Monday, January 30, 2012

A Farewell to Rodney Van P. Before I Delete Him Forever

"Are you familiar with the book 'Double Penetriciton'?"
I have a confession to make. I am guilty of the sin of censorship. I know, I know. It's hard to believe that I, purveyor of vagina in a can posts, would be holding anything back. But it's true.

What I have been hiding from you are the romantic propositions of one Rodney Van P. (kinda his real name.) I thought it was to protect your delicate sensibilities, but I now realize I was wrong and perhaps have been preventing you from experiencing your own Beautiful Love Story.

If you don't know Rodney Van P. (and how could you, due to my cruelty?), he is a frequent poster to the In Bed With Married Women Facebook page. No matter what the topic, he has his own spin to it, generally him offering to "eat kitties."

Here's what Rodney had to say about a post during Bad Sex Week.
"Ive never had any bad sex with married women and love to orally please their bodies eat their pussies and screw them and eat them out again after sex, So add me you horny married women please."
I thought you would not want to hear this, so I deleted it at once. But was I wrong? Were these the sweet sweet words you've been longing to hear?

I'm so so sorry. Just because he is not appealing to me (his Facebook list of favorite books includes: "Double Penetriciton," "Fuck Books!!!" and "Fuck My Ass." And everyone knows that "Double Penetriciton 2: Even More Penetriciton" is the far superior book) doesn't mean you wouldn't like him just fine. I do not want to stand in the way of True Love.

So here is another Rodneyism I withheld from you. I forgot what he was commenting on, but it will not surprise you to hear Rodney's take on the subject:
"Id love to taste your fat and meaty kitty."
Good old Rodney! No matter what I posted on the FB page, he always liked it and was always there with a (slightly differently worded) offer to eat kitty. That's the thing about Rodney. He was so tenacious. Even though his propositions were never up on the page for--at most--5 minutes before I'd discover them and delete them in horror, the guy Kept On Trying.

"Maybe the problem is my wording," he must have mused, pondering the shocking lack of response to his generous and appealing offer of kitty eating. "Perhaps I shall change 'eat your pussy before and after sex' to 'taste your fat and meaty kitty.' Blast it all! Why are women so inscrutable?"

I guess it was this tenacity in the face of his endless lack of success* that kept me from deleting Rodney instantly as I have so many of his barely literate brethren on the Facebook page.

So today it pains me somewhat to finally give in and delete the hapless Rodney forever, taking the FB fan from the suggestive number of 469 to the more blah 468. And, I have to confess, I'm kind of gonna miss the guy.

*I fucking hope so.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Curse You, O Tepid Sex

From out there among you comes this tragic missive from dear reader Just Jack in response to Nicole Daedone's steamy-ass essay For Purposes of Example, This is the Best Fuck of My Life.*
Best post ever. And ultimately the most depressing to read and realize... my best years, where only a few precious moments were like Nicole's description (only from a dude's POV) were before age 21. 20+ yrs later, it's galling and terminally depressing to know, I will never again experience such a thing. Rather than wonder WTH I did wrong to marry a woman who has utterly no concept of any of this stuff... I'll just go back to work and be another walking dead 40-something dude. *puts bag on head and shambles off*
Ugh, so completely sad and horrible! And so... just... true. There's a certain particular hideousness to sexual loneliness within a marriage that is its own private torture. I mean, it's not really the kind of thing that people talk to each other about, despite it being, I think, quite common.

Witness this Twitter response--I won't identify the writer so as to not get him in trouble with the wife--to My Wife's Body by Anonymous Husband: "Sad post for me because I adore my wife but we have never had sexual chemistry and I feel that way about her being but not her body."

So.

The problem here is a partner who is nice enough, a loving parent and all that, but they just don't...well...get sex. Or there is no chemistry. Mainly, and most depressingly, there is a completely upsetting lack of the kind of soul-shaking, hot mind/body fuckery that makes life worth living and whatnot.

Hmmm..... Well, when I am right in the middle of a good bitch session, my friend Leah is fond of saying pointedly, "Okay, we have identified the problem. Now let's work on solutions!" This sort of makes me want to punch her, because I do so enjoy complaining, but the girl has a point. So solutions. Anyone?

I mean, what's Jack to do? I somehow think that putting a bag on his head and shambling off--while being convenient as well as inexpensive--probably isn't the best solution here.

But can you teach someone passion? Can you create chemistry where none lives? Is it wrong to yearn for the kind of transcendent, universe pulsing sex that makes your whole body shake?

I have no clear solutions today--sorry Miss Leah--but I will offer you two routes that readers have taken. I neither endorse nor condemn either. Anyone who's making an honest, clear-headed effort to find workable solutions is okay in my book.

The first is from reader Noelle (not even close to her real name) who, faced with a sexless marriage and an uninterested husband, finally gave up and started having anonymous affairs during business trips. You can read about it here in Noelle: Finding Sex Outside Her (Practically) Sexless Marriage.

The second is from reader Liza who somehow managed to break a 10 year fuck-less marital stretch so definitively that her blog Always Each Other is pretty much a lovingly pornish detailing of the various and sundry ways she and her husband have their sweet sweet way with each other.**

Anyway, you there! You clearly have it all together, do you not? What say you to Jack and everyone else in this situation?

Place bag on head and forge ahead? Light sexual fire under reluctant spouse's ass? (Caution: use metaphorical fire only.) Say "fuck it" to social mores and possibly a fine-enough marriage by banging someone hot on the side? Go it alone with a willing hand and good memories? Channel unfulfilled lust into excessive interest in scrapbooking?

I thank you in advance for your attention to this matter.

xoxox
jill


*In the essay, Daedone--the gorgeous teacher/practitioner of Orgasmic Meditation (a practice which sounds about a thousand times more fun than focusing on your breath)--describes a really really good fuck. There were hugely swollen body parts, soaking wetness, something about a honey blanket orgasm. Whatever. The #$%$ was good.
** What the hell happened? According to Liza, "I don't know exactly when the buildup began, but sometime early last year I started to have...feelings. And then I felt like reading sexy stuff. And then I wanted to touch myself again."  Liza also makes passing mention of a "medical procedure" that helped with things. More info on that if she answers the rudely nosy email I sent her.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

The Princess Who Couldn't Come

Hi there, sweet thing. Would you like to hear a fairy tale today? Okay, I'll tell you one, but beware, like all fairy tales, there is something relatively horrific in it.

It's not as bad as dear little Hansel and Gretel violently shoving a witch into a hot oven or the Three Little Pigs boiling the Big Bad Wolf alive. ("And as the wolf felt his flesh sear, he howled in the throes of the very deepest agony, while the pigs did a happy little dance and shouted 'Hooray!' Good night kids, sweet dreams....").

But it does involve--and please know that I can barely stand to type this--surgery to move the clitoris. Surgery to move the clitoris two times, after a first unsuccessful surgery. Primitive early 1900s surgery, which I suspect probably involved an ice pick, a rusty hook and unlicensed mesmerism.

Anyway, let us begin with our tale, shall we?

There was once a beautiful (enough) princess named Marie Bonaparte. Even though she was a great-niece of Napoleon and a princess and all, she wasn't happy because well, my friends, poor Marie couldn't have an orgasm.

Part of this probably had to do with the unfortunate (for her, at least) fact that her husband, Prince George of Greece, was a latent homosexual. According to Mary Roach in her completely delightful book Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex, the bad marital sex kicked off on their wedding night. In Marie's diary, she wrote that George mounted her "in a short brutal gesture, as if forcing [himself]...and apologized "I hate it as much as you do. But we must do it if we want children."

But Marie was a plucky sort and was determined to come. She decided she would solve her problem by taking other lovers. Several of them. But they too left her cold. Finally, she tried the most decidedly non-Princess-like move of putting her delicate fingers between her own legs, and found that lo! she could come!

Our plucky princess was also scientifically-minded and, though most of her blood by now busy throbbing desperately through her unfulfilled loins, she still had enough brain power to come up with a hypothesis. Perhaps, she thought, her problem was that her clitoris was too far from her vagina.

A royal experiment was in order. The princess found 243 willing subjects, asked them about their sex lives and somehow convinced them to let her measure the distance between their clitoris and vagina, or C-V distance. In 1924 she published her findings under the pseudonym A.E. Narjani because then, as it probably still is, Princesses don't go around sticking rulers between other women's legs and talking about it. According to this "Narjani":

--21% of women had a C-V distance of more than an inch (that translates to 2.5 centimeters for those of you in progressive countries that have somehow managed to grasp the intricacies of the metric system.). These women couldn't have an orgasm via vaginal intercourse, or did only rarely. The Princess termed them teleclitoridiennes. As Roach writes: "Teleclitoridienne means simply 'female of the distant clitoris,' but it had a lovely, aristocratic ring to it--calling to mind a career women in heels and a sweater set, cabling reports from her home in Biarritz. At the very least, it had a nicer ring to it than 'frigid.'"

--69% were paraclitoridiennes, with a C-V distance of less than an inch. These lucky-ass women were much more likely to have orgasms with vaginal intercourse.

--10% were mesoclitoridiennes, with a C-V distance of exactly an inch. These women might come...or might not, depending on a variety of factors (gay husband using "short, brutal gesture" VS. delightfully hot lover using torturously languid gestures + memories of recently seen Rudolph Valentio movie.)

The Princess's research gibes with modern data that finds that there is indeed a correlation between C-V distance and ease of orgasm during the deed. BUT, despite what porn films show and show and show, no way are 69% of modern women coming via regular ol' P in V sex. According to ABC News (and I must say it is pleasing to me to see ABC News using the phrase "sex toys, hands or tongue"):
About 75 percent of all women never reach orgasm from intercourse alone -- that is without the extra help of sex toys, hands or tongue. And 10 to 15 percent never climax under any circumstances.
But back to our story. Marie, perhaps her thinking clouded by unresolved lust, decided that the best cure for her condition was to have her clitoris surgically moved.

And when this didn't work, she tried surgery a-fucking-gain! Which also didn't work.

BUT this tale has a happy ending (and can for you as well, if you're a sweater set-wearing teleclitoridiennes.) Marie finally figured out some twisty Kama Sutra-ish positions, unfortunately lost to the ages, that did indeed get her off.

And our little Princess came and came and lived happily ever after.

P.S. There is a trick to discovering your C-V distance. An inch just happens to be the distance between the tip of your thumb and your first knuckle. So, if you measure using this "rule of thumb"... Oh...you left already?

xoxo
jill

(photo: Albert Arthur Allen, 1929, source) Note: This is actually not a photo of Marie Bonaparte, but c'mon, the chick looks unsatisfied and she's wearing a friggin' crown. I HAD to use it.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

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!

xoxoxo
jill

(photo: wicked knickers)

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Okay, then, Smartypants, name this body part


Go on, take a guess.... I'll wait.

That, my friends, is the full structure of the female clitoris*--including the extensive internal parts. Yes, the clitoris has internal parts! Extensive ones! Am I the only one who didn't know this? I thought a clit was a tiny button there on the outside--the end. For 46-friggin'-years (many of them, to be fair, non-friggin' years), I've been walking around ignorant of my own damn anatomy.

I could choose to wallow in shame over this, but I'm not gonna be too hard on myself because a) I generally cut myself way too much a lot of slack and b) practically no one knows this stuff. 

We should have been learning about our extensive clititude way back in 1844 when Georg Ludwig Kobelt published his seminal (though that is undoubtedly the wrong word) clit research in Die männlichen und weiblichen Wollust-Organe des Menschen und einiger Säugetiere (The Male and Female Organs of Sexual Arousal in Man and some other Mammals). 

Kobelt discovered a bunch of highly useful info--that, ahem, science, would have been NICE TO KNOW--like: clitorises (the whole extensive lot) become erect when aroused, and have all sorts of parts that you (and by "you," I mean "me") never even heard of like crura, bulbs and other clitorally-related new words I will probably not be incorporating into my sexy talk. "Oh my God! My clitoral vestibule is sooo hot for you."

Although maybe I should be talking vestibules and such. If you're a guy and plan to be sliding your manhood into her sweet feminine folds, you actually do want her clitoral vestibule, as well as her two corpora cavernosa, to be hot for you. When these parts are erect, they'll tighten quite nicely around you.

According to the anatomical explanation in this article on the Museum of Sex blog which I could barely understand without consulting the drawing frequently:

Most of the clitoris is subterranean. The glans is connected to the body or shaft of the internal clitoris, which is made up of two corpora cavernosa. When erect, the corpora cavernosa encompass the vagina on either side, as if they were wrapping around it giving it a big hug! Near each of the crura on either side of the vaginal opening are the clitoral vestibules. These are internally under the labia majora. When they become engorged with blood they actually cuff the vaginal opening causing the vulva to expand outward. Get these puppies excited, and you’ve got a hungrier, tighter-feeling vaginal opening in which to explore!

If you're feeling sciencey, I highly recommend you have a look at Helen E. O'Connell's Anatomy of the Clitoris in the Journal of Urology. (Important caveat: article contains photos with such labels as "Fig. 2. Lateral view of dissected clitoris in fresh cadaver of 57 year-old post menopausal woman." Which, as a sentence, contains a surprisingly high amount of unpleasant imagery.)

"The tale of the clitoris is a parable of culture, of how the body is forged into a shape valuable to civilization despite and not because of itself," writes O'Connell.

In the oddly enjoyable article (Journal of Urology, who knew you were such a good read?), O'Donnell rails against the medical establishment for not providing decent diagrams and accurate info on clits--a "blinkered approach," she writes. (A blinkered approach that still exists.) She also describes the history of clitorical research with its ever-changing ideas about what goes on between a woman's legs, and the comical regularly that men throughout history have claimed to "discover" the clit, each one giving it names, culumella (little pillar), sedes libidinis (seat of lust) and landica (shhh, Latin profanity!)

In the 1500's, Flemish anatomist Andreas Vesalius disagreed with Falloppia (yes, he of the tubes) that "healthy women" had a clitoris and wrote: "It is unreasonable to blame others for incompetence on the basics of some sport of nature you have observed in some women and you can hardly ascribe this new and useless part, as if it were an organ, to healthy women." (On a related note: I can find no mention of a Mrs. Vesalius.)

So why isn't anyone bothering to tell us this stuff? It sure would explain a whole fuck of a lot and clear up the vaginal vs. clitoral orgasm debates, what a G-spot is, etc...  I mean, it seems like it's all just stimulation of various parts of the clitoris. Right? That said, I do think that orgasms feel different depending on what spot is being stimulated. An orgasm from the G-spot area, or cruca or whatever the fuck we're calling it today, really does seem deeper and richer to me than the more tinny, shallow feel of a clit only orgasm.

And...I can't believe I just wrote that sentence. I am writing to complete strangers (and worse, people I know) and describing the color and tenor of my orgasms. That, my friends, means it is so time for me to go today.

However, if you want to weigh in on matters orgasmic, bring it on. You know I like it when you talk like that to me.

xoxo
jill

* Is it CLIToris or CliTORis? According to Wikipedia, which offers audio pronunciations so you can hear the words, each is correct. So use them both as you please! Wikipedia also offers a pronunciation guide for the UK version, /ˈkltɒrɨs/which is completely non-helpful gibberish to me, and sadly, does not come with a corresponding audio version. Because my inner 5th grader would really really like to hear a crisp British voice intoning patiently, /ˈkltɒrɨs/.


For more IBWMW info on orgasms (or, in light of new developments, possible misinformation):   


Tuesday, January 3, 2012

"For purposes of example, this is the best fuck of my life"--Nicole Daedone in "On Fucking"

"Rule number one. You are not going to enter her until her pussy is dripping, until the walls have caved in because they are so swollen and fat. Until you can no longer hold your body away, where it feels like there is this undertow so strong that you cannot resist."

So advises Nicole Daedone in On Fucking, a piece on how, exactly, to enflame a woman's desire. (Note: "pussy is dripping" = you're probably doin' okay.)

Daedone, author of Slow Sex: The Art and Craft of the Female Orgasm, is a proponent, instigator and teacher of OM, or Orgasmic Meditation. Here's the Wikipedia entry, but basically, OM is a practice in which clarity, mindfulness, in-touchness with the universe and all that is reached through extremely focused touch. Specifically, the touch of a partner's hand slowly and rhythmically stroking a woman's clitoris in a particular way. Sessions last 15 minutes and the goal is not orgasm, but rather heightened sexual awareness. And, as it turns out, having someone lavish attention on this particular body part for 15 minutes is extremely effective at heightening sexual awareness.

Daedone seeks to whip up the kind of desire that's not just "Sure, a quickie sounds good," but rather, "I want you so bad I can't see straight and if you don't fuck me this very instant I might possibly die."

OM practitioners can experience intense, deeper, more fuckier fucks, with fat, swollen body parts (see above) coupled with equally fat, swollen desire, a finely tuned awareness of...oh...god...how damn good it all is, plus your general transcendence and whatnot.

"I can fuck and have it feel like not only is his cock moving inside of me, but something deeper, like this magnetic cock is fucking me. Ultimately that is what I am looking for. Anything less is disappointing," writes Daedone.

Magnetic cock, eh? That sounds pretty good....I think. If nothing else, it would certainly come in handy were I to be vacuuming in the nude, trip and accidentally lose something metal up the wang.

But perhaps we should hear some more. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ms. Nicole Daedone and this excerpt from "On Fucking":
I am going to tell you a story about a perfect storm of sex.
Remember I am a crazy immersive kind of person, you do not need to try this at home, but my teachers suggested that I just om. No sucking, fucking or stroking cock.
There grew to be this attraction with this guy that was like iron shards to a magnet. When he entered a room my body just moved to him. It had reached the level where it was chemical. He was actually fairly what at the time I considered cruel. He would do things like sit down to stroke my genitals and then say, nope you aren’t turned on enough. What? Yep. Just not feeling it. First I wanted to kill him. Then I wanted to eat him.
At the same time when I really was turned on he would walk up to me and say now, lie down.  And he would stroke me into the deepest places I had ever been in my life.
He had this kind of attention that was so attuned that – whereas I normally would be yelling at a guy, no a little to the left, to the right! – with him I would think it and he would move there, or exceed my expectations and go to a place I hadn’t even realized existed. And all he did were these little strokes and I was like a ducking, are you my boyfriend.
For two and a half of those three and a half years I was dying for it. I needed to have sex.  He’d say, I am sure we will…but only when you have made it irresistible. Irresistable? Irresistable? So I would beg and plead and demand and cry and every time he would say…almost. I’d threaten to have sex with someone else and he would say I wish you the best.
I hated him. I wanted him.
At the same time, it was funny, there was this background chatter. It’s embarrassing to admit. He was not the right guy. I was totally ambivalent when I would be rational.
And so my mind screamed no, my head screamed yes.
And there was this element of power. I was always accustomed to being in control. I would put out the “sex is in” sign and they would line up. Not him. I felt oddly at his mercy. I would find myself actually begging him.
I would lie in bed and yearn for him.
And then one day, something overtook me. It overthrew my rational mind. I didn’t care how tall he was, I didn’t care that I would be breaking the rules, I didn’t fear that it might not be as good as I dreamed, I didn’t care that I felt like a desperate animal.
This thing inside me was going to fuck him and that was that.
At the moment I realized it he entered the room. I simply said “now” and he took off his pants.
My body was a live wire. His hand brushed my stomach it I felt like 10,000 nerve endings fired. When he kissed me, it felt like the end of two wires came together and sparked. Everything was heightened. I could smell the detergent on the sheets, the Casablanca lilies, his saliva had this sweet salty taste, the sound of his breath sounded like an ocean.
And then he entered me and it was like he was entering every single cell of my body. I could feel him in the tips of my fingers, in my hair follicles there was no part of me that was not being penetrated by him.
Prior to oming, to having all this blood rush down to my pussy, my pussy had been sort of concave. It was like this. But having this much blood pushing down on the walls made it convex. The walls were rubbing up against themselves. Where it had felt quite honestly like a man was kind of batting around in there beating up against this cave it now felt like my pussy had become this velvet glove that wrapped around his cock. My clit had also dropped down from the weight, so that however he stroked, wherever he stroked with his cock, my clit rubbed up against it. It felt like there was no part of me that was not being fucked. And because of this, this feeling of what I can only call orgasm wrapped around both of us like we were in this honey blanket. Like I could lick this feeling off his face like nectar. It was that thick.
That was my first totally surrendered fuck. After that there was a line permanently drawn in the sand between what I had thought fucking was and what I  discovered what sex really is.
Well, gentle reader, have you have lickable honey blanket sex like this? Whole mind/body fuckery, magnetic cocks and so forth? Any other general thoughts? (And for further learnin', you can check out Daedone's TED video, Orgasm, the Cure for Hunger in the Western Woman.)

xoxoxo
jill

* p.s. It gives me undue pleasure that my computer has a file labeled "On Fucking."

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