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.)

Monday, July 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.

Saturday, July 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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