Friday, April 29, 2011

New Contest: Win some smutty reading!

A few months back I asked the good citizens of the In Bed With Married Women Facebook page* what they'd like to see as a contest prize. The resounding answer was, surprisingly not what I usually offer, that is, "giant blue vibrators with vaguely frightening prongs," but "sexy books."

Oh, I won't judge because I too am a fan of the smut (See also: In Praise of Smut, if you don't believe me.). I think a little smutty reading puts you in a more sexual/sensual frame of mind which makes life a hell of a lot better.

Thus, as part of my unceasing efforts to make life a hell of a lot better for you, gentle reader, this week's prize is Playing With Fire, a book of sexy stories from cool, SF-based sex shop, Good Vibrations.  I haven't actually read it, but here's the blurb, complete with its embarrassingly excessive scorching! fire! heat! imagery.
This scorching collection of torrid tales will leave you burning with desire. Incendiary short stories tackle taboos and set boundaries ablaze, allowing couples to act out their most fiery fantasies. Alyson Tyler gets burned in “Some Like It Hot,” while Thomas Roche’s “Hot Off the Presses” follows a reporter infected with rock ‘n’ roll fever. Playing With Fire will ignite your imagination, fuel your fervor, and inspire you to have some smokin’ hot sex!
To enter, list your favorite sexy book in the comments below. I'll choose a winner by random drawing on Tuesday. And if you don't feel like waiting around 'til damn Tuesday to left "burning with desire," you are more than welcome to order the book yourself.**

* For more on my love/hate relationship with the IBWMW Facebook page, plus some truly awesome (deliberately) bad smut written by the lovely Katsidhe see The Language of Seduction, Plus Guest Smut from Tapetum Lucidum.)

**Disclaimer: a portion of your Good Vibes purchases made through this blog goes to my Lexapro paying-the-electric-bill fund. (A note to the shy: Don't worry, I don't see who is ordering or what people order or anything like that. So stock up on anal plugs, dungeon master DVDs and sexy nurse costumes--I'll be none the wiser. Unless you want to tell me. Which is also fine. I think. Unless it is too weird. Then it would probably creep me out.)

P.S. A few people have told me that the comments are acting weird. You can also enter by emailing me.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

The Lost and Found List From Furry Weekend Atlanta 2010. Really.*

My happiest moment of the day? That would be getting my hot little hands on the Lost and Found list from Furry Weekend Atlanta 2010. Yes. Lost and Found list. Furry Weekend.

What is Furry Weekend? Well, I guess you're old enough to hear this, but you probably should sit down first. Furries are people who like--I mean, really really like--fursuit costumes. And by "really really like," I mean "sexually aroused by fursuits." I mean "like to wear a fursuit during sex." I mean "see Chip and/or Dale at Disneyland and think, 'Oh yeah, I so want to hit that.'"**

The Furry Weekend Atlanta (FWA) site, understandably, describes this passion for the fursuit in more benign terms:
Furry Weekend intends to provide a place where fans of anthropomorphic animals can come together for fun, fellowship, and education.
The church social-type language is intentional--part of a furry image overhaul. It seems that some of the randier furries gave all furries a bad rep after unflattering media coverage, like this seminal (though I am suddenly loathe to use that word) piece in Vanity Fair.  This included the unsettling info that at furry conventions, some fursuits had strategically built-in flaps on the groinal areas for easy access to other furries' naughty bits. But according to the FWA site, furridom is just misunderstood:
Many of our fans are well educated, gainfully employed members of society who simply have a hobby. It's a hobby that's not different from Star Trek "trekkies," comic book fans, or those interested in reenacting past events like the Civil War or the medieval era.
So relax, you big square, it's simply a hobby. It's just like going to a Star Trek convention, except that you might fuck people dressed in a big ol' bunny costume. The whole furry-as-nonsexual-woodland-creature image makeover would hold a bit more water if the convention holders didn't feel the need to provide these rules in the Attendee Code of Conduct:
We ask you to always wear at least a shirt, shorts, and shoes in public areas of the hotel. Body Painters should always keep a shirt handy in case they need to pass through the lobby or areas that the hotel's other guests might frequent. Additionally, if you are wearing body paint of any kind, please refrain from sitting on hotel furniture. Public exposure of genitalia, buttocks or (female) breasts is not permitted anywhere. "Anatomically correct" costumes must be likewise clothed.
Oh, come on, clearly this is different from a regular hobby. I seriously doubt that at Civil War conventions, they have to tell people to wear their damn clothes in the lobby. The Code of Conduct also mentions that alcohol is allowed which I fear would have the disconcerting effect of turning a sexually aroused person in a fursuit into a drunken sexually aroused person in a fursuit. (In the original post Belinda replied with this bit of logic: "Egads, lady, they MUST allow alcohol. How else would the less-attractive furries find someone to go home with them at the end of the night?")

Anyway, last year's Furry Weekend was held at the Hilton in Atlanta in March. (Much to the surprise, I imagine, of the other guests who just happened to book a stay there that weekend). There was a whole schedule of activities including classes on fursuit construction, a panel on "Why Anthromorphics?", and, oddly, "DJing 101." There were also sessions of the card game Furoticon, which combines D&D with furry fandom, thus making it the nerdiest game of all time.

A Furoticon card
Now, I am down with whatever people want to do sexually. It's all good, really. And I'm not trying to judge, even one could argue that I totally am judging. But this particular fetish is fascinating to me because I so don't get it. Fursuits, to me, are the antithesis of sexy. I mean, the big, goofy cartoon heads, the googley eyes--and surely those suits must smell horrendous. But again that's just me. If the idea of wearing a sexy squirrel costume makes you hot, go to it, man.

And, by the way, if you happened to be at Furry Weekend Atlanta and left something behind, please check this (actual!) list from the Lost and Found which includes: 
--one white cat tail
--a fursuit eye
--a hacky sack
--a rat
--matted fur
--a bag of knobs
Meanwhile, I will remain fixated on the perplexing questions this list brings up, including:  WTF?...a bag of knobs? How much matted fur was there to qualify as a "lost and found item", rather than "something to sweep up"?  And exactly how miniscule is the sub-culture of furries who also play hacky sack?

*Yes, this is a rerun, but it is for a good cause. Ms. Tricia over at the delightful blog Confessions of a Recovering Cynic had a big week. Not only did she get engaged, she heard about furries for the first time. Congratulations on both fronts!

**In the interest of fairness, not all furries have erotic feelings about fursuits. Some are just way into them for (non-sexual) reasons of their own.

Friday, April 22, 2011

How To Behave in the Presence of a Female Condom

My favorite question of the day comes from Anonymous, in response to Female Condom, Where Art Thou?
"At 58, I have never seen one female condom and I'm not sure what I would do if I did. Should a gentleman just lay back and let the lady take the lead? Or maybe offer to help with it???"
Well, gentle reader, I appreciate your desire to be polite when faced with an unscheduled female condom sighting.

According to this informative animated video I just watched on your behalf, How To Insert the Female Condom, both are considered correct etiquette. The woman can put the thing in ahead of time OR the gentleman can assist with insertion. Which would be great, if either option seemed in the least bit appealing. Let's assess:

Option #1:  If the man offers to assist, well, it's kind of a complex procedure. There are the mysteries of an inner ring and outer ring to unravel and the necessity of locating the cervix. Not to mention of question of whether you are the one who is supposed to shove it up there, or if you just offer moral support to your lady, referring as needed to the handy clip-n-save chart at left.  ("I am going to fuck you so hard. But first, according to Figure 3, you need to squeeze the inner ring between your index finger and thumb and insert it in your vagina, making sure it is resting against the cervix.")

Option #2:  Alternately, the women can insert it beforehand so it's already there "for foreplay." Or so suggests the video, which was filmed in an alternate universe in which a rubber ring dangling out of the vag is a sexy and desirable part of foreplay. "Do you like it when I stroke your outer ring?"  

And there is the added indignity of having to make an entrance while donning the device. Is it even remotely possible to feel seductive with this thing hanging out of your nether regions, flapping in the breeze like some sort of vaginal wind sock, and making its trademark Pampers-like "rustling" sound with each step? Thwick, thwick, thwick.

Option #3?: I guess a third option would be to insert it in front of the man when the time comes. But I'm not sure that even the combined forces of mood lighting, sexy music and seductive movements could make these insertion moves look alluring.


But, to be fair, let's experiment:

Okay, put the lights down low, relax and put on some sexy music, while gazing at the above picture.....

Take a good breath and get comfortable. Trail a fingertip lightly along your jawline, then slowly down your neck and work your way lazily across and down your chest....

Is it working for you? No, not even the squatting picture? That's not making you hot?

Okay, then. I am officially flummoxed. Does any one else have some female condom wisdom/advice/haiku to share with dear Anonymous?

Monday, April 18, 2011

The Language of Seduction + Guest Smut From Tapetum Lucidum

"Hello!" posted a gentleman on In Bed With Married Women's Facebook page. "I like 30+ ladies for hoooooot fun."

Okay, then. Duly noted.

This dude is the latest in a steady stream of would-be fans who "like" the page, thinking it's a place to hook up with married ladies. It kind of bums me out--only smart, cool people should be fans, dammit!--but, whatever, it's fine. These folks wander away soon enough after they realize that the profile pic of their erect penis (or, more likely, someone else's much more photogenic erect penis) isn't attracting new dates as they'd imagined.

One such recent IBWMW "fan" put for High School Attended: "Lick My Nuts." Sometimes I delete such followers, but sometimes I don't, because, hey, a fan's a fan. And hell, maybe Lick My Nuts High is a real school, albeit one with a very limited curriculum. (Although I hear East Lick My Nuts High, across town, has much higher test scores.)

I bring this up not to disparage these folks, but to bring up a point about the language of seduction. Now, Mr. Hoooooot Fun clearly has a problem with his medium -- a random post on a Facebook page is the online equivalent of yelling "Nice ass!" out your car window, but somehow even less personal or likely to work. But I would argue that his problem is also his choice of words. Quite simply, his words are not seductive.  "30+ ladies" is impersonal. He doesn't want me, he just wants people in my age bracket. (Or possibly a large amount of ladies. Clarity in your words, my friend, clarity!)

For me, language is HUGE. In my memory, I've stored away a stash of remembered phrases from love affairs past--words of pleasure, delight or need that were whispered or moaned to me. Remembering a lover's impassioned "I want to be inside you" or "God, I am so hard" can still give me a shiver of delight years later. Such reveries are fine companions in an empty bed, long car ride, or walk through the park. (Yes, dear neighbors, that may well be what I'm thinking about when you see me walking my dog in the park. Let's not speak of it again.) For me, these remembered words are often more palpable that the physical sensations that accompanied them.

Words are sticky, and can continue to seduce well after they've been spoken. A male friend of mine once told me that what turned him on in bed was completely pleasing a women. He loved to spend hours ravishing a woman, he said, until she was so sated and overcome with pleasure that she was left drooling into her pillow and babbling incoherently. (Truthfully, at this point in the conversation, I might have been drooling a bit as well.) I don't know if what he said is actually true or not, but sometimes when I see him I think, "Hmmm....."

I reported this hours-taking-babbling-incoherently comment to my friend who said, "Oh, please! You like that?!" "Uh, yeah," I replied, a bit abashed. The point being one person's language of seduction is another's cheesy porno talk. The trick is finding someone who speaks your specific sexual language. Whatever it is. The right person can thrill you with their words as well as their touch.

The opposite is true as well.  That's why a smutty book can be ruined by the wrong words (I'm talking to you, "jade stalk.")

I'll leave you today with some bad smut written by reader/self-proclaimed smut writer Katsidhe over at Tapetum Lucidum. She wrote it for no other reason than to illustrate what bad smut is. Or perhaps to purge herself of the sentence, "He proceeded to kiss her with the fury of a toddler throwing a temper tantrum." Writes Katsidhe, "Let the horrible erotica begin."

The couple walked along the edge of the water. They had only just met but knew that they were soul mates because that is how soul mates meet: on the beach at night. 

They sat down on the blanket that the man, a massive Adonis with flowing gold locks, tanned skin and arms like a coal miner, had brought with him, knowing that he would meet the one who would complete him and would want to immediately to ravage her body as the ocean high tide ravaged the beach.  He didn’t bring a condom though because he didn’t want any latex barrier between the woman’s love cave and the purple headed womb ferret that he was going to burrow into her.

He grasped her face and proceeded to kiss her with the fury of a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, and then laid her back. Their lips smelt together like two pieces of metal and they knew their bodies had been created to come together and create a single beast with two backs.

Her lips tasted better than his favourite bottle of beer and he was thirsty.  He started to strip her clothing like removing old paint from a priceless antique desk. He kissed and munched on her neck as if he were a vampire and going to suck the blood out of her, except that she would like it. His hands wandered over her corporeal form like they wanted to touch her everywhere.

The woman hadn’t worn panties because she, too, had known that she was going to meet her soul mate on the beach and would spread her ivory appendages for his man-stick to enter her love-socket and create a piston of passion. The man looked up at her making sure she was ready for his tongue to do a Charleston on her pleasure button. She looked at him with eyes that would devour him if they were mouths. His hands spread her legs wider so that he could look at the entrance to her tunnel of love. His mouth moved closer and he blew lightly on her slices of salami displayed before him as if in the window of a fine deli. She shuddered at the sensation as if she were having a seizure. He gazed up her and whispered that he had skipped dinner and was starving, and would she mind if he sated his hunger with her womanly sauce. She replied that her highway to heaven was starving too: for his mouth and his tallywhacker.

Like a convict escaping from prison, his tongue darted from his mouth and attacked her love-bump like it was the getaway car.  He sucked on her man in the boat and held it with his teeth and rasped it with his tongue.  Up and down, back and forth, up and down, back and forth.  And up and down, back and forth a lot more times.

He pressed his mouth into her center burrowing his tongue past the toll booth and up the highway.  It was like having a threesome with his tongue being his wingman who got the first round.  Her power of speech failed her when the pleasure came as scattering bunnies taking off for Wonderland.

He slid back up her body, the grit from the beach sticking to their skin like sandpaper.  His bayonet stabbed  her strawberry short cake and they began to rock back and forth as if traumatized by the ecstasy of each other.  Her legs clamped around his hips like the jaws of a great beast and they lovingly bruised each others nether regions until he erupted into her like a tube of vanilla icing.  

"I'm so glad we made love instead of fucking like people in other erotic pieces, my shining unicorn," the woman said.

"I would never degrade our spiritual connection by fucking you.  Or asking your name," the man replied.

Fini

(image source: http://lacontessa.tumblr.com/post/1101864660/1920s)

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Do These Pants Make My Vagina Look Fat?

What? You can see my nipples
through this shirt? Well, I'll just
have to do something about that.
Right after I drink this delicious
Taster's Choice Instant Coffee®.
I don't know quite how to bring this up, but your genitals, well, they look fine. Your boobs too. I would hope everyone knows this, but I am beginning to wonder.

Consider the evidence:
--The ubiquitous gigantic foam boob-shaped bras* to be placed over one's own inadequate orbs (note: all boob sizes are deemed inadequate by bra manufacturers).
--The absurd amount of bra technological know-how devoted to designing thick, excessive "coverage" (that is, padding) for all new bras, lest anyone see any scandalous evidence of nipple-having.
--The very existence of the Smooth Grove, a heinous sanitary pad-looking piece of "medical grade polymer" used to prevent--and, gentle reader, please know that I absolutely despise this word and am using it here only because no other word will suffice--camel toe. (Handy hint!: try pants that do not ram themselves up your crotch...)
--Various and sundry other pants-stuffing items. Reported Anonymous:
"I saw these things designed to be put down the front of a guy's underpants.  They're sort of like bas-relief foam sculptures of a large, non-erect penis and balls, and I guess if you're walking around with very tight pants, they give the illusion of having a thick, meaty wang." 
Okay, excepting lesbians who pack for reasons of their own, if you don't actually have "a thick, meaty wang," why are you trying to attract someone with the very thing you don't possess? (Not to mention the mind-boggling etiquette issues regarding the hows and whens of fake wiener removal.)

Whatever. I'm judging. Maybe I should just accept all the fakery. I'll just buy plenty of nipple-hiding bras and be done with it.  Because, wait, wha...?



Seriously? So nipples, now bad, were once...good? And not just good, but an important part of "that sensual no-bra-look"? (The ad makes no mention of what happens if your real nipples dare to make an appearance. A nipple truism: although two nipples are sexy, four nipples, oddly, are not twice as sexy.)

Okay, this is all giving me a plan. As we've learned today:
1. sexual trends go in cycles (nipples/no nipples)
2. bigger is better ("thick, meaty wang")

So this is what we do: we manufacture foam prosthetic camel toes to be worn inside the pants. And I'm not talking just any camel toes, I'm talking HUGE ones. (Remember, bigger is better...) I'm talking big-ass camel toes that will make folks stop and stare. "Look at the camel toe on her! That chick must have one giant vagina. Oh, hell, yeah!"

I'm pretty sure it's the perfect plan. Are you with me?

OR maybe we could just accept that we are all as hot as fucking hell. You, unadorned, are incredibly sexy.  The curve of your thigh, the rise of your nipple, the jut of your lover lip, the way that part of your body swells when you're aroused--these things, these real things are what is sexy. Not some stupid mass-marketed unbreathable foam approximation in the (currently fashionable) shape of a sexual part.

Now, I'm not saying not to throw on a little lipstick or do a sit up or two. I mean, everyone wants to look decent. But, for fuck's sake, don't go around wearing a foam penis. Yes, they're all forms of enhancement, but you need to draw the line somewhere--preferably way way before you're sticking foam down your pants. Believe me, your genitals look fine. As they are.

So, yes, you're hot. To an absurd degree. Go forth and enchant.


For further reading on things of a boobic nature:
--An excellent article on nipple fear: The Tyranny of the T-Shirt Bra in The Hairpin.
--An IBWMW post on changes in boob styles (plus a photo of a truly awesome set of bullet boobs): Major Boobage
--*A post on fake superboobs in Overthinking the Magic Bra

(image source:  http://lacontessa.tumblr.com/archive)
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