Welcome "Sexually Aroused by Foam"!

I feel sorry for Google, I really do. Yes, Google is our current and future Mind-Control Overlord and all that, what with its frighteningly extensive and accurate knowledge of our secret desires and obsessions (see also: Web-Browser History A Chronicle Of Couple's Unspoken Desires in The Onion) and yet...

Well, sometimes I think we just ask too much of Google. I mean, judging by the search terms that land searchers confused and bleary-eyed here at In Bed With Married Women... I can see why Google sent them to me because, honestly, where the hell else should they go?

I mean, take the person who typed in vagina pad for camouflaging fat. Where would you send them?  What the hell do they even want? I think Google tries to meet everyone's needs, but sometimes it must throw its algorithmically-formulated hands into the air like, "Fuck it, I don't know that. Send them over to IBWMW."

Really, what is Google supposed to do with a query like: what toy can make my pussy fat? That is an UNANSWERABLE QUESTION. Google is not a zen master, it's a computer search engine. The answer, which Google is certainly too polite to say, is "Why the fuck do you want a toy that makes your pussy fat? A. It doesn't exist and B. That is stupid. Go away and don't come back around here until you find something reasonable to search for." This also goes for 2050 horse fuck women house as well send them home. Um....what? When Google got that particular query, it just backed away slowly and nudged them in my direction. "Here you go, this nice lady will take real good care of you."

And oh lord, the forbidden little fetishes and excessively specific sexual desires that Google gets to be/has to be privy to. I understand having a bit of a preference for something--I myself like me some big brown eyes--but maybe these folks could expand their horizons a wee bit more so they don't need to be seeing an old man taking a hand job to get off. C'mon, mix it up!  Try "Spanish men taking a hand job" or even just plain old "hand jobs." There's probably only so much porn featuring old men getting hand jobs and at some point you're going to tap it out. And then where will you be?  I'd offer the same (unasked for) advice to the searchers of: strawberry shortcake sex, women who crave big ball sacks, women wearing female condom porn, anal hair plug fake, my little pony sex, fake vagina string, charming tranny bear (as opposed to the uncharming ones who are just kind of dicks), girl using vagisil porn, old ladys who love to fuck animals and, my personal favorite, sexually aroused by foam.  As for the person who typed in free porn having sex with a cucumber hollowed out: Dude, the pay cucumber porn site is worth it--WAY hotter.

Sometimes I think Google just sends certain people to amuse me. I was strangely pleased by Give the images of Indian womans penis in vagina because it sounds like someone addressing a genie in a bottle. "Genie!" they command, clapping smartly. "Give the images of Indian womans penis in vagina!" And I was honored to see that IBWMW was the #8 choice for sex with stuffed animals, because it's always nice to be top-rated in something. (Note to self: Ask Marketing Director about new slogan: "Your #8 Choice in Sex with Stuffed Animals," plus product tie-ins?)  And I like that someone searched for mmm sex ass, though I can't really say why.

Sometimes I think Google is just messing with people. A shockingly high number of folks have earnestly typed in the phrase explicit pictures of penis in vagina only to be cruelly directed to my post entitled, Sorry, No Explicit Pictures of "Penis In Vagina". Ha ha, sucker.

And other times I think Google is messing with me. Sending matronly bosoms or pendulous breasts boring sex to me? Hey, thanks a lot, Google. And what were you thinking sending smut mouth married woman to me? Oh, wait, I get it. Right. I'll just let myself out.

image: Aladdin finds the Genie’s lamp in the magic garden. From Aladdin und die Wunderlampe (Aladdin and the Wonder Lamp), illustrated by Max Liebert, 1912. From Project Gutenberg public domain texts.

Real Sex Stories (x 2!), On Pegging and Other Genderfuckery

Of all the articles I've written for Cosmo, I think the most popular have been the two on pegging (here and here).* Between that, and the general tenor of the mail I'm getting lately, I'd say plenty of dudes (at least secretly) are pretty damn interested in pegging and/or screwing around, so to speak, with traditional gender roles in the bedroom.

This seems all good to me. I mean, why stick to your particular birth-given sexual role (i.e. the fucker vs. the fucked, penetrator vs. penetrated, etc...) when you could take on the entire spectrum of possibilities?

If you must know, I also got a lot of weird as fuck letters, which is not related to this subject particularly, but that's just the way it goes around here. But here are two I thought were smart and well written, esp. because one used the phrase "fucked like a boss."

xoxo
jill

*One Cosmo piece was jerkily plagiarized and used verbatim as the uncredited "script" in a YouTube video, an offense negated slightly by the fact that they acted out the positions with Barbie and Ken dolls and even fashioned a wee little strap-on for Barbie.

*************
First a short one from Anonymous, the most popular name around here.

My GF and I have recently introduced pegging to our sexual repertoire (pegging meet coitus, coitus, pegging. And over there we have cunnilingus, bondage, spanking...) Specifically, I was the one who was proactive in making this happen. I picked up on her interest in mutual anal play and took it another step. My own orgasms are intense because of the physical stimulation, but I really get off on how it transforms her into a wanton teenage boy and makes her appreciate just what a guy has to do physically. Now that she is hooked, I have introduced her to the notion that she needs to be the one to initiate and to seduce me. We are having a lot of fun with this.

And this is from Nick and Sarah, who aren't actually named that so don't be eying the Nick and Sarah you know like you know their business:

I'm trying to bust up some traditional gender programming in my life.

Lately I'm taking on female-traditional work: cooking, cleaning, parenting, while my wife works longer hours. I love cooking for my family! I love looking after my little kids. And when the kids are tucked in - welp, looks like I'm the girl in the bedroom too! Now, I'm quite comfortable with my male body and clothing.. But I want to be treated like a girl sometimes - getting kissed firmly, strong arms around me, felt up, and ultimately put down and fucked like a boss. It feels really really good, and a lot more loving than some of the D/S porn.

I'm conflicted about this - and maybe my wife is too - so I really appreciate your positive articles on your blog and in Cosmo.

This is the story of my recent 5th wedding anniversary. My wife Sarah and I had booked a lovely hotel room facing the ocean. I took her for a nice dinner. I confessed that I was interested in submitting to her more in the bedroom, and that I hoped she would take more leadership.

I've noticed over the years, when I've had sex, sometimes my partners would completely lose it. I don't mean moaning a little bit -  I mean uncontrolled moaning, eye rolling, begging for more. Sometimes women will cry afterward because they are so moved by the experience.

To be quite frank, I want to feel that way. As a man, I feel the burden of having to be in control and avoiding expressing feelings that are too strong.  I told Sarah wanted to drop the mask for her. I wanted to give it up to her and feel a strong connection.

When we got home she held me in her strong arms. We looked at the sun setting over the harbor. We kissed each other passionately. She told me firmly that we weren't going to have sex tonight, and that I was getting a spanking. And did I ever!

Sarah put me on the bed, naked, on all fours, ass to the open drapes. My legs are still shaking as I think about what happened. She spanked me firmly, and thoroughly. I looked back at her and felt that connection I'd hoped for.  Here I was, giving it up to a determined, smart, and successful woman - the mother of my children, and my life partner.

She didn't give me any of her body except her strong right arm, but that was all I needed.  I submitted to her like a Catholic girl on prom night, moaning her name loudly into the pillows. When she finished, I was red at both ends..

We collapsed into each other's arms and slept - she held me tightly to her chest as we drifted off to sleep.

Love your blog. xo

True Sex Tale: Cici, "We have made love five times this year."

I was working on some boring-ass other thing when this plinked into my in-box from "Cici Sparkle." Holy fuck, this chick can write. Her story is so...dark and true. (Displaced/unfullfilled passion, it is motivating...)

I am just gonna run it without comment except to say that if you want to tell your own true sex story, face up to what's going on and send it in.

Here then, Cici Sparkle:

A “sexless marriage” is defined as one where the couple has sex fewer than 10 times in a year. We may have made love five times this year. It’s September. We have been married for 15 years.

I find him attractive, cute, boyishly, geek-ily sexy. I'm independent, feminist, loud, fun, reformed wild-and-crazy; he is passive, quiet, thoughtful, brilliant.

He doesn’t look at my body, doesn’t try to touch me, never sneaks in while I’m showering or grabs my ass while I’m cooking or talking on the telephone. He has never seduced me; has never unhooked my bra or looked at my body as he removed my panties. Sexy pictures and suggestive text messages make him uncomfortable and angry. He accuses me of being unstable - to whom else are you sending these photos? - and unsafe with technology when all I want is to tap into the primal, animal instinct that he must have… doesn’t he?

I approach him while wearing lingerie, bluesy-sexy music playing in the background, feeling lascivious and tasty, and he turns on the TV. I wrap my arms around him, throw my legs over his lap, gently nibble his earlobe and he freezes, almost as if he is afraid of what I may “do” to him.

He stays up all night either consciously or unconsciously to avoid coming to bed. Lovemaking, when it happens, is only in the morning. That way he can pull away from me afterwards, bounding out of bed to get showered and dressed immediately so I won’t have further expectations to be held or kissed or, heaven forbid, to reach climax. I make him feel dirty, I suppose, but not in a good way. If I’m on top - most times - he doesn’t move, save to hold my hips lightly. Occasionally he’ll cup my breasts and kiss them tenderly if they are right in his face, otherwise there is no foreplay. Perhaps this is my own fault. I am so easily - physically - turned on, so he never had to try very hard.

I can’t help but keep track. very Monday morning, after another weekend that we didn’t make love, I pick a fight. When he is sick or we have overnight weekend guests, I am irrationally angry and bitter: another lost opportunity for intimacy. Every time my period starts I rage, the pain and exhaustion mocking me, Mother Nature marking another month that he hasn’t even tried. When we do make love successfully, I am angry, too, because I know that the next time could be months away.

I don’t think he’s vindictive. He somehow doesn’t know what else to do, can’t read my body language, and follows instruction poorly. We used to have a good time together, even after our children were born. I had a lot of experience with men and sex but not with love. Our relationship was never passionate, but there was always deep caring and trust and a desire to please.

Have I mentioned that my husband is an alcoholic? Over the years he has progressed from being a social/heavy drinker to being a drunk, an habitual drinker, a selfish fuck of a man who drinks steadily until he passes out or until all of the beer is gone. He doesn’t yell or throw punches; instead he leaves a trail of beer cans and potato chip crumbs for me to find the following day, falls asleep in front of the blaring TV, lights blazing, with a beer can in his hand, spilling on the couch and the carpet. He wakes up sticky-eyed and confused just before dawn and rambles to bed as quietly as his lanky 200 pounds can be. He sleeps through his alarm, occasionally getting up in time to walk the kids to the bus stop with pungent, yeasty sweat coming out of his pores. My favorite mornings happen every few months when I wake up to him having pissed on his side of the bed.

Al-Anon tells the enabler not to manipulate situations so the alcoholic will pay bills, eat, go to work, or sleep. We are essentially told to get out of the way and let the train wreck happen. I have stopped fighting with him about his drinking and sleep habits and our terrible, sad sex life. He has worn me down and I can’t bear to be rejected any more. “You know I’ll never leave so the pressure is off. I’m trapped and unhappy and you don’t care. So, you win. I will not pursue you any more.”

There is a specific point in his drunkenness when he can be coaxed into bed. Too little alcohol and he wants to stay up later and party; too much and he is sloppy. Thursday was one of those nights. I was asleep although not soundly, too dead tired at this late hour to greet him but alert enough to hear him close the door and lock it. He crawled into bed and put his arms around me, my back to him. I lay uncharacteristically still and hoped he would get the hint to leave me alone. My instincts told me that if I woke up fully and encouraged him I would be disappointed, left aroused, alone, and wide awake. He nudged and snuggled me until he finally persuaded me to turn over on to my back. Despite myself, my arms went around his neck ... he is my husband, after all, and I love him in an unrequited, desperate way.

We lay quietly, close together. His tongue slithered into my ear, big and wet and invasive. I shuddered and pulled my head away. He kissed my neck and my face with lips that felt flabby and loose, smacking noisily. I tried to kiss him the way we used to - a light touch, gingerly sucking his bottom lip, gentle, tentative tongue - but he was too drunk to follow my lead. Instead he pressed my lips too hard with his mouth, hurting them against my teeth, jamming his tongue inside my mouth, licking and swirling with the finesse of a sixteen-year-old. He tasted like beer and smokeless tobacco, which he probably flipped out of his mouth when he came to bed. My skin crawled and I pulled my face away. He reached his hand between my legs and pushed them open gently, then used one finger to part the outer lips of my labia as he began recklessly jamming his hips into mine, not guiding himself or exploring, just poking until he found a warm spot.

He is well-endowed and was hard enough to penetrate me but I knew immediately that he wouldn’t finish. For several long minutes his efforts were on straight fucking, all pelvis and cock, pressing his full weight on me, banging away and breathing heavily. The alcohol rendered him incapable of multitasking so I raised my hips, moving with him, encouraging him, but also reaching for the tiniest bit of pleasure for myself. I was wet but not fully aroused so I wasn’t “open” enough to take his full length; I winced and tried to move away every time he thrust and hit my cervix. Tears rose in my throat as I whispered to him to slow down. He feels claustrophobic when I hold him too closely or wrap my legs around his hips so I lay my open hands lightly on his shoulders, my feet firmly planted on the bed, waiting for him to exhaust himself.

Finally I could feel him getting tired, losing his erection, breathing heavily, slowing down and stopping, at last, to catch his breath. He stumbled out of bed and went to the kitchen for glasses of ice water. When he returned and deposited my glass on the nightstand, I pretended to be asleep and made a small noise when he patted my head. Wide awake now, my back to him in the darkness, feeling light-years away, listening to his breathing as it became deeper, I thought about all of the reasons that I hate him.

Hope you can use this ... thank you for your beautiful blog.

****
Thank you for being such a bad-ass, Cici. And yes, of course, I can use it. Hope it finds its way to who(m?)ever might be needing it in their day today.

xoxo
jill 

(photo source)

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)