Love is... contest is the ever-insightful commenter Mongo, At the Moment. For his efforts, he wins a cock ring. What? You can't hear me? Okay, FINE! He wins a COCK RING! That's right, a big ol' candy colored, waterproof, vibrating cock ring, with girth adjustment, "extra nubs," a "baller" (which could probably use a more appealing name) and hell, probably a bacon-cooking attachment. There, I said it, COOOOOOCK RIIIING, happy now? (btw, if you want your own damn cock ring and the joy that is the baller, gather up your courage, and order one here.)
Mongo, who, presumably, is woefully un-cock-ring-festooned at present, answered my exchange rate question about the money Kim Casali made for drawing the inexplicably popular comic "Love Is..." (or, as Cagey-C gorgeously put it, "'love is...' oddly uninhibited Precious Moments") during their 70s heyday. (Short answer: it was a fuck of a lot of money.)
Actually I loved ALL your comments and wish I could drive my parade limo through town like Mr. Monopoly, tossing cock rings to you all.
But it wasn't Mongo's £ to $ exchange rate wisdom that got me. It was the comment he left a few minutes later on the post Help This Reader Out--Girl's Got the Dopamine Sickness! that sealed the deal.
Actually, if you have time, go back to that post and read what everyone had to say on monogamy, chemicals and what the fuck to do about it. Everyone was so honest and insightful and smart, I could have wept. I especially loved mjs's comment, which contained such wisdom as:
The eternal struggle between novelty and secure intimacy - it is a classic. You are experiencing the power of novelty and chemistry. It is why when we start dating someone there is so much energy. It comes from the mystery, the tension, the surprises. It is the opposite of secure intimacy.
Now we also love secure intimacy as well - the knowns, the stability, the familiarity...but there is no tension or excitement there and hence sexual tension can often diminish or vanish. It gives us great comfort to know everything and share everything with our partners but it more often than not kills desire because that full sharing on every level including mundane details makes lovers into family - and who wants to fuck their family?
Anyway, on to Mongo's tale of dopamine, lust and excruciating restraint. Here, go get a cup of coffee or something, settle in for a few moments, and read what he had to say:
A similar situation happened with me, about a year ago: A friend, with kids; I'm single. Her husband is more an acquaintance of mine than a friend.
She: Simmering long-standing issues with husband. Me: Always wanted to duct-tape her to the back of a Zip Sharecar and drive to Carmel for the weekend. Husband: Would not see the humor in the situation.
This kind of contact can become the functional equivalent of bungee-jumping -- The juice, tension, the frisson of an unspoken agreement to skirt the edge of forbidden contact. Hormones; endorphins; secretly flaunting convention and feeling more alive; both of us were thinking: Yeah, sign me up for more of that...
It was clear that if either of us had made even a modest physical move, the escalation from flirting to fucking would have been a rapid progression. It hurt so Bad it was almost blissful. After a while, it was clear all this was getting in the way of our relating to each other the way we always had -- so we talked. A lot.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
"My Wife's Body" by An Anonymous Husband is one of IBWMW's most passed around, viraly posts. It's been re-posted on sites ranging from mommy chat rooms ("I think I might want to have sex with the lights on. Is something wrong with me!?") to at least one hardcore fetish site that requires a false name, admissions of fetish preferences, etc... just to look at it. (Yes, I am a member now because I was so curious why everyone was popping over from this fetish site. I didn't have a listed fetish so I just made some shit up. Please don't judge.)
Anyway, if you are needing this in your life today, well, please enjoy it. Because here at In Bed With Married Women, we like to keep our ladies happy. (p.s. sorry about the screwy wee font. Can't seem to fix it.)
My wife, like millions of women in this world, has a poor body self-image. She hates her body, in fact, and never stops beating herself up over her extra pounds, or her veins, or her wrinkles, or countless other aspects of her form.
It has always been thus. A few years back, I found a photo of her that I’d taken a decade ago, when we were first dating. She looked at it sadly, and said, “I’d give anything to be that thin again.” Stunned, I gave her a wide-eyed stare and replied, “All you did back then was complain about how much you hated how you looked. Just like you do now.” She admitted this was true, and shrugged, knowing that things will probably never change.
I wish, for both our sakes, that things would change. I’ve tried on numerous occasions to get her to see something different when she looks in the mirror, something more in tune with the reality of her body. I’ve begged her to try to see herself through my eyes, or at least to take my word for it when I tell her that she’s gorgeous.
Because she is. My wife is drop-dead, eye-popping, tougue-lolling-out, double-finger-whistling, instant tent-in-the-pants gorgeous. The first time we kissed , I actually got light-headed. When she crawls into bed, naked, I am overwhelmed. Every day, when she gets dressed and undressed, I can’t help but stare, like a schoolboy catching sight of the girl next door through a bedroom window. Sometimes I can’t believe my luck, and wonder how it is that I somehow conned this beautiful, sexy woman into being my wife.
I tell her all this, but my opinion on the matter seems to have little value. Still, it’s the truth: I love my wife’s body. Every fucking square centimeter of it. Even if she never can, I do. And I always will.
So, Wifey, if you are reading this, let me say:
I love your smile, because it is rare, and because it is dazzling. I love the mineral-brown of your eyes, and how they go so perfectly with the deep olive of your mostly-Jewish skin and the sweeping dark of your hair. I love your nose, wry, sarcastic, smart-assed. I love your chin, the ideal size and shape for my cupped hand.
I love your lips, a washed-out watercolor red, stretching so carelessly around some shocking swear word or bit of catty gossip. I love your neck, muscled, serious.
I love your breasts, and how they hang down, heavy and full, when you are on top of me in bed. I love to let them rest weightily on my flattened palms, to press them upwards against your chest as you lower yourself towards mine. I love to grip them around the sides like they are dangling fruit, and stroke them up and down, as if warming them up for play.
I love your pale, round, fleshy ass, and how it looks peeking out from beneath your nightgown. I love the contrast between the white skin and black lace on the few occasions you’ve worn those hot panties I bought you. I love the very topmost end of your ass crack, where the thin line fans out like the delta of a north-flowing river to water the smooth, flat plain of your lower back, which I also love.
I love the perfect slope of the little hill between your legs, and the puffy bush of your pubic hair, where I delight in resting my hand, or my head. I love every fold and crease and line of your cunt, the pinks and peaches and browns and reds, the slick of sweat and moisture, the springy curls of almost-black that tangle and pull and stretch.
I love the wide curve of your belly, especially when I have to look up to see it. I love that smile where the cheek or your ass meets the back of your thigh, and constantly want to tuck my hand in there. I love your legs, not fragile girly stems, but the legs of a real woman who has crouched down behind home plate in a little-league game, hiked the Kalalau Trail in Kauai, and yes, kicked a hole in the bedroom drywall when you were particularly angry with me.
I love the top of your head, which I can so easily kiss, because I’m taller than you. I love your feet, even though you almost never wear the cool shoes and boots I buy you. I love how your soles feel to my tongue, and how you pull away when I do that.
But back to your ass. I love, love, love that ass. It really is amazing.
Your body, wife, is magnificent. I must look at it, and hold it, and touch it, and taste it. I want and need it, because it is beautiful.
And I want you to accept that it is beautiful too.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
This is what you have to go on, her comment on the post Dopamine, The Cruel Bitch Mistress:
Well, what should we tell this lady? Have any of you been in this situation? How did you handle it? Was your solution simple and elegant? Horrible and messy? Some combination therein? Any and all input welcome! You are welcome to comment anonymously (the Internet version of taking the Fifth), but I'll ask you not to be judgmental. The In Bed With Married Women philosophy is that the stuff we talk about around here is not Good or Bad--it's just True, and worth looking at with a clear and open mind.
Yours in Excessive and Unnecessary Capitalization,
(photo source: Hoodoo That Voodoo, Photography by Sarah Moon)
(photo source: Hoodoo That Voodoo, Photography by Sarah Moon)
Monday, October 3, 2011
"He sent me a picture," she typed in what I like to imagine was a scandalized whisper, but was probably more likely her plain old typin' face. "Want to see it?"
But of course.
And it was just... AWFUL. It was some creepy guy--oh my god, so so creepy!-- just standing in his stupid underwear in a tiny depressing space that was clearly his bathroom. He looked, to be honest, like his picture should be accompanied by the words "a part-time children's clown by profession, he has been accused in the series of particularly gruesome deaths." He looked like a full-body mug shot. (An idea I will not be suggesting to the nation's police departments.) It was so...sordid. And not in a good way.
Surely this dude isn't the only person who beamed his depressing visage out into the cloud. No, there have to be more, way more.
I mean, photography is an art. One perfected by few. The kind of shot we're used to seeing in magazines or billboards has been through many talented hands and Photoshop sessions before it is deemed fit for our consumption. Most people we see naked in pictures are professionals, as are their body parts. You're not just seeing any old wiener, that's top of the line wiener, sister, top of the line.
Can you imagine the virtual Smithsonian of Awkward Family Photos-esque nudie pics out floating around in the cloud? Because there must be, like, a fucking cornucopia of lumpy body parts, unlovely people cowering naked in their poorly decorated homes with camera to crotch, and cooter shots that look more ham sandwich than object of lust.
That's not even counting all the back alleyways of sexuality--millions of people, each with their own personal Special Fetish. The Star Trek costumes, anal festooning, the household objects inserted into various orifices. "Here's me naked with *hushed voice quavering with passion*...the Red Balloon--squeeeeeee!"
And that's just photos. There are also the words accompanying them. Billions and billions of poorly-written missives, full of misspelled words, excessive use of the ;) emoticon and just....trite sentiments. I saw a transcript of some of Tiger Wood's illicit sexting and it was just so, well, see for yourself.
Jaimee: I drove out for the night to surprise a friend with a present for there birthday.
Tiger: what kind of present your naked body
And that's Tiger friggin' Woods--he should be getting the highest quality sexting, full of lustful scenarios, vibrant images and insanely hot language.
Since I am a writer, I would be, like, the worst person ever to sext to. I would nerdishly look upon the text as a piece of literature. It would have to not only be blisteringly hot, but grammatically correct with well-placed flourishes of humor and intelligence. The Tiger Woods thing above, with its non-interesting plot line and misuses of "there" and "your," well, it's just not good enough. There ought to be rules about this shit.
Oh wait, there are. Let's see, here's tip #10 in the article 10 Sexting Tips.
Use exclamation points! Exclamatory phrases are more intense expressions. For example, "You make me feel so good." and "You make me feel so good!!" Do you see how the first sentence is simple compared to the second one? Exclamation points should be used to express extreme emotion.
I'm not quite sure which is worse--sending bad sexts or actually consulting internet articles to improve your sexting. (Although I'm pretty down with tip #8, despite the redundant phrasing at the end of the sentence: "Tell her things you are imagining. Sexting what you are imagining creates a mutual image for both of you.")
Whatever. All this stuff, the blurry dick shots, the talk of "pussie," the photographic evidence of our most vulnerable and freaky selves is out there in the cloud for-fucking-EVER. On Facebook, for example, you can not only NOT delete sent emails after you realize they are totally retarded (I know this For A Fact, I am sorry to report) but Mark Zuckerberg, like, saves them (see above: for-fucking-EVER). I don't know why he does it. Maybe to bring out on slow days at his mansion as entertainment for his billionaire friends ("Look at the cooter on this one! WTF, are those feathers?"). Maybe to use to blackmail us all in the future at our own personal Worst Possible Time (Worst Possible Time®, as determined by a complicated algorithm developed by Google). Who knows?
Whichever the case, when our descendants, the computer overlords, send their archeologist pods to dig up the dregs of our society, they will have a hell of a lot to think about.