A Farewell to Rodney Van P. Before I Delete Him Forever

"Are you familiar with the book 'Double Penetriciton'?"

I have a confession to make. I am guilty of the sin of censorship. I know, I know. It's hard to believe that I, purveyor of vagina in a can posts, would be holding anything back. But it's true.

What I have been hiding from you are the romantic propositions of one Rodney Van P. (kinda his real name.) I thought it was to protect your delicate sensibilities, but I now realize I was wrong and perhaps have been preventing you from experiencing your own Beautiful Love Story.

If you don't know Rodney Van P. (and how could you, due to my cruelty?), he is a frequent poster to the In Bed With Married Women Facebook page. No matter what the topic, he has his own spin to it, generally him offering to "eat kitties."

Here's what Rodney had to say about a post during Bad Sex Week.

"Ive never had any bad sex with married women and love to orally please their bodies eat their pussies and screw them and eat them out again after sex, So add me you horny married women please."

I thought you would not want to hear this, so I deleted it at once. But was I wrong? Were these the sweet sweet words you've been longing to hear?

I'm so so sorry. Just because he is not appealing to me (his Facebook list of favorite books includes: "Double Penetriciton," "Fuck Books!!!" and "Fuck My Ass." And everyone knows that "Double Penetriciton 2: Even More Penetriciton" is the far superior book) doesn't mean you wouldn't like him just fine. I do not want to stand in the way of True Love.

So here is another Rodneyism I withheld from you. I forgot what he was commenting on, but it will not surprise you to hear Rodney's take on the subject:

"Id love to taste your fat and meaty kitty."

Good old Rodney! No matter what I posted on the FB page, he always liked it and was always there with a (slightly differently worded) offer to eat kitty. That's the thing about Rodney. He was so tenacious. Even though his propositions were never up on the page for--at most--5 minutes before I'd discover them and delete them in horror, the guy Kept On Trying.

"Maybe the problem is my wording," he must have mused, pondering the shocking lack of response to his generous and appealing offer of kitty eating. "Perhaps I shall change 'eat your pussy before and after sex' to 'taste your fat and meaty kitty.' Blast it all! Why are women so inscrutable?"

I guess it was this tenacity in the face of his endless lack of success* that kept me from deleting Rodney instantly as I have so many of his barely literate brethren on the Facebook page.

So today it pains me somewhat to finally give in and delete the hapless Rodney forever, taking the FB fan from the suggestive number of 469 to the more blah 468. And, I have to confess, I'm kind of gonna miss the guy.

*I fucking hope so.

Curse You, O Tepid Sex

From out there among you comes this tragic missive from dear reader Just Jack in response to Nicole Daedone's steamy-ass essay For Purposes of Example, This is the Best Fuck of My Life.*

Best post ever. And ultimately the most depressing to read and realize... my best years, where only a few precious moments were like Nicole's description (only from a dude's POV) were before age 21. 20+ yrs later, it's galling and terminally depressing to know, I will never again experience such a thing. Rather than wonder WTH I did wrong to marry a woman who has utterly no concept of any of this stuff... I'll just go back to work and be another walking dead 40-something dude. *puts bag on head and shambles off*

Ugh, so completely sad and horrible! And so... just... true. There's a certain particular hideousness to sexual loneliness within a marriage that is its own private torture. I mean, it's not really the kind of thing that people talk to each other about, despite it being, I think, quite common.

Witness this Twitter response--I won't identify the writer so as to not get him in trouble with the wife--to My Wife's Body by Anonymous Husband: "Sad post for me because I adore my wife but we have never had sexual chemistry and I feel that way about her being but not her body."

So.

The problem here is a partner who is nice enough, a loving parent and all that, but they just don't...well...get sex. Or there is no chemistry. Mainly, and most depressingly, there is a completely upsetting lack of the kind of soul-shaking, hot mind/body fuckery that makes life worth living and whatnot.

Hmmm..... Well, when I am right in the middle of a good bitch session, my friend Leah is fond of saying pointedly, "Okay, we have identified the problem. Now let's work on solutions!" This sort of makes me want to punch her, because I do so enjoy complaining, but the girl has a point. So solutions. Anyone?

I mean, what's Jack to do? I somehow think that putting a bag on his head and shambling off--while being convenient as well as inexpensive--probably isn't the best solution here.

But can you teach someone passion? Can you create chemistry where none lives? Is it wrong to yearn for the kind of transcendent, universe pulsing sex that makes your whole body shake?

I have no clear solutions today--sorry Miss Leah--but I will offer you two routes that readers have taken. I neither endorse nor condemn either. Anyone who's making an honest, clear-headed effort to find workable solutions is okay in my book.

The first is from reader Noelle (not even close to her real name) who, faced with a sexless marriage and an uninterested husband, finally gave up and started having anonymous affairs during business trips. You can read about it here in Noelle: Finding Sex Outside Her (Practically) Sexless Marriage.

The second is from reader Liza who somehow managed to break a 10 year fuck-less marital stretch so definitively that her blog Always Each Other is pretty much a lovingly pornish detailing of the various and sundry ways she and her husband have their sweet sweet way with each other.**

Anyway, you there! You clearly have it all together, do you not? What say you to Jack and everyone else in this situation?

Place bag on head and forge ahead? Light sexual fire under reluctant spouse's ass? (Caution: use metaphorical fire only.) Say "fuck it" to social mores and possibly a fine-enough marriage by banging someone hot on the side? Go it alone with a willing hand and good memories? Channel unfulfilled lust into excessive interest in scrapbooking?

I thank you in advance for your attention to this matter.

xoxox
jill

*In the essay, Daedone--the gorgeous teacher/practitioner of Orgasmic Meditation (a practice which sounds about a thousand times more fun than focusing on your breath)--describes a really really good fuck. There were hugely swollen body parts, soaking wetness, something about a honey blanket orgasm. Whatever. The #$%$ was good.

** What the hell happened? According to Liza, "I don't know exactly when the buildup began, but sometime early last year I started to have...feelings. And then I felt like reading sexy stuff. And then I wanted to touch myself again."  Liza also makes passing mention of a "medical procedure" that helped with things. More info on that if she answers the rudely nosy email I sent her.

(photo source)

The Princess Who Couldn't Come

Hi there, sweet thing. Would you like to hear a fairy tale today? Okay, I'll tell you one, but beware, like all fairy tales, there is something relatively horrific in it.

It's not as bad as dear little Hansel and Gretel violently shoving a witch into a hot oven or the Three Little Pigs boiling the Big Bad Wolf alive. ("And as the wolf felt his flesh sear, he howled in the throes of the very deepest agony, while the pigs did a happy little dance and shouted 'Hooray!' Good night kids, sweet dreams....").

But it does involve--and please know that I can barely stand to type this--surgery to move the clitoris. Surgery to move the clitoris two times, after a first unsuccessful surgery. Primitive early 1900s surgery, which I suspect probably involved an ice pick, a rusty hook and unlicensed mesmerism.

Anyway, let us begin with our tale, shall we?

There was once a beautiful (enough) princess named Marie Bonaparte. Even though she was a great-niece of Napoleon and a princess and all, she wasn't happy because well, my friends, poor Marie couldn't have an orgasm.

Part of this probably had to do with the unfortunate (for her, at least) fact that her husband, Prince George of Greece, was a latent homosexual. According to Mary Roach in her completely delightful book Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex, the bad marital sex kicked off on their wedding night. In Marie's diary, she wrote that George mounted her "in a short brutal gesture, as if forcing [himself]...and apologized "I hate it as much as you do. But we must do it if we want children."

But Marie was a plucky sort and was determined to come. She decided she would solve her problem by taking other lovers. Several of them. But they too left her cold. Finally, she tried the most decidedly non-Princess-like move of putting her delicate fingers between her own legs, and found that lo! she could come!

Our plucky princess was also scientifically-minded and, though most of her blood by now busy throbbing desperately through her unfulfilled loins, she still had enough brain power to come up with a hypothesis. Perhaps, she thought, her problem was that her clitoris was too far from her vagina.

A royal experiment was in order. The princess found 243 willing subjects, asked them about their sex lives and somehow convinced them to let her measure the distance between their clitoris and vagina, or C-V distance. In 1924 she published her findings under the pseudonym A.E. Narjani because then, as it probably still is, Princesses don't go around sticking rulers between other women's legs and talking about it. According to this "Narjani":

--21% of women had a C-V distance of more than an inch (that translates to 2.5 centimeters for those of you in progressive countries that have somehow managed to grasp the intricacies of the metric system.). These women couldn't have an orgasm via vaginal intercourse, or did only rarely. The Princess termed them teleclitoridiennes. As Roach writes: "Teleclitoridienne means simply 'female of the distant clitoris,' but it had a lovely, aristocratic ring to it--calling to mind a career women in heels and a sweater set, cabling reports from her home in Biarritz. At the very least, it had a nicer ring to it than 'frigid.'"

--69% were paraclitoridiennes, with a C-V distance of less than an inch. These lucky-ass women were much more likely to have orgasms with vaginal intercourse.

--10% were mesoclitoridiennes, with a C-V distance of exactly an inch. These women might come...or might not, depending on a variety of factors (gay husband using "short, brutal gesture" VS. delightfully hot lover using torturously languid gestures + memories of recently seen Rudolph Valentio movie.)

The Princess's research gibes with modern data that finds that there is indeed a correlation between C-V distance and ease of orgasm during the deed. BUT, despite what porn films show and show and show, no way are 69% of modern women coming via regular ol' P in V sex. According to ABC News (and I must say it is pleasing to me to see ABC News using the phrase "sex toys, hands or tongue"):

About 75 percent of all women never reach orgasm from intercourse alone -- that is without the extra help of sex toys, hands or tongue. And 10 to 15 percent never climax under any circumstances.

But back to our story. Marie, perhaps her thinking clouded by unresolved lust, decided that the best cure for her condition was to have her clitoris surgically moved.

And when this didn't work, she tried surgery a-fucking-gain! Which also didn't work.

BUT this tale has a happy ending (and can for you as well, if you're a sweater set-wearing teleclitoridiennes.) Marie finally figured out some twisty Kama Sutra-ish positions, unfortunately lost to the ages, that did indeed get her off.

And our little Princess came and came and lived happily ever after.

P.S. There is a trick to discovering your C-V distance. An inch just happens to be the distance between the tip of your thumb and your first knuckle. So, if you measure using this "rule of thumb"... Oh...you left already?

xoxo
jill

(photo: Albert Arthur Allen, 1929, source) Note: This is actually not a photo of Marie Bonaparte, but c'mon, the chick looks unsatisfied and she's wearing a friggin' crown. I HAD to use it.

In Non-Sexual News

What? You're still reading? Did you misread the headline? It says NON-sexual. Okay, then, you fucking diehard. You're here now. You may as well listen to the rest.

So this morning, I awoke to discover that a delightful reader, T.P. of Putney, Vermont, donated money to the blog. T.P. had never written, commented or in any way made it known that he read and/or liked the blog. But yesterday, T.P. took 4 minutes out of his day (or perhaps 4 minutes out of his evening of drunken Internet donating), pressed buttons, filled out a quick form, and donated some of his own money.

And, damn, it if hasn't made my fucking day.

Outright donations like that of dear T.P. of Putney, Vermont, are exceedingly rare. (I know! Total shock, right? For such top-of-the-line content delivered right to your fucking door. To your fucking door!) Such random donations are so rare that when it does happen, I get filled with love for humanity and life and writing, and I wish to honor the donor somehow. To let them know that their act made a huge difference, gave me the will to live, and whatnot.

My question to you, dear reader, is how should I do that? When a few people donated last month after the post on Google dropping my ass because of my supposed "adult content" (damn, just thinking about it makes me mad AGAIN. We are adults talking about adult things! Not frickin' perverts raping kids behind the school. Fuck! Can't grown people discuss something as innate to being human as.... Crap. I'm sorry, what were we talking about?)

Oh yes, so when those people donated, I wrote them each an email thank you note, but then afterwards, I wondered if that seemed a little skeevy*. After all, the internet is largely an anonymous medium. You don't want someone you've been arguing with over at the Huffington Post showing up at your door to finish the debate. So the whole thank you note thing--I don't know. (If you are one of the people who received such a note, please feel free to let me know--skeevy or not.)

I was also thinking of creating a permanent Supporters of In Bed With Married Women wall of fame/sidebar thing for the blog, but, I'm unsure about this too. After all, donating to a smutty** blog is not the same as bequeathing your estate to the local children's library. Do people really want to be listed publicly as a supporter of IBWMW? Fuck, maybe they do. A lot of people read this thing and you all might be heartened to know that you're not the only sick fuck sweatily entering the IBWMW URL when no one else is home. No, you're part of a community of sick fucks sweatily entering the.... Actually, from what I've seen of the lot of you, you are with a few notable exceptions, smart, funny, lively, perceptive and delightful citizens of the world.

So my question is this: How should I honor/thank donors? Wall of Fame, skeevy thank you note, or some other, much better solution I haven't yet thought of? I bow to your collective wisdom.


*Not actually sure if "skeevy" is a word.  If it's not, invent a definition for it as you see fit.
**Or worse, PORNOGRAPHIC blog, as judged (ever so harshly) by Google.

(photo source)

On the Benefits of Someone Who Can Kiss The Hell Out of You

The other day at the grocery store, a man came up to me and said, "You must know that you smell incredible." "Uh, thanks," I murmured because, in truth, it was all I could do to tamp down my geeky impulse to add, in a manner reminiscent of a female Mister Peabody: "Ah, you are responding to biological clues in my scent. Most likely you are detecting a favorable genetic similarity between us--although not too much similarity, as that would encourage genetic mutations in our young. All this sensory information is telling you we are probably well-suited to bear healthy, symmetrical young with a balanced assortment of genes." 

It is impulses like these that make me glad I am already married. As Dorothy Parker said, "Men seldom make passes at girls who say nerdy &%$# like that."  

So it was with trepidation that I started studying the biochemistry of kissing. Because as any formerly religious person can tell you, there's nothing like a little science to ruin a wondrous, magical thing. 

"Soul meets soul on lovers' lips," said Percy Bysshe Shelley in Prometheus Unbound. A truly good kiss does feel like the meeting of souls -- maybe it's because so much is happening in a kiss. Helen Fisher, author of Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Romantic Love, calls kissing a "mate assessment tool" and says, "When you kiss, you can touch, see, feel, taste somebody. A huge part of our brain lights up." Feeling someone's breath upon us or inhaling the scent of their neck is lovely in its own right, but also provides us clues as to each other's health, diet, and genetic make-up. In other words, it makes good biological sense to mate with the one whose kisses make you weak in the knees. 

So why is kissing the right person so damn good? Well, darling, those sweet kisses are making you crazy with a triple hormone combo that increases your sex drive (testosterone), makes you think pair bonding with this person is a fine idea (oxytocin) and causes you to be all sappy and prone to the excessive playing of Iron and Wine CDs (serotonin). In a 2007 study, researcher Wendy Hill compared the hormone levels of college students who had spent 15 minutes kissing with those who merely held hands and listened to music in the student center. For some reason, I love the detail that they were in the student center. The results of the study--stress levels in the kissing couples decreased, blah blah blah... wasn't as interesting as this bit of student center-related info:  

Hill thought that the setting might have been too clinical for the women to get turned on, so she tried in her latest study to up the ambience by locating the couples in a secluded room of an academic building, outfitted with a couch, flowers, jazz music and electric candles.

Alas, the article did not include a picture of this academic love nest with its "electric candles." Not that I think that setting is really all that important. I base this sweeping assessment on the fact that I received my best, most sublime kisses ever in an attic bedroom in Ann Arbor, Michigan, atop a set of bed sheets festooned with pictures of The Flintstones. (There was also a giant tapestry over his bed featuring Aries the ram, but in my memory, I choose to edit that detail out.) I didn't care about any of the decor though because, god, that guy could kiss. Sweet, melty, insanely wonderful kisses. I would live inside his kisses if I could. As the night grew later and later, I told him I should probably go home. "You could," he whispered, while placing the most delightfully soft kisses on my chin and nose, "Or you could stay here and kiss me all night." In a typically bad decision of that era (I was drunk, natch, as was my wont in those days), I inexplicably chose to go home. Dumb moves such as that, plus--okay, fine--my delightful habit of drunkenly calling him at all hours, ended things quickly thereafter.   

Which was too bad, because, damn, our young would have been symmetrical as hell.

Getting Buzz Lightyear Stuck in Your Butt and Other Hazards of Naked Vacuuming

Mayday! Mayday!

Please excuse the interruption, but this just in from major media outlet ABC News as part of their "health" coverage, Patients Get Bottles, Cell Phones, Buzz Lightyear Stuck Inside:

One winter night, Dr. Melissa Barton was the attending physician in the emergency department of the Detroit Medical Center. Making her rounds, she picked up a chart for a new patient and read the woman's chief complaint: "eye in the vagina."

The patient told Barton she had been expecting a fight with some neighbors outside her house. Wearing only a sweatshirt and spandex pants, she needed somewhere to stow her prosthetic eye for safe-keeping.

"Those things are pretty expensive and hard to replace," Barton said. "So that's where it went, along with her driver's license."

Unfortunately, it got stuck.

In case you were just skimming or have already blocked it all out, here are the salient facts: some lady put a prosthetic eye AND her driver's license up her vag. For safekeeping.

Okay, I get that this chick was in a hurry due to the pending fight with her neighbors. But, in my estimation, if she had time to stick her driver's license inside herself, she probably had time to just run it in the house instead. All things considered, running it into the house would probably actually be more efficient. I think no matter how good you are with your hands, it's probably never a speedy process to insert a big, rectangular, plasticky unfoldable thing into your womanly folds. Yes, even if you were super super aroused and really wanted to fuck the hell out of that driver's license.

Although perhaps I am not giving this lady enough credit. Maybe she had a plan. If she did get into the fight with the neighbors, at the crucial moment, she could stare right at her neighbors (with the other eye, of course), squat menacingly, push the eyeball out in a dramatic, birthing fashion, then start running toward her neighbors, yelling "Aaaaaaaaaaaahhh!" and brandishing the eyeball. I guessing she would win the fight right then and there. 

Here's another one:

Dr. Gary Vilke, a professor of clinical emergency medicine at the University of California San Diego Medical Center, saw a patient who had four Barbie doll heads stuck in his rectum.

"When you looked at his x-ray, they were looking at you, like a totem pole," Vilke said.

Can't you so picture those four Barbie heads, stacked in a totem pole fashion, looking at Dr. Vilke as though silently pleading, "Help us. Please, help us."?

But, fear not, lest you are concerned that some dude was getting off by beheading Barbies and ramming their heads up his butt, there is actually a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this.

"My favorite excuses all involve someone who was doing something in the nude," reports Dr. Rich Dreben, author of the book Stuck Up! 100 Objects Inserted and Ingested in Places They Shouldn't Be. "'I was vacuuming in the nude, when I fell.' Usually, it's some naked activity and a resulting accident."

Exactly. So this guy was vacuuming in the nude, which is the very best way to vacuum, as we all know. He tripped and fell right on top of a Barbie head! And damned if it didn't happen three more times. I think we've all been there, right?

Other objects that have found their way inside someone's personal orifice after such careless naked housework include many salads worth of vegetables, Buzz Lightyear (see photo above), nail clippers, and reading glasses. 

I can see the appeal of putting something inside oneself, but I guess I'm kind of picky about which household objects I'd wish to fuck. Like certain vegetables--a particularly handsome carrot, perhaps--might have a chance to have its way with me. But c'mon, nail clippers? Too pokey! And friggin' reading glasses? Even the most stylish pair of reading glasses, to my mind, are not the least bit fuckable. Hear that, reading glasses? Don't even try.

Still, people fuck what they want to fuck. As the commenter Sutureman1 wrote, "After over 30 years in surgery, I am awed at what people will do to themselves. I have so far seen: a candle, lightbulbs, batteries, spaghetti prongs, a mattress coil, and even a can of Edge Shaving Cream (the 33% more sized can )."

I love that he noted that the shaving cream was the "33% more sized can" because I think it makes the whole episode 33% worse.

But....I'm sorry....what were we talking about? I lost track because I just had a sudden thought on the man with the Barbie heads: Do you think he was talking to them as he had his way with them? 

"Hey, Barbie, see my sweet ass? You want some of that, don't you?" (Pointing Barbie's vapid eyes toward his eager butt. Barbie continues to smile vacantly, as is her wont.) "C'mon Barbie, beg for it!" *using his high Barbie voice* "Oh, please, I want to be in your ass so bad. Please, do it now!"

Right, that scenario is entirely too upsetting. So I am going to have cling to the fragile tendril of hope that maybe, just maybe, it really was the nude vacuuming scenario. It's about all I can handle today.