Wednesday, July 31, 2019

A New Contest! (Because ERA Yes!)

it's a metaphor
So this whole sex toy fairy godmother thing* has been pretty rewarding, as such things go.

My most recent beneficiary/victim was a cool guy in Alaska with whom I immediately started discussing highly personal butt toy stuff, as is my way. Which was lovely, of course, but the best part is that he loved his new toy! (The toy was this, if you must know. Christ, you're nosy.)

His follow-up report, in part:

OH.MY.FUCKING.GOD! Ummm…WOW!  You are a scholar, a saint, a (whatever description you prefer), etc...[IBWMW note:  I prefer all compliments] It arrived Sat. early-afternoon and I’ve used it 3x already... I’m already experiencing pleasure I didn’t know was possible for a man!

Mission accomplished, my friends.

Now I want a vagina-haver to get something fun to put in, on or near their own highly personal orifice and dear Andy at Good Vibrations let me pick out something for you. Well, one of you, the rest of y'all are fucked (or in this case, unfucked. At least by this toy.)

Behold, your new possible lover, the Happy Rabbit G-Spot.
Pleased to meet you.

I have something similar to this toy and I like it very much (it? Him? Probably a him, but they get to chose.)

To be entered to win:
1.  Tell me what your favorite sex toy is via comment below or top secret email.
2.  Prepare your bedchamber for possible rabbit love.

If you are chosen, Andy will pack up your silicone lover and sent it your way. (Sorry, you have to live in the U.S. because insane shipping costs, not xenophobia.)  Drawing will be next week sometime. Probably.

Anyway, I love you. Not in the creepy way.  At least not at this moment.  Still time. 

xoxo
jill

* My fairy godmother box is a little low right now. I have a few tingly arousal gels for women (use at your peril/delight), a strap-on penis designed to be worn over an existing penis, a small vibe, a mini clit toy and some wee butt plugs. Yours for the shipping and possibly a decent tip from driving my ass to the post office so I don't secretly resent you. (As a fairy godmother, I'm kind of a dick.)

Saturday, July 27, 2019

Dinosaur Erotica, Literal Ants in Literal Pants and Other Seemingly Undesirable Objects of Desire

(Yes this is a rerun, but I have two new things on the way including a contest so there's that. But for now you get this. Again.) 

******

It probably doesn't speak horribly well of me that not one, but three readers (thank you Eric, Leah and Amy!), saw articles about dinosaur erotica and yes...thought of me.

At first I was kind of like, eh. I mean, after already writing about snowman erotica, horny leprechaun erotica, and Santa Claus erotica, there really couldn't be that much more to cover re: people fucking weird-ass things.*

And dinosaurs? Seemed like the options ranged from clawy scratching to hideous mauling, with all in-between combos also un-good.

But everything has its own life lesson to offer and dinosaur erotica was no exemption. I learned plenty of interesting stuff like:

--Scientists haven't found any fossils (soft tissue doesn't generally fossilize well) but speculate that dinosaurs probably had huge wangs, like 6ft long. The kind of hugeness that could really change the tenor of the exhibits in the Natural History Museum.

--No one is sure how dinosaurs had sex (rear entry position on sexy spiky lady Stegosaurus = instant castration.) 

--Scientists are hard at work (er...) rigging up computer simulations of which positions dinosaurs used to fuck to avoid the castration issue.  "These prickly dinosaurs must have had sex another way," said Heinrich Mallison, who is considered an expert, despite using the term "prickly dinosaurs."

--These phrases appear in Ravished by the Triceratops, according to someone who actually read it.

--I looked into the creature's eyes and saw the rage there, but I saw lust as well.
--I decided that I probably could get all this meat in me.
--I couldn't believe this was happening — I had a ten-ton monster licking my ass!

However, for me, the salient point in all this was:  the two chicks who are churning out all this dino ass-licking erotica started making enough money to quit their day jobs in one month!

This is their career advice:

If you find a market that is underwritten or doesn't exist, populate it.

Not to be mean, but their books aren't even good--not even cheapo niche erotica good--and they're really short, like 29 pages.

So of course, I started searching for an "underwritten market." It was surprisingly difficult.

Satan erotica?  Taken. "Gingerbread man erotica"? Taken.  Clown sex....at the Republican National Convention....with spanking?  Taken.

Finally I hit upon "ant erotica"

Maybe! There are no books about it and an interest, by these three dudes at least. Here's what one guy said on an ant erotica page that was pleasingly listed under the subhead of "romance and relationships."

"For over 10 years I have loved the feeling of ants crawling over my penis and balls....It started when I rented a house that had large secluded greenhouses which were unused. In these greenhouses large black plastic sheets had been put down to stop plants growing. One day during summer I lifted one of the sheets and found the whole ground covered in a moving mass of ants and ant eggs. I couldn't resist touching the mass which instantly crawled up my arm with a tickling, biting feeling. I brushed them off but the erotic feeling I had made me go back again next day. 

I stripped off, pulled back the sheet and gently lay down in the ants up to my shoulders and head. The feeling was amazing. Like a slow creeping tickling sheet being pulled over my body. There was no biting until they reached my cock and balls when I started to get lots of nips. This made me very erect and the more my foreskin pulled back the more they seemed to bite. it was divine. I was brushing them away from my face and at the same time twisting my nipples really hard. After a few minutes I had to masturbate and came all over the ants. After I had brushed off the ants and replaced the sheet I found my scrotum and foreskin were very red with small spots of blood over them. They swelled up over the next hour or so but not too much. Probably the acid in the bites. I rubbed some antispectic cream on and in a day or so I was reasonably back to normal. 


Needless to say this became an almost daily experience and sometimes up to three times a day."


******
"Needless to say" (!)  Exactly. Who wouldn't be right back out there the very next day (and sometimes up to three times a day)?

Anyway, is this a book?  "Fucking the Ant Hill"? Or maybe "Ants in My Pants: Literally. I mean there are seriously ants in my pants, biting my cock and balls, and I'll be back out there tomorrow. Needless to say"? Too wordy?

At the bottom of the ant page, I saw some promising links to "Fun with crickets" and "Slug fetish" which--needless to say--I clicked on immediately.

Under "fun with crickets," some guy named Don wrote this about some photos of him fucking (getting fucked by? making love to/with?) a couple bags of crickets.

I went out to the local pet store, and picked up a bag of 36 medium crickets, and another bag of 60 small cricket. I started out with putting cooked hot dog juice on the cock to be eaten, and started out with the small crix. I wasn't to please with the amount of munching that I received. So, I pulled the old tool out, cleaned it off, and applied a nice thin coat of peanut butter. Then I added all of the crickets to the container. The feeding frenzy was in full swing, and I was receiving a good bang for the buck. 

I think I may try meal worm, next, since I have yet to use them. 

One more thing about the crickets, I tend to swell up after a good feeding frenzy, and end up looking a bit like franken cock, if you know what I mean.


I actually don't know what he means about "franken cock" and I am evenly split over whether I actually want to know. However I do love how unerotic his story is, like Don's some guy hanging around the hardware store talking which tools he used patching up the old fence. I also love that Don decided that others would want to see pictures of the crickets eating (oh God) hot dog juice off his wiener. And the best part is, others did want to see the pix!

Like commenter David who had nothing to say about the hot dog juice, the wiener or the crickets, but commented: "Great job! Nice clarity on the container. What is the container, and where did you get it?" 

Which leaves me confused. To write for a market, you must understand it and I'm not yet there. I think I would be focusing on the slow erotic slathering of hot dog juice over my swollen hard cock, or maybe the smoldering lascivious look one of the crickets gave me as it started feeding on my balls, which were pulled tight to my body, as I tried desperately not to come all over those slutty, slutty crickets (medium-sized).

But clearly, I would need to focus on...the container.  And its clarity. And the fact that it's from Target, as Don later reports.

So, for now, my day job stays.

xoxo
jill

*Not judging as much as being completely completely fascinated.

Wednesday, June 26, 2019

Okay, ONE more thing about vaginas. Then I'm done. Possibly.

I was recently dog sitting at a friend's house and, to my credit/surprise, I didn't swim naked in her pool, find her dog using my favorite vibrator as a chew toy or have an inadvertent fellatio experience with her dog (on me, it was...complicated).  

However I did tart up her Apple TV by putting THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES on her "recently watched" queue, there for anyone to see.  

(In related news, I am available for dog sitting! I don't charge much, but on the other hand, I am not that good at it.)  

It was actually the first time I'd seen The Vagina Monologues performed, but it reminded me of this post on the book from waaaaay back in 2012, a time when young, innocent us knew little of what complete assholes some of our fellow humans were.  

Take my hand, will you, and travel back to that sweeter time when we could just hang out and talk vaginas.  

(And if you're wondering, I still have a weird prudishness with the word "vagina."  It's okay. I don't feel that bad about it. Even Eve Ensler, Little Miss Vagina Monologues, wrote "Doesn't matter how many times you say it, it never sounds like a word you want to say." Which, yeah.  I'm tentatively testing out "pussy" but it feels weird and obvious every time I say it, like "I am saying 'pussy' and we are all uncomfortable now.")

*******

Today I'll tell you a quick story from the book I just read which is--this will come as no surprise to you--The Vagina Monologues.

I'm telling you the story because it's just so fucking heartbreaking but also to remind us (me) why it's important to talk about this $%$# even though some people (well, this one dude on reddit who said I'm like a 12 year old boy) think it's unladylike. (Motherfucker calling me unladylike! What the fuckity fuck?....oh...yeah...I see.)

In the story, Eve Ensler interviews an old lady from Queens who was extremely hesitant about talking about her "down-there." "What's a smart girl like you talking to old ladies about their down-theres for?" she barks. After much prodding, she finally tells about the last time she ventured down there, in 1953. The woman--let's call her, oh, Agnes--tells about a date she had with Andy Leftkov, a real catch, a cute tall boy who asked her to take a drive in his new Chevy.

She and Andy were sitting in the car, recalled Agnes when "he just kissed me in this surprisingly 'Take me by control like they do in the movies' kind of way. And I got excited, so excited, and, well, there was a flood down there. I couldn't control it. It was like this force of passion, this river of life just flooded out of me, right through my panties, right onto the car seat of his new white Chevy BelAir."

Instead of realizing he'd found himself one hot little number, Andy was horrified. He said she'd stained the car seat and that she was a "weird, smelly girl." Agnes tried to explain that the kiss had caught her off guard and that she normally wasn't like this, but Andy drove her home in silence and never spoke to her again. "When I got out and closed his car door, I closed the whole store. Locked it. Never opened for business again. I dated some after that, but the idea of flooding made me too nervous. I never even got close again," said Agnes.

Years later Agnes got cancer and the surgeons pretty much cleared out her reproductive system, thus ending any worries about flooding ever again.

When Ensler asks Agnes a typically squirm-inducing Vagina Monologues-esque question, "If your vagina wore something, what would it wear?" Agnes replies, "It would wear a big sign: 'Closed Due to Flooding.'"

As the interview ends, Agnes says, "You happy? You made me talk--you got it out of me. You got an old lady to talk about her down-there. You feel better now?" [Turns away; turns back.] "You know, actually, you're the first person I ever talked to about this, and I feel a little better."

Knowledge is power, brothers and sisters.

xoxox
jill

(photo source)

Thursday, May 2, 2019

The Sex Toy Fairy redux, and reader books all over the damn place

Your situation may vary
Hey there gorgeous. Lots to cover, so let's just get to it.

Sex toys up the whatever: So my stash of sex toys have been going off to seek their respective fortunes in/on/around some of y'all's highly personal orifices and...damn, I LOVE being a sex toy fairy godmother wielding my sometimes literal Magic Wands.

Besides the new widow (a toy virgin!), the sex toys have gone out to a married person whose sex partner has been their own hand (still true, but at least they've got something else going on down there), a person who is embarking on a sexual adventure in midlife and a couple who asked me to curate a box for them.  "What I'm going to do is set it up as 'we take turns' one night at a time, one item at a time, pulling one thing out and let the good times roll, then have something to look forward to the next night," wrote B, because people tell me things. I haven't heard back from either of them since so I'm assuming they're too chafed to get to the computer.

Money people paid me money (good money, too--thank you!), some of them didn't (okay, too. I know well the world of Poor.)

But my favorite story was when one among you, dear C who lives abroad like a bad-ass, offered to be a co-fairy Godmother and sponsor someone who couldn't afford it. That turned out to be new couple R and T who sent a message that read, in part: 

"I'm going to get really personal and tell you that both T and I are recovering heroin addicts. So neither one of us are working at the time because we don't feel ready to have money on hand quite yet. Sex is a huge distraction for us when we have cravings to use. We do get creative and use pillow cases to tie each other up but if we had a toy(s) to use it would really be amazing!!"

So on C's dime, I filled up a big priority box with all kinds of naughtiness and sent it off in a test run of our unconventional rehab program. Wrote C:  "I love their story and I am so happy to help out. I got divorced in my mid 40s and finally discovered a myself again - with an even richer sexual life. Because of the horror of the divorce, I am finally getting back on my financial feet and can do things like this. It makes me so happy!!! Sex and feeling good and healthy and sexy and wanting a full wonderful experience is the incredible and wonderful and necessary."

I still have a ton of some stuff waiting and willing to sexxx you up.  Among the items are:

--vibrators galore
--various bullet vibes
--a thrusting vibrator
--a prostate stimulator (non-vibrating)
--prostate stimulator, totally vibrating
--a penis-shaped hollow strap-on (to be worn over a penis for a little extra somethin')
--various lube, cbd oil for the groin

If you'd like a specific thing, or want me to throw a few things in a box, write me at jillhamilton001@gmail.com. I can also send you photos or more info, if you're the cautious type.  You'll need to pay postage (medium priority box is $14.35, large is $19.95), plus some amount of extra money for handling/bravery because mailing sex toys is occasionally harrowing.

Readers' Books
Two (2!)  among you have put out absolutely killer books recently.

The Uncomfortable Confessions of a Preacher's Kid by Ronna Russell is a wonderfully honest memoir about growing up in an extremely religious household, marrying a not-so great closeted man and, discovering later in life, that her narcissistic, controlling father was dying from AIDS. Just thinking about it, I am now ashamed that I used the word "harrowing" for going to the stinking post office, when this is the real harrowing business of life. But it's also a hopeful story.  Ronna is strong as hell and finding her way just fine. The Uncomfortable Confessions of a Preacher's Kid is definitely in the genre of jacked-up childhood/eccentric parent reads like The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls and Educated by Tara Westover.


On Blossoming: Frank and Practical Advice on Our Bodies, Sexual Health, Sensuality, Pleasure, Orgasm and More by Gia Lynne is wonderful, shame-free Sex Ed book geared towards teens, young adults and parents. It's exactly what you'd want such a book to be--smart, frank and sex positive. Unlike regular sex ed (if your kids are lucky enough to even get any), On Blossoming has way less talk of Fallopian tubes and way more about the interesting bits like orgasms, consent and finding pleasure.
  
Later, man.  I'm off to re-hide a bunch of sex toys that are all over my bed so I could take photos for you.

Above the call of duty,
xoxo
jill

Monday, February 18, 2019

Sex Toys! Get Your Sex Toys!

I can show you the world
Due to my inability to say no to free things, I have amassed an embarrassingly large collection of brand new sex toys for both men and women--especially, for no reason in particular, butt stuff for men. There are only so many things I can put in, on or around my own parts, and I'd absolutely love to get them into the orifices of people who really want them.

The thing is, I can't afford to pay for shipping to send you all this stuff just free, especially those of you who live in other countries and don't tell me 'til the last minute.

Ideas? Should I create a Google doc of what I have and you can peruse my wares? Silent auction? Weird online garage sale? Should I only make you pay for shipping? Or should I charge a little extra for my Travel To Europe To Engage the Services of Parker Marx fund, which is on the secret bucket list in my head and presently contains zero dollars (which according to today's currency exchange rate is equivalent to zero Euros)?

I do want to get these toys in, on and/or under you, somehow. I have a deep love of giving out sex toys, especially when I feel like I'm really helping someone. Like, I gave some really great high-end toys to a non-rich new widow in Michigan the other week and honestly, I felt like a fucking fairy godmother, one who hands out literal Magic Wands.

So think on it, will you?

xoxo
jill

~~Disappearing magically into a cloud of fairy dust, or maybe it's just shimmery lube~~

P.S. I did sell the non-joy sparking Sex Machine and when I went to the local postal store to mail it, a mother at my daughter's school was working at the counter. I don't know her but I know she is a member of a religion that is not known for sexual tolerance.

On the advice of someone I shall not name, I lied and said the really really heavy package contained "books" because it was gonna cost over 90 bucks to mail as "non books." I thought I'd pulled it off and was emailing the buyer to tell her of our good fortune, and at the same time the school mom--perhaps guided by wisdom not of this world--OPENED THE PACKAGE.

Which is simply not done, but that's exactly what she did.

This is what she saw:

basically an onslaught of panties and a big pink dildo

Our eyes met for 4 million years while the box still sat wide open and radiating its pink shame, and even though I am 53 fucking years old and write a sex blog, I could feel my face go hot and red. She finally said, "I didn't see anything."

But she saw it all.

I will never go there again, but I did get the way cheaper book rate which, yes, is mail fraud, but I don't care because rules don't matter in our country anymore and anyway I felt I'd earned that money.

Friday, February 8, 2019

Heart-Shaped Box

I don't believe in illness as metaphor.

Proponents like Louise Hay claim illnesses can be traced to some sort of unresolved psychological issue, (i.e. dis-ease. New Agey types looooove them some etymological wordplay).

According to Hay--who, notably, is not alive: Back problems = "carrying the burdens of life,"  Cellulite= "stored anger and self-punishment," Cancer = "deep secret or grief eating away at the self" and so on.  I'm not onboard with it mostly because I despise when people say stuff like "dis-ease," but also because it's victim-blaming--what the hell kind of "deep secret" could a sick baby with cancer be harboring?

And yet. Several of my friends have recently gone through health scares with parts of their bodies that are called (not here, but somewhere) "female parts." Each of them is sexually dissatisfied.

After some fretting and hand-holding, the tests are back and everyone is fine.  (For now! 'Cause none of us are ever really for sure fine.)*

And now I'm having a thing too. A part of my body is asserting itself by becoming inappropriately thick. Which is not the same as being thicc, though I do like the idea of my uterus being "fat in the right places, creating sexy curves."

It's probably no big deal, but I am a big fucking worrier, and have suffered many tragic and inevitably fatal, imaginary maladies. (Although I do professional-level work, worry-wise, I am not paid for this particular skill.)

Illness is the night side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place,”  wrote Susan Sontag, who is also dead, because death cares not for your philosophy on it.

If I were going with the metaphor thing, I'd guess mine was about unresolved issues with the deepest part of my sexuality (need to develop a thicker skin? swollen with desire? being unfilled/unfulfilled--bonus for wordplay?) Louise Hay says the uterus represents the "home of creativity."  Damn, girl.

Whatever happens with my sisters and me, I'm gonna take our unwanted citizenship in the kingdom of the sick as a welcome chance to do some personal reassessment--a Gift of the Vagi of sorts. 

I'm going to rip off the big "TO: JILL" tag on this particular present and do some re-gifting to remind you too to go out there and fill your own box with what it truly desires.

xoxo
jill

*The inevitability of mortality--hahahaha! I'm also super fun at parties.

Please tip your server.

Sunday, January 6, 2019

The Sex Machine

It's all in your head, really
The sex machine arrived at my doorstep in a large, blessedly unmarked box. Inside was The Motorbunny, all 32.9 lbs of it, prone and ready for all manner of fuckery.

The Motorbunny, a more "affordable" version of the famous/infamous Sybian, is ride-on sex toy that's somewhere between ride-on lawn mower and the mechanical bull in Urban Cowboy, a movie I never saw but feel comfortable citing in an outdated, possibly incorrect reference.

When it arrived, I peeked inside the box and saw a padded half-cylinder thing that you* sit on. There were also a variety of attachments that look like pink dicks and/or pokey things. Not included was an add-on ass/vagina combo called "Jiggle Butt For Men." (Surprisingly, even though Jiggle Butt For Men is, by its very name, forbidden to me as a woman, that didn't make it all the more darkly tempting.)

And, well, that surreptitious peek was my one and only encounter with my fuck machine. Since then, that big-ass box has sat unmolested in my bedroom for, dear God, maybe like an entire year now.

I've been trying to figure out why. 

Part of it is its size. Right now, it's just a large box storage problem. Once I take it out, it becomes a sex machine storage problem, an entirely different matter.

The second reason is the price, $950. I'm guessing the depreciation on such a item would be similar to that of a car, but subject to a more immediate and drastic price drop after I "drive it out of the lot," so to speak. Maybe I'd get a decent story for you, but how could I possibly justify $950 for what might be single, alarmingly bad fuck?

The third is that I've finally realized... I just don't want to. Yes, I read reviews about women screaming in pleasure for hours, endless orgasms and squirting various substances all over the place. But even though my body parts have not (yet?) known the love of the fuck machine, I felt more of a kinship with other reviewers who'd used phrases like "like blasting your bits with a car engine" and "like a Rage Against the Machine song....transformed into a sex toy."

That's not to say real beauty cannot arise out of harsh, literally mechanical sex...


 from the Motorbunny Art Project

But the kind of sex I seek is not what the Motorbunny is offering.

It was 1.5 episodes of Tidying Up with Marie Kondo (thx for the rec Caitlin Grace) that finally did it. The main idea is that items in your home should "spark joy." I was all in with this Life Changing Magic, despite my daughter Ava muttering, "Does your Social Security card 'spark joy'? Does the cats' litter box?"

No. They do not spark joy. And, I realized, neither does this stupid big box in my bedroom, its fuck machine contents and its brutish love. For me, the daring choice was not, as I'd long assumed, getting on that thing as anyone would expect I'd do, but letting it go without riding it, and opening the space for something I truly desire.

All that to say: Sex Machine For Sale. Never Used.

Make an offer.

xoxo
jill

* By you, I mean, you and not me. 
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