On Submission to Desire

One of the sexiest things to me is the idea of being overcome by passion. Not romance novel-type emotional passion, but physical passion--being so completely turned on that you just...fucking lose it. I love seeing, hearing and inciting someone to be so overcome and I love being so overcome as well. Nothing is hotter to me than the raw desperate desire of a choked out, "Please..."

That submission to pure wanting requires abandoning your logical brain, throwing yourself into the overpowering forces of all-out lust and hoping you'll come out okay on the other side. I think there's a kind of bravery in that. Maybe that's what is so intimate about sex with another person--you're both jumping into the void together.

It's that line between control and loss of control that's so interesting to me about artist Clayton Cubitt's video series "Hysterical Literature." The stark black-and-white videos each feature a woman sitting a table reading aloud from a book of her choosing. However, under the table, there is an unseen person equipped with a back massager who is assigned to distract the reader as she reads.

The women try to keep it together and keep reading, but as they continue, they begin to show signs of losing focus with a little gasp or a quick intake of breath or wiggling in their chair for a better position. They fight to keep their composure, but finally they have to give in, toss their heads back with a kind of "fuck it" and ride the orgasm.

Here, see for yourself below with Stormy reading from Bret Easton Ellis' "American Psycho."



In an interview in Salon, Cubitt discussed the idea for the series and his artistic vision.

"I’ve long been fascinated with the concept of control and authenticity in portraiture, especially in these modern times of personal branding, Facebook self-portraits and incessant Instagram self-documentation. What is left for the portraitist to reveal? How can we break through to something real?...These are all attempts to see something they’re not trying to show me.

On an individual level, I’m interested in the battle the sitter experiences between mind and body, and how long one retains primacy over the other, and when they reach balance, and when they switch control.  On a larger scale, I’m interested in how society draws a line between high and low art, between acceptable topics of discussion and taboo ones, between what can be worshiped and what must be hidden."

At the end, the women are instructed to re-state their names and the book they've read from. Some aren't able to do it. Cubitt said of their post-filming interviews:

"It’s quite interesting to hear about what was going through their mind as they started to lose track of what they read and surrendered to their bodies. They talk about it almost like it becomes a religious trance, and they usually have no recollection of the last half of the reading."

What do you think?

xoxox
jill

Portrait of a woman. Lina Corsino, Emilio Sommariva 1933

Thanks to Trace, who reminded me of this series on the IBWMW Facebook page.

Plushies and Friends. Oh, you are so in for it, Snuggle.

Snuggle, watch your back.
That's all I'm sayin'.

As I often profess, I'm down with whatever consenting adults want to do. You want to fuck a can opener? Go to town. That said, I am simultaneously fascinated with the fucked-up $%#$ that consenting adults actually end up doing (note: I mean "fucked-up $%#$" in the kindest possible way. I use it here to mean "everything I personally don't want to do." And embarrassingly, I am coming to realize that this category includes a lot of items including: having sex with people in chipmunk costumes, bleaching/dyeing/vajazzing delicate body parts, calling balloon phone sex lines, and, well, I could go on. It's a shamefully long list, really. )

So naturally I was delighted when a wonderful (aren't they all?) In Bed With Married Women reader emailed the results of this plushie survey taken from a plushie website.

Now, if you don't know what a plushie is, well, it's someone who loves stuffed animals. The term encompasses a range--from people merely liking and collecting stuffed animals (like that nice old lady down the street) to people wanting to fuck the living hell out of stuffed animals (like that nice old lady down the street). (Social acceptance hint:  if you're not actually into having sex with stuffed animals, you won't want to refer to yourself as a "plushie.")

Anyway, like I said, I was thrilled to see the survey, because, oh lordy, it was awesome. For example, here are the results to Question 3:

3. What odors do you prefer or desire on your plushies?
    [ 66 ] - new, or with no specific aroma
    [ 47 ] - cum, mild
    [ 43 ] - body sweat, mild
    [ 40 ] - musky, ball-sack aroma from yourself or other people
    [ 26 ] - pee, mild
  * [ 25 ] - musky, real animal scent (ferret, fox, rabbit, deer, etc.)
    [ 19 ] - cum, very strong
    [ 18 ] - body sweat, strong
  * [ 16 ] - incense
    [ 15 ] - perfume or cologne
    [ 15 ] - pee, strong
  * [ 13 ] - musky, tail-hole aroma (fart, poop, etc.)
    Other:   Cinnamon (1), Vanilla extract (2), Bubble Gund (2),
             Tobacco (2), Chocolate (1), Leather (1), Licorice (1),
             Ocean/saltwater (1), Just washed/fabric softener (1),
             Strawberries (1), Mild lemon (1)

I loved it. I mean, c'mon. "Ball sack aroma"? Not only are you going to have your way with poor Mr. Bunnykins, but you are also going to insist he smell like "ball sack aroma"? And, what, exactly, is the polite method of collecting "ball sack aroma" from other people? There was a lot to think about. I pondered something called "plush necrophilia." Did this mean a plush toy doing it with a dead human or a live human with a dead plush toy? And if the plush toy was dead, how was this different from a regular non-living (i.e. dead) plush toy? I learned about plushie porn, she-male plushies and the plushie subcategory that is Beanie Babies (conclusion: Beanie Babies are sexually arousing, yes, but generally too small to fuck. Okay to wear inside your pants). It was all completely fascinating.

But after my initial thrill wore off--Plush toys wearing bondage gear! Plush toy on plush toy action! Something called plush slavery!--I thought, Thank God for the Internet. Seriously. I mean, can you imagine being some kid in Utah who not only wants to have sex with stuffed animals, but also prefers they have "cum smell, mild"? You would feel so completely alone. It's not like you could really bring it up to someone, even a close friend. "Hey Joe, this is kind of weird, but did you ever get really really drunk with your stuffed animals and one thing led to another and...?"

But with the Internet, these folks found each other. Being a plushie in 2011 must be immeasurably better than being a plushie in 1973. Now, Mr. Beanie-Baby-in-his-underwear can find someone who not only gets it, but offers the hint that a pee-covered Beanie Baby makes the experience all the more erotic. Can you imagine what a relief it would be to find such a kindred spirit?

Now, I'm not saying that I want to smear a stuffed animal with poo and have my way with it (Boy, am I ever Not Saying that) but I am glad that if someone does want to do that--and they really do--that they have someone they can talk to about it.

Viva freedom and all that.

Ovulation = Hormonal Beer Googles

Is this chick ovulating?  Check out her

clingy clothes, symmetrical boobs,  the

manly companion... Signs point to "yes."

"People like to forget that we're animals, tied to the Earth and the tides," says a friend with a penchant for making such delightful proclamations. Yes, we think we're making rational decisions, exercising our free choice, and all that... but half the time--hell, maybe all the time--we're just blindly responding to our hormonal instructions like remote control cars in the hands of a sugared-up kid.

To wit: this study showing that women buy sexier, clingier clothes while ovulating. (To those who spent sex ed class giggling in the back of the class: ovulation is the woman's fertile period. And if you don't start paying better attention, well, don't make me break out my diagram of the female reproductive system.)

One of the study's researchers--sounding less like a scientist and more like an evil cyborg villain from a future dystopian universe--noted a way that corporations could cash in this phenomenon by hitting up the ovulation-crazed females ready to shell out cash on push-up bras and the like:

"Our findings suggest marketers for many types of female products are well served to strategically time their mailings, coupons, electronic solicitations, and direct requests to the specific window when women are ovulating."

Which is pretty damn evil. (And, following the same logic, presumably the marketing flyers for unsexy clothes would arrive a couple weeks later. Hey, JC Penney's--it's your time to shine!) But ovulating women aren't spending all their time just buying sexy clothes, they're mindlessly obeying their hormones in myriad ways. Women's voices get higher-pitched during ovulation, they walk differently, prefer more masculine faces and are more susceptible to pick-up lines. During this period, they're also more likely to fantasize about someone other than their partner. (For your Fantasy Consideration: Javier Bardem in that scene in Vicky Christina Barcelona where he seduces two women by telling them, "Life is short, life is boring, life is full of pain," thus, they should immediately run off to an island with him for the weekend.)

Um...what was I saying, oh yes, during ovulation, women's bodies change like some mutant Transformer, except instead of becoming robots in disguise, our ears, fingers and breasts get more symmetrical and skin color lightens. (Cue mutation sound FX.) Women actually get observably prettier, and subjects consistently rate ovulating women as more attractive.

And it's not just the ladies going all crazy with the hormones. Men think ovulating women smell better, they get more jealous of dominant males when their partner is ovulating and they give ovulating strippers more tips. ($70 an hour for the ovulating strippers vs. only $35 for the menstruating ones, but I'm guessing that's because the menstruating ones were probably sobbing in the corner, complaining that everyone had become a complete asshole.)

It all seems a little complex. I don't see why humans didn't just adopt the chimpanzee method of the females developing a big swollen pink butt when they're ready to go. It's a simple, obvious and clear signal of willingness. Although, admittedly, the pink butt route has its own drawbacks. Swollen pink butts do in fact make your butt look fat in those jeans, and pink butt makes it much more difficult to play it coy.

Female: Hmmm...I don't know if I'm interested...
Male: Uh, I can see your big ol' pink butt, you know.
Female: Oh, yeah, right....Let's go back to your place then.

Several friends and I have noticed that as we've gotten older, our cyclical swings of desire have become much more pronounced. One week we're WAY into it--like Superfreaks--and when we're not, well, eh, whatever. So here are your questions for the day: Are you elderly like us and is this happening to you as well? If so, you always noticed it or are you just becoming more attuned to the rhythms of your body? And you too, men, how is your desire changing as you age? Comment below, or drop me an email.

xoxoxox

jill

PS Goddamn rerun.

What would your ideal sex life look life? If you could pick up a new lover every night, would you?

Man demonstrating "The Takeaway"

I just finished* The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artistsby Neil Strauss. Now my head is swimming with questions about what men and women want, male/female mating habits and what sexuality might look like if there were no societal constraints. I have a bunch of questions for you--maybe we can muddle through this together.

If you haven't read the book, it's about this nebbishy guy (shy, skinny, glasses, thin smattering of frizzy chunks of hair) who studies pick-up artists to learn their secrets. First, he shaves his head, gets Lasik, goes to a tanning salon, and starts going by the moniker of Style. Despite going by the name Style (and even worse, giving himself that name) soon he can pretty much pick up whoever he wants. Seriously.

Style gets deeply involved with the pick-up community, an online group of pick-up artists (PUAs) who--with the laser-focus characteristic of their geekdom--have broken down all aspects of social interaction into identifiable and repeatable chunks. PUAs work with manipulation, an understanding of natural human tendencies (seeking approval, wanting unique experiences, etc...) and sometimes a bit of waking hypnosis to work towards an "f-close," that is, a fuck close.

PUAs have developed their own jargon honed over years of "field reports," that is, sharing what worked or didn't work during nights of "sarging" (picking up chicks). Going over and talking to a group of three people is "opening a three-set." The girl you want is your "target." To get her, you must become the Alpha Male of the group by entertaining the group at large while--at first--pointedly ignoring your target. When you finally decide to gift her with some attention, you toss her a "neg" or sort of meanish comment-- "Do you always interrupt people like that?" or "You would look good if you wore your hair up." In other words, you start fucking with her mind, playing on her insecurities, making yourself the arbiter of what she's doing right or wrong, and soon she'll be pressing you for an f-close.

You might, for example, make use of the "push-pull," a technique identified and named by Style (though judging from my dating past, most assuredly not originated by him.)

Push-pull (noun): a technique used to create or increase attraction, in which a man gives a woman indications that he is not interested in her followed by indications that he is. This sequence can take place in a few seconds--such as taking a woman's hands and then dropping them as if you don't trust her yet--or over time, such as being very nice during one phone conversation but then very distant and abrupt during the next.

Oh, there's more.
---False time constraints: Creating a false time constraint ("I can only talk to you for five minutes") relieves a woman of wondering how she's going to get rid of a PUA, yet also gives her a sense that she must vie for the PUA's attention so that he won't leave.
--Demonstrating Value: A PUA will carry around a pre-selected group of photos designed to portray him in a flattering light. (Picture with beautiful woman = desirability, picture on a boat = sporty, etc...)
--The Takeaway: If a PUA is making out with a woman, but she changes her mind about progressing things further, a PUA hops out of bed, and ignores her by checking email or something. The woman, feeling she has screwed up and lost the PUA, will try to lure him back to bed.
--Chick crack:  Chicks love fortune telling, ESP games and other psychological tests.

I really can't believe that it actually works because a lot of it seems indistinguishable from...well, what jerky losers do. PUAs "peacock," that is, wear outrageous clothing to attract attention like "bright shiny shirts, light up jewelry, [or] colorful cowboy hats." PUAs say cheesy things. For example, if the target inadvertently brushes against them, they say, "Hey, hands off the merchandise." And part of "opening a set" might consist of doing magic, for god sake.

So how does it work?

Have PUAs really hit upon a particular sequence of moves that can work on anyone? Or are the women they pick up drunken bar chicks, the sort of easily impressionable types who are always whipping out their boobs for Howard Stern?

Or more frightening, are we women so precarious that, with a few "negs" tossed our way, we too would be begging for affirmation and angling for an f-close? I have totally fallen for such tomfoolery in the past and--who knows?--maybe that stuff would still work on me. Or anyone. In her maligned/beloved book, Vagina: A New Biography, Naomi Wolf  posits that women are more likely to become biochemically addicted to love and, thus, highly motivated to attain their goal. Get those chemicals activated, gentlemen, and you're golden.

Also on my mind: Style seems like a smart and thoughtful guy, but armed with his new pick-up powers, he's sarging all the time. Everything he says and does is part of the game and human interaction is reduced to a series of moves to be parried. The girls are a blur, known only as Jennifer 2 or the blonde with the pixie cut.  He and the other PUAs only go for "10s," which invariably means fake boobs, blonde hair, 19 years old and preferably a stripper or porn star. Which is sort of depressing for every woman who is not like that. That is, 99.999% of women. Even 19 year old strippers only get to be that for one year.

The supposed happy ending of the book is that Style "wins" the game by finding a girlfriend, a hot blonde rocker chick who played with Courtney Love's band The Chelsea. But I googled his girlfriend (indeed quite beautiful) and discovered that they broke up after two years. Style is back in the field, sarging and hawking pick-up lessons.

If a seemingly nice, smart guy like Neil Strauss so easily turn into a disconnected heartless asshole, would any other guy do the same if given the chance? If men were unfettered by societal norms, is this how male sexuality would look?

I'm asking in a serious way. These guys are going through the same routine--even down to using the same words--to pick up different women every night. According to Sex at Dawn (quite thought-provoking--read it at once!) men generally like to do the same thing sexually but with novel partners. Is this the epitome of that desire expressed? And--this is probably hopelessly naive--but would men, with the exception of that Iron & Wine dude, be perfectly happy with new-chick-every-night relationships? And do most men really want that 19 year old fake boobed stripper? And if so, is that a natural inclination or a societal construct of what is hot?

I'm not asking in a judgey way, I'm honestly curious. Are men and women really so fundamentally different?  Because I would be completely disinterested in the new-dude-every-night scenario. A guy who was the physical equivalent to the blonde stripper, say, some extremely buff dude, would not be an immediate turn-on for me. (Unless he was wearing a shiny shirt, light up jewelry and doing magic!) I would care about his sense of humor, his intelligence, how his voice sounded and how my body was responding to him. There would have to be some sort of backstory to create/fuel my desire. Women? Is this true of you as well, or not?

And if an ideal male sexuality would be new chicks all the time, what would an ideal female sexuality look like? (Obviously everyone's different, blah blah blah, but I'm talking in general terms.) What do women pick when they are allowed to design their sex lives?  Women with financial stability, desirability and the balls to do whatever they want--someone like Angelina Jolie--seem to opt for a version of serial monogamy. Is this what we'd opt for as well? Women, what would your ideal sex life look like?

And if men want a new girl every night and women prefer serial monogamy, why would nature fuck with us so much by giving us largely incompatible mating styles? Or maybe there isn't a gender divide and we do want the same thing?

So curious to hear what you think. Answer one question or all of them. And feel free to comment anonymously if you don't want everyone knowing your business.

xoxox
jill

*"Just finished," meaning "read two years ago" because you are performing the miracle of time travel via this rerun.  Enjoy! I'm putting you all on the honor system for this trip to 2012, so don't fuck with the space/time continuum or anything. Although if you come across the 2012 me, don't tell me how it all looks for me in 2014, because that will just bum my $%#$ out.

If you commented in 2012, see if you agree with your 2012 self....

 Rudolf Koppitz - Sculptor and Nude, 1926

Cathy, the Inflatable Cow. Slut. Lover. Temptress.

Whenever someone tells me, "I saw this and thought of you," it's never about helping orphans or something--I don't know--reputable. No, it's always about some weird-ass horse fetish gear or a big honking dildo with wings or something.

Today was no different. Someone saw this and, well, you know. Let me just show you the photo.

Let us read the ad copy together, shall we?

Elsie Blow Up Cow is an inflatable cow. Elsie has a rear entrance and makes a moo sound when she is excited! For farm sexual enhancement.

Okay, let's stop here a moment and take stock. "Cathy" is an inflatable cow. That you fuck. That much is clear. But as highly disturbing as that is in itself, it is just the beginning of the conundrums Cathy brings up. For one, why does it come with the supposed aphrodisiac Spanish Fly? If fucking a blow-up cow is your thing, shouldn't an aphrodisiac be unnecessary? Two, why does the product come from a company called Discreet Romance? Maybe it's the writer in me, but I think the word "romance" is a bit strong for what's going to go down with poor Cathy. And finally, and perhaps most unsettlingly, don't the people who designed the box know that there's no apostrophe in "moos"? It an outrageous misuse of punctuation, I tell you!  

And not to offend both the right wing and PETA with a few careless words, but is it really so difficult to get lucky with an actual animal? I mean, how much of a loser do you have to be to not be able to score with livestock? "Yeah, last night I was with this really cute sheep. I bought her dinner and got her pretty drunk, but she's just not ready for an intimate relationship."  

Maybe I don't understand. Cathy and I would have to overcome several barriers to have a "romance." One of which is that I am a women and the only thing I can think of to do with Cathy is to go down on her. And that doesn't seem like it would do much for me or Cathy, despite the potential for Cathy making "a moo sound when she is excited." 

If you want to create a whole sexy barnyard menagerie, you can also get some of Cathy's buddies, including Blow Up Billy Goat, Erotic Love Piggie and Luvin Lamb. That way, if you and Cathy have a fight or something, you can still get some sweet vinyl love action. (Although, I can't help but worry about those jagged seams where the vinyl meets. Sharp seams + personal area = can't be good.)

If you're still determined to go this route, as I see it, your biggest problem--besides, of course, that you're fucking inflatable animals--is making sure you have a really, really good hiding place for them. Even the most penis-like looking vibrator can be semi-passed off as a personal massager, but good luck explaining why Luvin Lamb is lying ravished in your bed, all covered in Spanish Fly lube. "She's....she's....she's...oh, damn it, we're IN LOVE!"

xoxo

jill 

Addendum:  I was discussing Cathy with my friend Tim and told him that on her web site there were all kinds of testimonials from supposed "customers" on Cathy's reputed hotness. They were all along the lines of "I got Cathy as a joke, but then one night I was feeling lonely and..." 

My friend considered this and said, "I've been lonely, but I've never been 'cow-lonely.'"