Saturday, October 22, 2011

Someone Wins...um, Something! Plus Comment Passion

The winner of the 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?

Indeed.

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.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Guest Post: "My Wife's Body" by An Anonymous Husband


"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 18, 2011

"love is..."

I was shocked to learn--shocked, I tell you!--that "love is...", the heinously bad 70s cartoon, still runs every day. And not in some Shopper's Weekly in Huntville, Alabama, but in the freakin' Los Angeles Times! I discovered this the other morning and went on a little rant at the breakfast table while my daughters, aged 10 and 11, looked on.
Because I am their parent and, thus, the person they trust to provide them with authoritative information about the world around them, my girls nodded solemnly, taking mental notes on the Important Life Wisdom I was sharing with them. "Love is....," they recorded in their sweet little impressionable brains, "Worst comic ever, someone gets paid for this=totally unfair, running for 41 years=insanity!, continued appeal=completely mystifying."

Actually, "love is..." is completely mystifying in many, many ways. This is why, if you must know, the three of us have become kind of obsessed with it. Sort of in an ironic way, but also sort of not. (My husband, quite reasonably, thinks our "love is..." love is wack and will have nothing to do with it.)

I mean, it's just so fucking weird. There is a male and female, and they sort of look like kids, but maybe they're adults. It is not clear if they are married, or dating, or just neighbors. And they are always naked. Always. The whole always naked thing gives the comic exactly the right surrealistic touch that adds an extra dimension of fuckupedness to each panel.

The other day, the panel read, "love is... when he invites you to come to his place." It was illustrated with the naked guy opening the door of his apartment to the naked girl who was standing in the hall. That a man would eagerly let a naked girl come into his apartment seemed self-explanatory enough, but why was this chick just wandering the halls of the apartment building with no clothes on? She looked clear-headed enough and didn't appear, at least on initial inspection, to be in the midst of a fugue state. And why did this dude think he should answer the door all naked? Did he peek out, see she was naked, then strip? Or does he just greet all visitors in his nude glory? (I use the word "nude" here because it's just so so 70s. Maybe, if you're lucky, I'll use the word "unisex" for you as well.)

And yesterday, the strip read "love is...gazing longingly at each other across a crowded room." The illustration was the guy and girl gazing longingly at each other across a crowded room full of other naked kid/adult people. "There are MORE of them," my 10 year old intoned ominously. Everyone in the drawing looked happy, as I guess people tend to look when they are at a naked party. I, tragically, am never invited to naked parties, so I wouldn't know. Just what kind of free love, public nudity, mushroom-decorated world do these kid/adults live in?

Oh, so many questions!  And the "love is..." Wikipedia entry just fuels the mystique. Whoever wrote the entry seemed to have closely studied the strip, searching desperately for clues.

The main characters are a male and a female. Their names may be Roberto and Kim, respectively, since in a 1974 episode which says "Love is... your name pronounced by him while sleeping" the male pronounces the name "Kim", the strip's creator's name, and in a 1971 panel the female writes the letter 'R' in the beach sand (the creator's husband's name is Roberto). The male has dark black, short hair while the female has light, waist-length hair. The characters have been featured in various stages of romance: just meeting, boyfriend/girlfriend and husband/wife. They appear to be quite young, looking like toddlers, however, they are apparently supposed to represent adults.


Sometimes, the male is seen to be part of the Army, Marines, etc.
When featured as husband and wife, at times a child/children will appear who are much smaller than them, but never more than two children, a boy and a girl. The boy and girl have the hair coloring of their opposite gender parent (i.e., the girl has her father's black hair, while the boy has his mother's light hair). The children have been featured both as infants and as elementary school age; they have not been featured as teenagers.
I love it, it's so... tentative and unsure. I mean, searching for clues in a letter scratched into the beach sand? It's madness! "They appear to be quite young, looking like toddlers, however, they are apparently supposed to represent adults," the entry's writer notes, flummoxed and completely losing the usual authoritative Wikipedia tone.

However, I can judge all I want, but that fact is, at the height of the strip's popularity in the 70s, creator Kim Casali made between £4-5 million a year. I don't know the exact exchange rate into U.S. dollars, but I'm pretty sure it's a fuck of a lot of money. By contrast, this month, on Amazon referrals alone, I have made...let's see here....carry the one...exactly 52¢. Right. So I'll just shut my damn trap now.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Help This Reader Out--Girl's Got the Dopamine Sickness!

Yikes, I need your help! A reader has asked for advice and I don't want to totally fuck her up provide her with unwise counsel. So I turn to you, Faceless Internet Stranger, as I do on all Important Life Matters. Here, you tell her what to do.

This is what you have to go on, her comment on the post Dopamine, The Cruel Bitch Mistress:

Tell me how to make it stop. I've been married for 7 years now to a man who, 7 years before that was a crazy crush. He's a great guy, wonderful father to our little girl. All that. Then a dude came along who, with a GLANCE turned me inside out. We've flirted, we've talked, and he's told me I do the same to him. His integrity (dammit!) will not allow him to go any further with me, as he knows I'm married with a wee one. But, due to where I work and where said dude shops, I still see him and we still chit chat. It is driving me mad, making me seriously wonder if I still love my husband, getting seriously pissed off that I cannot work up passionate emotions for husband like I have for the dude, losing weight because I don't want to eat, etc. WTF am I supposed to do??? 
Going Crazy Here

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,

jill

(photo source: Hoodoo That Voodoo, Photography by Sarah Moon)

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Dopamine, The Cruel Bitch Mistress

If you'll open your books to where we left off the other day...we talking about the exquisite agony of The Crush. The crush, as you recall, is where we basically become dreamy fucktards, walking ids powered by the hideous/delicious combo of single-mindedness, spaciness, magnanimity to your fellow humans ("Everyone is so awesome!"), hateable neediness, and general giddiness alternating with sudden despair--all set to the constant backdrop of the throb of unquenched sexual desire.

As reader can't keep anything to myself put it:
Crushes are torture, but the most delicious kind of torture. They make you realize what a masochist you really are. It's such a fun feeling though when your insides are squirming and you're smiling at random people like an idiot because you're thinking about them again and your jaw hurts from smiling so hard/much.
If you are suffering thusly right now, please know that you're not acting like such a pitiful lovesick idiot because you're inherently weak or out of your fucking head, but because cruel, cruel dopamine is totally screwing with you. Dopamine is a neurotransmitter, "a kind of natural drug associated with the expectation of a reward that brings us pleasure," writes Sheril Kirshenbaum in The Science of Kissing. Dopamine can start fucking you up even during a first kiss. Writes Kirshenbaum,
Spiking during a passionate kiss, dopamine is responsible for the rush of elation and craving, and can also result in obsessive thoughts that many of us experience in association with a new romance--almost like an addiction.
I'm sorry, did she say "almost like"? Because dopamine is involved with stimulating the mesolimbic reward system (Mmmm, you like it when I talk to you all scientifically, don't you?), the part of the brain involved with virtually all of the addictive drugs. Wheee!
It primes us to make us want more, making us feel energized. Some people pumping lots of dopamine even lose their appetites, or feel that they cannot fall asleep--not surprisingly, the same 'symptoms' commonly described when "falling in love."
So maybe you're not in love, maybe you're just high on dopamine, you friggin' junkie. Which can go either way, depending if your ardor is returned. Writes the delightful Helen Fisher in Why We Love:
Because romantic love is such a euphoric "high," because this passion is exceedingly difficult to control, and because it produces craving, obsession, compulsion, distortion of reality, emotional and physical dependence, personality change, and loss of self-control, many psychologists regard love as an addiction--a positive addiction when your love is returned, a horribly negative fixation when your love is spurned and you can't let go.
If you don't get your love fix, well, it's not good. The suffering includes all kinds of sucky withdrawal symptoms like "depression, crying, spells, anxiety, insomnia, loss of appetite (or binge eating), irritability and chronic loneliness," reports Fisher.

Fisher continues, and I suspect she based her research solely on my diary entries from 1987: "Like all addicts, the lover then goes to unhealthy, humiliating, even physically dangerous lengths to procure their narcotic."

Which is not good, either. (Well, it's sorta good.)

Our takeaways from all this?  Hmmmmm, I guess, if you're going to get all hepped up on dopamine over someone, at least try to make sure that they might be someone who'll like you back. Which, you know, is totally easy. (Helpful hint: After years of painstaking research--ahem, Nobel committee--I can say with a fair degree of certainty that emotionally unavailable, meanish, and your basic garden-variety insane dudes are not, to my great surprise, good choices. You're welcome.)

Anyway, after awhile nature finally gives us a break. Because even a good dopamine ride can be, well, a bit much. I mean there's only so much time you can spend in a state of constant arousal, contemplating such uber-focused matters as the insanely lickable curve of a loved one's particularly enchanting body part. "Our biology places a limit on how long the 'high' conferred by dopamine can last," writes Kirshenbaum. "Studies have shown that levels of this intoxicating neurotransmitter decrease as we become more accustomed to a romantic partner, which might be why sexual desire tends to wane with the same person over time." (See also: the Coolidge Effect in "Our Genes Can Be Heartless Puppeteers").

On the other hand, it also doesn't seem reasonable, or at all fun, to avoid excessive, stupid, sexy, out-of-your-fucking-mind passion, for fear of getting the dopamine monkey on our backs. As "Slow Sex: The Art and Craft of The Female Orgasm" author Nicole Daedone's current, possibly grammatically problematic, Facebook status says, "Desire is there to be lived inside of."

I will await your tales from the front....


[addendum: As the unrelentingly brilliant and hilarious Betty Fokker points out below in the comments, the sweeter, more mellow high of attachment and bonding chemicals conveniently kick in just as the harsher high of the dopamine fades.]




(photo: Marlo Broekmans, Photo extraite de la serie "Autoportraits")

Monday, October 3, 2011

On Sexting, Nudie Pics and The Cloud

A few years ago, I was Facebook chatting with a friend about a torrid affair she was having with a possibly cruel and inscrutable hot guy. It was up to us, you see, to analyze the minutiae of his behavior in order to reach some sort of Great Insight into the Male/Female Condition. Or something. We were thus far not there.

"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.

(image source)
Related Posts with Thumbnails