Share Your Wisdom on Polyamory With Our New Estonian Penpal!

So steamy, despite presence of man bun.

So, yes. We DO have a new Estonian penpal!* Her name is Murca and she's got questions for you on polyamory--does it work? How do you let your parents know? How do you prevent being an insecure fuck and so forth? Got anything for her?

Hi, Jill,

This is my first time writing to you. I feel that we could be friends (or at least penpals). I've been reading and liking your blog for a while now. Not actually sure how grown-ups make new friends but this seems like one plausible way.

I don't know if you know this but your blog is a part of the recommended reading material for an ethnology course in University of Tartu. The course is called Cultural Conceptions of Human Body.

I was wondering if you have written anything about how people discover that they are polyamorous? Does it go as easily and naturally as those flowery writings by polyamorous people? You know--simply being a more loving person whose love for one does not limit their love for another and saying that jealousy is just people being selfish and insecure and why don't we just love some more and be happy. Or do people really struggle when discovering they can not leave their partner and at the same time can't stop loving (and sexing and wanting oh-so-bad) someone else. Since it is not the 'normal' way and how do you tell your parents that you have several forever-afters and what about the children(?!?) and all that. 

Getting more personal. When I discovered I was bisexual (or pan?) I had at least 2 months of intense confusion. 'I want this. I shouldn't want this. This feels right. This feels so wrong. But why is it so good.' I had met several gay and bi people and I was genuinely happy for their relationships and was fighting (in my little ways) for their rights. But to accept that I am one of them felt like breaking and rebuilding something in me. So for these reasons (and some others) I feel like people who are not monogamous and are open and happy about it could also have gone through a list of heartaches and self-identifying problems before they accepted this. What do you think?

I know that in order to be charismatic I shouldn't apologise for my language. So this part of my letter is just to give you rights to copyedit my text if you should want to use it.

I might have some sex stories to you too. Maybe when I feel more comfortable writing intimate things in a foreign language. And also let's see how this becoming friends thing works out.

With love and admiration,

murca

 
There you go. I really want to help this chick out because, c'mom, she is so charming and open. So if you or someone you know is enjoying the love of many, let us know how it's working out.

You can:
1.  Comment below. Anonymous is an easy option if you haven't quite gotten to the "telling the parents" step. Because they totally read this blog. 
2.  Send me an email at jillhamilton001@gmail.com
3.  Ask your polyamorous friend to do it for you. 
 

xoxoxox

jill

P.S. I'm on Caitlin Grace's Goddess 2 Goddess podcast. If you want to hear me sounding like I'm broadcasting from deep inside a tin can, mumbling and saying $#@$ without thinking it through first, go to town. Caitlin, however is beyond delightful, the tin can thing is not her fault and I did better than last time I was on the radio in which my main contribution was nodding vigorously. Still kinda sound like a wanker though. (Note: I actually am kind of a wanker.)

*At the mags I write for, everyone uses lots of exclamation points! Like on every sentence! It's rubbing off on me and I can't stop! Help!!!!!!

(gorgeous photo:  Love Story, pt 1, Q. Oliver)

Consent

I recently wrote a piece for Cosmo on quickies and one of the suggestions involved waking up your loved one (or liked-well-enough one) with a blow job. The idea was that it was this silent communion in which they'd wake up to the feel of your mouth on their cock. Which, to me, seemed good for all.

However, not one, but several, readers called it out, saying it was sexual assault and/or rape. I changed the wording slightly, because technically it is rape, or at least rapey, I guess.  Made more so because the dude would be asleep. "Unconscious people don't want tea" and all that. 

But I felt a little pissed off about it because I'm a big baby and hate being schooled on anything, even if I'm wrong. But in this case, I felt kind of un-wrong. (caveat: I always feel un-wrong.) It seemed so inherently implied in the situation that you would use a little fucking judgement in the situation. If you started sucking someone's dick and he woke up and said, "WTF? Quit it!" or even "Mmmm, sleepy, later..." you would obviously stop.  You also wouldn't go to town on some random dude passed out in the alley, etc...

Intellectually, I understand the need for guidelines. Every day people are acting like fuckheads around consent, like Brock Turner's dad calling his son's rape of an unconscious woman "20 minutes of action."  But in between that and wanting to wake your man up with morning head where, if any, is the wiggle room?

I love the way reader Spiffy McBang explained it/talked me down in the comments on the post This is How You Please a Woman.

"Dan Savage has the most logical take on consent I know- if you've had some level of intimacy with a person, that creates a level of implied consent where that person should feel reasonably free to try engaging in acts you've done in the past, and if you're not interested, you tell them no. Running on the assumption you're naked in bed with the person you're trying to wake up with a BJ because you have, at some point in the past, fucked, that would fall under the implied consent standard. 

If people want a stricter standard of consent than the above, they should be clear with any partners about that and not suggest it apply to everyone. I mean, realistically, how often is someone being awoken with a BJ by somebody they're not already pretty comfortable with? It's like the letter of the law versus the spirit, and this is a case where just about everyone is fine with the spirit. Calling it rape or sexual assault in a comments section doesn't help anyone, and it diminishes real, traumatic assault by assigning the same term to both."

I also asked Judith, someone on Twitter who'd complained, bc she was from Oslo so I stereotyped her as someone who would be reasonable. "It's implied in many situations, but when just waking up, it can feel like, and be an assault, even if the intention is good. I think we agree. I understand that u of course meant consensual, but in a situation like that it is extra important. Consent might not be sexy. But I'm sure u can find a way."

Yes, I could find a way.... but the thing is, I am sort of into lack of consent. (To a certain extent--of course.) To me, consent for every damn thing is the verbal equivalent to a dental dam or female condom--yes, it's the smart thing to do, but it kind of ruins it.

My old housemate/fuckbuddy in college once woke me up by coming into my room and bouncing his fat cock insistently on my nose. I absolutely loved coming out of sleep to this hugely visible sign of his arousal. And--I report this to you and only you--part of the turn on was the general rudeness of it and the audacity to assume I would appease him. 

Another time we slept together all night (rare, it was a fucked-up situation, as you may have surmised) and throughout the night, he would press his hard-on into my back, sometimes sliding in, in a sort of gentle all-night fuck. It was divine. And it would have been completely ruined had he woken me up every single time, asking me if he could slide his cock into me.

By contrast, later I was with a lovely man who respectfully obeyed the accepted rules and asked me for permission before touching each part of my body. I hated it.

As I wrote in my highly offensive and/or brave piece on James Deen, Darkness and the Erotic, this reminds me of what Esther Perel writes about eroticism in Mating In Captivity: "Sexual desire is politically incorrect, often thriving on power plays, role reversals, unfair advantages, imperious demands, seductive manipulations and subtle cruelties," she notes. The erotic lives--and thrives--in places of darkness and the forbidden. Whether we like it or not.

If you find someone who gets this in the same way that you do, fuck the shit out them.

xoxo
jill

PS See my new Sex Toy Recycling piece on AlterNet if you feel like contemplating the fate of the used dildo.

(Photo: The amazing Corwin Prescott)

More Nudie Pics Coming. Lesson Not Learned.

Wendy Rose, as Object

I pretty much hate any advice anyone gives me, particularly unsolicited advice. Especially non-praise unsolicited advice.*

That is why I was highly displeased to receive this message from someone named Amy: "Yet another example of drawing in readers with a picture of an objectified woman for an article on sex."

Wow, I could almost hear her judgmental sigh. "Yet another....  SIGH."

After ruminating of a variety of bitchy replies, I finally settled on something more conciliatory:  "Well, I am a woman and I chose it because it spoke to me. Or maybe that's what The Man wants me to think... Anyway thanks for your opinion, Amy."

If you hear any implied snippiness in that last sentence, well, that's because it was there. 

The picture in question was this:

It accompanied a post on a sexless marriage ("Having No Intimacy for 23 Years is Killing Me"). I chose the photo because I liked the visual idea of someone having to store their sexuality away in a box. Also I totally wanted to oppress women.  

Anyway, to her credit, Amy ignored my snippy tone and sent along this note and photo: "I thought you might be interested in this image I created to illustrate the phenomenon I was describing. Food for thought... :)"

(For the record, if you start at the upper left hand corner of the pictures of the women and go clockwise, I've used photos 1 and 3 on this blog.)

I get what she's saying and respect her for questioning what we do and fighting the power and all that, but for me, it wasn't as simple as objectifying women to draw in readers. At least I don't think so. I'm certainly willing to have that conversation. Let me explain and you can decide if I've got Stockholm Syndrome and don't realize it. (Please frame all comments in the form of praise, see above.)

My first point would be that--at least according to sexuality studies--women actually don't respond sexuality to photos of half-clothed hunks. They may say they do, but the goings-on in their vaginas tell a different story. What makes women wet are photos of said men only with a visible hard-on, plus pretty much any other hard-coreish visuals including men giving men blow jobs, women with women, people jerking off, straight-on hetero fucking, even monkeys mating. In other words, everything but the shirtless dude photos. So there's that. 

When I pick a photo a naked woman for this blog it's because I think it is beautiful or evocative or sexy. Generally I am seeing a part of myself in the woman in her pose of rapture or submission or power or bad-assery. I am not thinking "Leer at this lady" but more "Behold this sexuality!" Which, in my mind, is different. It's about owning or claiming or just simply witnessing the desire or adondon or pain or transcendence of that particular sexual moment.

My Muse in this matter was (and is) Wendy Rose, she of Church of the Victorian Cult. Wendy was (and is) the sexiest woman I have ever met in my life. She is gorgeous, for one, like a edgier Ann Margaret, with crazy tousled red hair, insane lips, legs, boobs, all of it. But what is really sexy about her is her crazy-ass brain. She is whip-smart and funny, but operates at a poetic vibrational frequency slightly too wild for Earthbound reality.

Wendy Rose

Here's an excerpt from her Facebook post the other day:  "It's not a rocket science or a mermaids nest or a falling light from the sky or a sphere up there...It's my birth right. A dash of fiction and a dose of truth. It's all living somewhere deep and deeper down inside of you." See? I don't know what the fuck it means, but I love it.

Wendy has impeccable taste in music and fashion and art. When she lived in the apartment above me in LA, her apartment was filled with candles, exotic scents, and possibly one too many cats. But what struck me is that she had surrounded herself with beauty, particularly art depicting the female form.  

To me, it certainly didn't seem like the art was there to do the apartment equivalent of drawing in readers. It was more a celebration of women and sex and beauty. By surrounding herself with these images, Wendy Rose was claiming their power for herself and enhancing and enriching her own sexiness with their silent aura. 

On her Church of the Victorian Cult Facebook page, Wendy Rose is still creating her world of beauty and poetry, madness and inspiration with midnight scribblings and images like this:

I fucking love this! And, it's probably not wise or flattering to admit this--but I can completely identify with the chick (there I go again--oppressive language!) in this photo. I have existed in that psychic/emotional space. I see this and feel it and claim it. This is a Truth and I celebrate it. Huzzah, motherfuckers! 

So yeah, more naked chicks coming. Lesson not learned.

xoxoxo
jill

* I recently took the Martin Seligman "signature strengths" test and my lowest strength--aka "weakness"--was humility. Which, in my opinion, is clearly the best weakness to have. If you want, go over to Seligman's Authentic Happiness/Positive Psychology site and take the test. Long, but interesting and revealing.

Addendum 8/28:  Please see Amy Luna Maderino's response in the comments section.

Addendum 7/13/16:  Rerun for Miss Wendy Rose who is doing some cancer ass-kicking. I'm mad for the woman.  

(Male female image comparison chart by Amy Luna Maderino)

Real Sex Lives: Madame Beatrice, "My husband is my submissive pet."

This rerun of a Real Sex lives story came up in my feed and re-struck my fancy, or whatever it is they're calling it these days. (Note: do not call any body part "my fancy.".) If you dig this, check out our other Real Sex stories where people tell the truth about their sex lives.

xoxo
jill

*****
"You are a delight, and I love your blog - we often read it together," writes Madame Beatrice, the "we" including her submissive husband, Heath. Heath "identifies as bisexual and loves to cross dress. He's not yet been with a man, but loves his 'training,' thus far, with my Tantus RealDoe." (It's a big ol' real looking dildo--175.09 bucks worth of strapless cock that comes with this disclaimer: "Don't worry! Your new family member will Not arrive in a truck with 'Dildo Delivery' painted on the side." Which, in a way, is too bad.)

Anyway, this new story a bit more porny than I normally run--I prefer more big picture kinds of things--but I kinda had to run for it for the first sentence alone. Even though I consider myself-reasonably open-minded, I took the first sentence of her story literally and thought "WHAT. THE. FUCK." immediately picturing some poor cat or dog, unsuspecting ass in the air.

I recently took my pet's anal virginity.

I put him on his back, and told him to wait with his legs in the air.
I put on my leather harness, and attached the 7.5 inch dildo that almost perfectly matches my skin tone.
I walked back to the bed, and drenched my cock in lube, then started stroking it.

Fuck, but it felt amazing to stand there, looking down at his tight little asshole, and stroke my cock.
I stroked with the head of it right at his asshole, and told him he didn't really deserve to be fucked. Maybe I should just stroke myself and tease him.

He whimpered. He flat out begged to be fucked.

So I did.

I slid my cock into him in one motion, and I know it hurt. I watched him stretch around me, and I watched his eyes roll into the back of his head. I grabbed the Ovo ring and put it around his head, securing it under the glans. Vibration and penetration at the same time.

Once I started pumping into him, I couldn't stop. I loved watching the veiny rubber sliding in and out.

I've never felt as powerful and turned on as I did while fucking him.
I left so many marks.
I bit, I slapped, I grabbed and dug my fingers into his thighs, ass, and calves.
Nothing existed except my cock and his ass.
My abs were sore, but I just kept going.

I fucked him for almost a half-hour, straight, without stopping.
I don't know how I didn't break him in half.

I ordered him to cum. I told him that he was going to squirt like a good little slut with my cock inside him.

It took less than ten seconds before his navel was pooled with thick, hot cum.

I was shaking. I felt like I was the one who'd just cum all over his belly.

When I pulled out of him, he shook. He collapsed. He nearly fell off the bed.

And once he was cleaned up, he curled into the bed and into my breasts and fell asleep. Out like a light. Completely spent.

So there you go. Someone else's business delivered straight to your screen. And we are done for the day. If you are feeling the pull to share your Real Sex Story, write that motherfucker down and send it on in to:  jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

xoxo
jill

(The Velvet Underground, Venus in Furs, 1967, via You Tube)