try to make one at home. For fuck's sake, spend the money and buy a real Mangina! I mean, coming upon someone wearing any Mangina would be upsetting enough, but someone wearing a flippin' pipe cleaner and construction paper homemade Mangina...? No, that will simply not do.

And finally, since I wrote this post on Vagisil, Google has taken to sending a bunch of Vagisil search traffic my way. I'm getting lots of "Vagisil ad offensive to women," "Vagisil doesn't work," blah blah blah, but I am particularly fond of this one, "Vagisil fuck yea". Vagisil. Fuck. Yea. It's like poetry.

Which leads us to the aforementioned "Vagisil porn," which, as my husband pointed out--far too gleefully, if you ask me--provides In Bed With Married Women as the top hit. This is because there is no actual Vagisil porn. None! Perhaps it's because Vagisil porn is not sexy. ("Oh yeah, you like that cloying floral fragrance my vag is emitting, don't you? Mmmmm, I think I need some more Vagisil... right... now... please... that's right... oh yeah...there.... yes, yes, yes, MAKE ME FEEL FRESH!!!!")  OR, it could be that Vagisil porn is a vast untapped market. I mean, there's that one eager customer already. Surely he's not the only Vagisil perv, I mean, Vagisil connoisseur. Is financial solvency knocking on your door in the form of an Internet connection, a digital camera and a big tube of Vagisil? Think about it. And you're welcome.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

In Bed's As Sappy As A Drunk Today

This is supposed to represent me ravished by gratitude.
Or, alternately, a lady passed out in marshmallow fluff.
In the largely unseen 2003 film Japanese Story, Toni Collette is an Australian geologist who has an unexpected, instinctive and mostly wordless affair with a Japanese businessman, Hiromitsu. After a tryst, they lie stretched out on a rock facing the sparse, seemingly endless expanse of the Australian outback. In halting English, Hiromitsu says, with a sense of wonder, "My...heart...is full."

That's how I feel today. Like I am a Japanese businessman who just had sex on a rock and...well, no, not that exactly, but my heart is full. It all started the other day with a comment from a new reader, DeliaDelish, who wrote, "I am so crying and peeing in my pants right now. I think your writing is going to cure my lifetime depression. I soooo thank you." Girl, I feel the same way--about the writing as cure for depression thing, that is, not the peeing. (though it is fun to contemplate that I could control people's urinary habits using only The Amazing Power Of Words--bwah ha ha!)

Every day one of y'all do something to make me just that less clinically depressed. Like, just this morning, reader Ed ended his comment with a P.P.S. that read simply, "cockstand." (It was genius, I tell you, and if you click here, you'll see why.) Another reader made some sort of off-color innuendo about furries and a bag of knobs. Now, that's the kind of thing I like to see in my inbox.

So here, let us commence with the gushing! (Clapping now to signal the beginning of the festivities.)

I am grateful to the multi-cultural, Benetton-esque, Rainbow Connection readership for In Bed With Married Women. Check out this map--from just one friggin' day!--that clearly indicates the worldwide need for urgent, up-to-the minute news on anal bleaching, inflatable cows that you fuck, and Manginas.
Free counters!


I am grateful to the lovely Asha, http://www.ashafullife.blogspot.com, for this blogging award. I don't really understand it, but it's an award and I'm kind of slutty about accepting stuff:


And thanks to the witty, ballsy, all-around top-notch Brit, The Barreness, who not only bestowed this upon me:


but also penned the best comment ever.

(Here's where it gets all awards-speechy. If you're going to flee, now's the time.)

Thursday, November 4, 2010

In Praise of Smut


I was at my corner library staring forlornly at the budget cut-ravaged New Non-Fiction section. "I can't find anything," I complained randomly to a mother I recognized from school. She glanced over The National Inquirer that she was reading. (Yes, The National Inquirer--at the friggin' library. She didn't even go hide at a back table somewhere.) "The good stuff's over there," she said, gesturing to a wall. It was the romance section. I hesitated. Shouldn't I make sure there wasn't a new book on urban farming or something? Ah, fuck it, I was long overdue for some smut.


I found a small section of Harlequin Blaze books. If you are not familiar with the Blaze line, described as "red hot reads," it is basically porn for women. Now, Blaze books are as retarded as any other romance novel--true love is pledged, the touch of a hand causes sparks to leap through the body and such--but Blaze books don't fade to black on a promising kiss. They take you right into the bedroom with the characters, and describe the goings-on with the keen attention to detail of an eager sports commentator. I scooped up the entire Blaze section, including this, Hold on to the Nights. (Please know that if it had dawned on me that it shared its name with a Richard Marx song, it would have most certainly remained, punished and pariah-like, on the shelves.)

Here's a short passage for you:
"Omigod," she gasped, dragging her mouth to stare up at him with something like amazement. Her lips were parted and swollen from his kisses, her eyes-heavy-lidded and dazed with arousal. "I'm going to come." Graeme's body responded to her words, his cock so heavy and aching that it took all his restraint not to push her legs apart and sink into her slick heat.
Yes, it's poorly written crap ("slick heat"? really?), but, god help me, that stuff worked, at least for me. After spending a couple hours reading of body parts swollen with desire, jutting erections and "delicious torment," well, let's just say it benefitted things at home. And I would argue that reading the smut benefits more than just the marital bed, I think it's good for your whole damn life. After reading my little smut, I felt more aware of the fact that I was a sexual being living among other sexual beings. The whole seemed brighter somehow and full of promise. I felt more attuned to the sexuality inherent in everyone, and this knowledge gave every encounter a little extra frisson of electricity. Of course, I wasn't going to do the coffee guy or the crossing guard or whoever, but I could, we could, and that awareness was exciting. 

So, yes, it is the cheesy Harlequin porn that does it for me. I am not proud of it. I'd be happier to admit I read esoteric erotica in Swedish or something, but I don't. I read my stinkin' girl porn. Other people I know swear by the vampire stuff. (Actual back cover blurb which sounded hot to my friend, but funny/creepyish to me: "He was her perfect man--except he was dead!") And others love Highlander romances, with their frequent mentions of lifted kilts and "cockstands," which I think is Scottish for "jutting erection."

There are a bazillion subsets of romance/erotic fiction. When I returned to the library, I discovered a whole section of Inspirational Romance, which means lots of talk about God, perhaps a chaste kiss or two. These books, according to romance writer guidelines, are about two people and their relationship to God. (And no, I will not be so crass as to make a threesome joke.) I checked out one of these Inspirational Romances to understand this genre because its appeal is beyond unfathomable to me. (And, let me tell you, that was THE most embarrassing book I have ever checked out. It took every one of my meager social filtering skills not to explain to the librarian way I needed a Christian romance.)

Here's a sample passage from that book, The Family Next Door:
"I would love to marry you. And be a mother to Jenny."
"Amen to that. We'll have the life the Lord laid out for us, together, making a family, making memories to sustain us all our lives." 
"I've been praying you might see me in just such a light."
"Oh you have, have you?" He kissed her lightly. "Jenny will be thrilled."
What? This is the big climatic end part? "Amen to that"? "Kissed her lightly"?!  Okay, but did he have a jutting erection? Was slick heat involved? Bah! So while some Christian chick is flushing and breathing heavily over the chaste kiss, my wiener (as my friend charmingly likes to call it) is curling up into a ball and scuttling to hide under the table at the excessive Lord mentions. My point? People like their own damn smut and all the other stuff is just tame tripe or gross porn.

Thus we come to your questions for the day:
Do you read any smutty trash?
What?
Does it improve your sex life?
Or am I just rationalizing my smut habit?
What, besides "cockstand," is the best romance novel word?

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Today's Contest is Somewhere in There...

I'm reading Melissa Febos' Whip Smart (not to be confused with Liz Phair's similarly brash and ballsy Whip-Smart), a memoir about a bright, nervous college student in New York who decides--what the hell!--to become a profession dominatrix in a Midtown dungeon. It's a hyperliterate exploration of all kinds of seediness, from the author's (possibly) secret heroin habit to the various elaborate--and often bathroom-related--fantasies that regular-looking dudes in New York pay $75 an hour to... enjoy. (Is "enjoy" the proper word for having someone pee on you? I am willing to entertain the possibility that I am missing out on something, but for me, contact with someone else's pee would lead directly to a frenzied Lady MacBethian scrubbing session with a big-ass bar of soap. Preferably caustic old-time soap, chockfull of banned chemicals and lye.)

To go with the whole S&Mish theme, today's contest prize was going to be a pair of handcuffy things for a reader to try. I was even going to make the winner report back on how it all worked out for them. But the best part was that the handcuff things were non-leather, vegan handcuffs. Yes, cruelty-free bondage gear. "I wish to torture someone cruelly, but want to make sure that no animals will be harmed."

Unfortunately for the part of my brain that really, really likes a tidy theme, In Bed With Married Women's sugar daddy/sex toy company Good Vibrations sold out of the cruelty free cuffs immediately. Thus the fare I offer you does not relate at all to the theme I spent SEVERAL minutes of time composing in my head while walking the dog, but that's just going to have to be okay.

To make up for it, today's prize, the Date Night Delight Kit, is full of all kinds of slide-y, sexy, vibrating stuff that will make you forget all about my precious tidy theme and urinating Manhattanites. That's right, if you win, you will be too busy babbling incoherently after enjoying this:


Waterproof Mini Bullet Vibrator
2 Please Lubricant Samples 
Ignite Me Massage Candle 
Touch Me Massage Oil 
Devour Me Lickable Oil 
Mini Rub Me Massage Bar



Hmmm....what should I make you do to win? Actually, no... fuck it, unless someone's handing me $75 an hour, I'm not making anyone do anything. To enter, just leave a comment below (or if you're a big wuss and/or don't want anyone to know of your excessive lickable oil usage, send me an email).  I'll pick a winner on Saturday. Okay, then. Run along now.

Monday, November 1, 2010

True Wife's Tale #6: Emma, Sex as Negotiation

Sometimes married sex (or lack thereof) is about so much more than sex. Bliss in the marital bed can thwarted by any number of decidedly non-sexy things including, but not limited to: tiredness, quietly nursed bitter grudges, general laziness, the dog is already asleep in the bed, is anyone going to fold that big-ass pile of laundry that's been on the floor for six fucking days?, etc...

For Emma and Jeffrey, having good sex is not the problem. He's a skilled lover and she's very responsive to him--this girl's one of the lucky few who easily has orgasms through intercourse alone. So, yay, hot, satisfying sex with orgasms for all. It's just...all the other stuff. Chores, kids, who's making more money, blah blah blah. Says Emma, "Sometimes at the end of the day, sex just feels like one more thing on the to-do list."

I have no idea what she is talking about because I am usually whistling a merry tune as I mix fresh martinis and press my french maid outfit in preparation for greeting my husband at the door or, you know, giving him mind-melting blow jobs as he smokes his evening pipe and whatnot, but perhaps you might be able to relate to Emma's situation... Click below to read her story.

(A note to latecomers: True Wife's Tales are a recurring In Bed With Married Women feature in which real women tell the damn truth about their sex lives. Sometimes it's hot, sometimes it's not--but it's all true, and that's worth something.)

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