New Contest, But I'm Going to Make You Work for It

Instead of waking up early and briskly typing out the lovely essay on science, crushes and obsession as I'd planned, I instead chose to hit the Motrin PM last night and watch multiple episodes of "Breaking Bad." I have not learned my lesson and would make the same decision again, but consequently, in place of the hard-hitting, life-changing reportage that you expect around here, I'm forced to offer you the (much less brain power required) gift of Earthly Pleasure.

To wit, this, the Pocket Rocket vibrator* from wholly delightful sex toy company, Good Vibrations:

You know you want me...

To win it, simply be the person to gather the MOST new fans to In Bed With Married Women by next Tuesday, Sept. 27. "Fans" can either be:

-- In Bed With Married Women Kindle subscribers

--Followers of the blog via Google Reader (see follow button in right column)

--People who "like" the In Bed With Married Women Facebook page 

--E-mail subscribers (see Feedburner form in right column)

--New Twitter followers (@Jill_Hamilton)

Bonus point opportunities!: 

--A shout out and link to In Bed With Married Women on your blog counts counts as five fans.

--A link to the blog or a particular post counts on your Facebook page counts as five fans.

--A FF or RT on Twitter counts as five fans. 

You can either have your recruitees tell me you sent them OR let me know how many you suckered in via comments below or an e-mail. Again, deadline is Tuesday.

* Disclosure:  I once owned one of these pocket rockets and it, combined with this ridiculous looking bunny sleeve thing, was so good, I actually had to throw it away. I loved it too much. It was also the inspiration for the post How to have a G-Spot Orgasm. So, what I'm saying is, well, the %$%& is good. Maybe too good.

Good luck...

[photo:  Undervannsakt (Slow Water) by Raymond Mosken, source]

Ooooh, Sears, You Naughty Little Store, You

Well, that does it. The whole world's gone sex crazy. First it was vibrator ads in the Sunday newspaper coupon section. And now another bastion of squareness has fallen to our freaky, freaky sexual natures.

See this?

This, my friend, is one Red Thong Back Open Cheek Fish Net Pantyhose made by the poorly named company Leg Avenue.

--"Where do you work?"
--(mumbling)
--"Sorry, I couldn't understand you.  Where?"
--"...leg...avenue."
--"What?"
--"FINE! LEG AVENUE.  I work at a company called LEG AVENUE. Are you happy now?"

Anyway, this whole Leg Avenue buttless red panty hose item is from... SEARS. Yes, Sears! Craftsman Tools, The Big Toy Box, Kenmore appliances, Toughskin jeans, Sears. The Sears which I tend to think of as more:

And quite a bit less:

Excuse me, does this train
go to Leg Avenue?

I know you might think that the rather large holes in the back are due to shoddy workmanship, but no, that's how they are meant to be. You see, while the rest of us were out paying attention to other, non-Sears-related things, Sears went out and got all porny on us.

Don't believe me? Well, explain this then, Ms. (or Mr.) Smartypants:

This is the Elegant Moments Leather Harness. For a mere $28.50, you or someone you love (or at least someone you like to fuck), could have a similar "elegance." Also deemed worthy of such Elegant Moments in your life are the Elegant Moments leather whip with silver handle, the Elegant Moments leather paddle, and the Elegant Moments "F*ck Me" Choker (I swear to god, it says "F*ck Me". I mean, they put the "f*uck me" in quotes like they didn't know what it means, and they threw the asterisk in there, but come on. At this point, it's a little to late to play it coy, Sears, you little slut.)

My favorite Elegant item is not this, the Mens Rooster Pouch

which doesn't take the top spot because -- not only is it alarming and exceedingly unarousing -- I think it would also encourage various "cock" puns. And I really hate puns. As well as chicken beaks near tender nether regions.

No, my favorite item is this, the Elegance Moments Leather Kilt:

Not because I particularly love the kilt or anything (I'm not a vegan, but I don't see a leather studded kilt as being the best use of dead cow), but because of the look on the model's face. 

You have to imagine how his day has been going. He gets a call that Sears wants him for a catalogue shoot. It's kind of dorky, he thinks, but, hey, it's Sears, it's a good gig. In this photo, he has spent the day being photographed in various bondage gear and very revealing underpants, such as this Mesh Underwear with Chain Back.

Not only is it dawning on him that Mesh Underwear with Chain Back is about the most uncomfortable, not to mention highly impractical, underwear he's ever put on, but he's beginning to wonder if this so-called "Sears photo shoot" has anything thing to with Sears at all. In the mesh underwear shot, he's kind of doubtful about it all, but by the time they break out the leather kilt, his look does not say, "Hello, Sears Consumer, please purchase this handsome leather kilt!" but instead, "This had better be a fucking legit Sears shoot, motherfuckers."

Although, as astute readers will remember, this isn't the first time Sears has gotten all sexytime on us.  Recall, if you will, this 1918 Sears Roebuck catalogue entry for a "very useful and satisfactory for home service" portable vibrator.

Which, in modern day Sears parlance, translates loosely to "a machine you can 'f*ck.'" 

P.S. Upon re-looking at this ad, I noticed at the bottom it says "Not necessary to buy a complete vibrator if you have the Home Motor." What is this Home Motor? Vibrators are glorious and all, but would you really want to stick your wang on some chug-chuging, smoke-spewing 1918 motor?

Tag, You're It



I love Dan Savage. He is funny and no matter what kind of fucked up question someone has about their sex life, he answers it calmly and non-judgementally. Everyone needs a niche and Savage's is, as one reader put it, "proper dildo protocol, indulging odd fetishes, and coaching readers on how to put large things inside themselves."

However, a few weeks ago someone wrote Savage with a problem so--okay, I'll just say it flat out...icky--that I am going to share it with you, making use of the same magic brain wave mechanism that happens when a song is stuck in your head and you tell someone else so that you may transfer the curse to them, thus purging it from your own psyche. So I submit to you, this problem from one Confused and Scared. I apologize in advance.

I'm a 20-year-old straight male, but this isn't really about me. I was recently back home for a family event while my younger brother, age 14, was away on a mission trip with his church. My iPad died while I was home and my mother told me to look in the kitchen drawers for a charger. I couldn't find one there, so she told me to check my brother's bedside table. I opened the drawer and, with a little digging, found a charger.

I also found a few pictures of gay porn and a couple of pictures of male celebrities with their shirts off that had been clipped from magazines. It isn't the gay porn I have a problem with—I fully support him coming into his sexuality, whatever it might be—but then I found a few things that were a bit more disturbing: a picture of our father in his swim trunks, and another one of a fully naked man with a cutout photo of my father's face glued over the original model's face. Needless to say, I was freaked out. I put everything back where I had found it, including the charger, and haven't said anything to him about it. Now I'm in a tough spot. I know that telling my brother I found the pictures would mortify him, and I feel like telling my father would be a complete dick move.
Concerned And Scared

On this one, even the preternaturally unflappable Dan seemed a bit taken aback, and was the most judgey I've ever seen which, for the record, involved the word "Ughers."

What would you tell this dude? See what Dan told him here: Savage Love--Daddy Issues.

Ahhhhh, I feel a whole lot better.

The Finest Scatalogical Humor Ever Written

My gay crush

This is a shout-out to the fifty-one (51) people who subscribe to In Bed With Married Women on Kindle.

Oh, there are plenty of visitors via Facebook, Twitter, or ill-fated Google search. And about 1000 free subscribers (which is fine--I welcome the poor.*) But the 51 Kindle subscribers--half of them Brits, who I imagine to be worldly, witty and generally delightful--who pony up 99 cents a month is what keeps me from deleting the whole blog in a sudden fit of pique.**

So, for you 51, I give you this: "Big Boy" by David Sedaris, which originally ran in Esquire in 1999, and later in his book, Me Talk Pretty One Day.

Note: it is scatalogical humor, also known around our house as "poo humor." (My 4th grader and I can kill a good 15 minutes on the comedy gold that is Uranus.) You have been warned.

****

IT WAS EASTER SUNDAY in Chicago, and my sister Amy and I were attending an afternoon dinner at the home of our friend John. The weather was nice, and he'd set up a table in the backyard so that we might sit out in the sun. Everyone had taken their places when I excused myself to visit the bathroom, and there, in the toilet, was the absolute biggest piece of work I have ever seen in my life--no toilet paper or anything, just this long and coiled specimen, as thick as a burrito.

I flushed the toilet, and the big boy roused around. It shifted position, but that was it. This thing wasn't going anywhere. I thought briefly of leaving it behind for someone else to take care of, but it was too late for that--before leaving the table, I'd stupidly told everyone where I was going. "I'll be back in a minute," I'd said. "I'm just going to run to the bathroom." My whereabouts were public knowledge. I should have said I was going to make a phone call. I'd planned to pee and maybe run a little water over my face, but now I had this to deal with.

The tank refilled, and I made a silent promise. The deal was that if this thing would go away, I'd repay the world by performing some unexpected act of kindness. I flushed the toilet, and the beast spun a lazy circle. "Go on," I whispered. "Scoot! Shoo!" I claimed a giddy victory, but when I looked back down, there it was, bobbing to the surface in a fresh pool of water.

Just then, someone knocked on the door, and I started to panic.

"Just a minute."

At an early age, my mother had sat me down and explained that everyone has bowel movements. "Everyone," she'd said. "Even the president and his wife." She'd mentioned our neighbors, the priest, and several of the actors we saw each week on television. I'd gotten the overall picture, but, natural or not, there was no way I was going to take the rap for this one.

"Just a minute!"

I seriously considered lifting this monster out of the toilet and tossing it out the window. It honestly crossed my mind, but John lived on the ground floor and a dozen people were seated at a picnic table ten feet away. They'd see the window open and notice something drop to the ground. And these were people who would surely gather round and investigate, then there I'd be, with my unspeakably filthy hands, trying to explain that it wasn't mine. But why bother throwing it out the window if it wasn't mine? No one would have believed me except the person who had left it in the first place, and chances were pretty slim that the freak in question would suddenly step forward and own up to it. I was trapped.

"I'll be out in a second!"

And I scrambled for the plunger and used the handle to break it into manageable pieces, all the while thinking that it wasn't fair, that this was technically not my job. Another flush and it still didn't go down. Come on, pal. Let's move it. While waiting for the tank to refill, I thought maybe I should wash my hair. It wasn't dirty, but I needed some excuse to cover the amount of time I was spending in the bathroom. Quick, I thought. Do something. By now, the other guests were probably thinking I was the type of person who uses dinner parties as an opportunity to defecate and catch up on his reading.

"Here I come. I'm just washing up!"

One more flush and it was all over. The thing was gone and out of my life. I opened the door to find my friend Janet, who said, "Well, it's about time." And I was left thinking that the person who'd abandoned this man-made object had no problem with it, so why did I? Why the big deal? Had it been left there to teach me a lesson? Had a lesson been learned? Did it have anything to do with Easter? I resolved to put it all behind me, and then I stepped outside to begin examining the suspects.

*To a certain extent

**It is just now dawning on me that poo humor as thank you gift is a bit strange, but ...well....there you go.

If you're feeling flush with an extra 99 cents, here's the link to subscribe to IBWMW on Kindle. You could be 52!

(photo source)

The Most Unsexy Porn EVER

E.T. has needs too.

I will forever hold a tiny, unyielding grudge toward the reader who brought this to my attention. (And please know that I apologize in advance for bringing it to your attention. Abrasive cleanser to scour your eyes out will be provided upon request.) I am speaking of this...this...well, I'm just gonna say it-- E.T. porn.

The censored (thankfully) footage is from a real E.T. porn film. And, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but "E.T. porn" means E.T. is in the porn, like, having sex. I know! E. flippin' T! When I think of E.T., my next thought is generally not "...is so damn sexy!" but, apparently, that's not a unanimous reaction.

If you are too frightened to look at the movie--a highly reasonable position--I'll give you the lowdown. A female-ish E.T. goes about town making sweet sweet love with various friendly Earthlings. The surprisingly nonplussed townspeople getting down with E.T. appear to be from 1800s-era England. (The 1800s? Why the hell not? The whole thing is already weird enough--why not throw some Abraham Lincoln-looking guy in there as well?)

The E.T. costume is saggy and grey and looks to be made from a vinyl-like, highly unbreathable material. Throughout her sexcapades, E.T. wears a dazed, sad expression. Look at that haunted expression in her/its eyes in the photo--I would not describe it as arousal. As one commenter on sci fi site io9.com noted, "E.T. has this weary look, as though she has to do this on every planet she explores." 

It's difficult to imagine anything less erotic than this film. I mean, there's the whole involvement of E.T., which is bad enough, plus that creepy haunted facial expression, the baggy, wrinkled costume (with matching grey deflated boobs, no less), the 1800s setting--not to mention a hideously creepy tongue thing E.T. does (about :55 seconds in--oh God, it's so awful!) Am I saying it would be somehow less unsexy if the suit were tight like Catwoman's suit, if E.T. had perky boobs, or if E.T. looked to be enjoying her/itself? I guess not--actually, that would probably make it even more upsetting. (The very idea of E.T. doing the standard girl-in-a-porn dialogue of "Ohyeahohyeah" would send me to the fainting couch with my smelling salts.)

Still, my mind strays to unanswered questions: How infinitesimally small is the subset of people who find both E.T. and the 1800s arousing? How did the film makers present their creative ideas to the E.T. suit maker? ("I want it wrinkly and saggy--with boobs!") How did the actors react when the director gave them such pointers as, "In this scene, you will be wearing a top hat and going down on E.T."? And are these actors ever recognized in public for this piece of work? ("Hey, don't I know you from somewher--" "NO! YOU DON'T!)

Anyway, like I said, I'm sorry I was compelled to show this to you. Next time I hope to exhibit better taste. Although if you come up with someone even worse...please, send it my way.

xoxoxo
jill

Real Sex Lives: Trisha, "Giant, Cumbersome Back Massagers Misused in the Cover of Night" and Other Faces of "Lady-bation"

In honor of this semi-creepy, embarrassingly accurate completely neutral information I received today via email (shown there at the left), I offer you this guest missive on my area of expertise which, you will recall, is MASTURBATION.

The piece below is from the blog SSL, which focuses on the "specific intersection of science, sexuality, and feminism; particularly paying attention to how female sexual response is discussed, portrayed, and studied in our culture." Trisha is also the filmmaker behind the fabulous "Science, Sex and the Ladies" which reveals that despite pretty much every thing we see about how women come, most chicks actually need to do some outer rubbing to get the job done.

Here's Trisha's My Tribute to the Many Faces of Lady-bation:

Here's to all the ladies rubbing up against their pillows; grinding hips into old teddy bears; laying on the couch spread eagle with their hands between their legs; riding their palms, face down on their bed; legs crossed in class gently pressing thighs against lips; silver bullet vibrators gliding across their vulvas; handle ends of old electric toothbrushes with just enough vibration pressed against clits; giant, cumbersome back massagers misused in the cover of night; fancy removable shower heads held dangerously close to the nether regions; quick rub offs in bed to help nod off; secret, quiet circles on disappointed clits next to sleeping lovers; joyously lip jigglin' in office bathroom stalls with memories of last night; frantic childhood couch arm humping; bored fingers on swollen clits; pick-me-ups between study sessions; unintentional bike seat friction; slow, sensual vulva massages in front of dirty internet searchings; good vibrations sitting on top of dryers; and all the other dirty, sexy, bored, silly, loving, gentle, secret, uninhibited, prohibited, fantastic ways we get ourselves, by ourselves, off.

Dreams Do Come True--A Cautionary Tale*

So, want to read my tale of inadvertent public nudity? (Fear not, to provide your eyes from burning with the horror of it all, I have not included any photos of said event.) I'll tell you the story right now, if you have the time.  Grab a cup of tea and come sit by the warm glow of the computer.

****

This story takes place in the not-so-distant past at the Orange County Burke-Williams. Burke-Williams is a day spa I used to go to in West Hollywood when I lived in LA. They have a posh spa area you go hang out in before you get your scheduled massage. The spa room has saunas, hot tubs, showers, a roaring fire and special soaking tubs. They stock it with fluffy towels, bowls of fresh fruit and always-full pitchers of ice water w/ lemon slices in them. They provide you with a thick robe and a pair of terry-cloth slippers. The spa areas are gender-segregated so while you're in the spa, you don't wear clothes. You soak in the tubs, use their fancy moisturizers, etc.. and when they call your name for your massage, you put on your robe, and walk down the hushed (and non-gender segregated) hallway to a private room.

Although I had never been to the Orange County Burke-Williams before, the set-up was familiar. I checked in and got my spa-issued robe. I found my locker, took off my clothes, and put on the robe. I went over to the hot tub, slipped off the robe and stepping into the steaming water. I had lucked out. The spa was completely empty, so I leaned my head back and sort of blissed out in the bubbling water.

I could hear people starting to file in. Some people came in alone, some in groups. One group seemed to be in for a special occasion like a wedding party or Girls’ Day Out. I heard the Girls’ Day Out group coming over to my hot tub and I idly glanced up. Using some keen powers of observation, I noticed something immediately--everyone was wearing bathing suits. If you were reading carefully, you may recall that I most assuredly was not. More alarmed now, I looked behind me and surveyed the rest of the spa. Everyone was in bathing suits. It was then I realized some information that would have been helpful to know a bit earlier--people in LA go naked in spas, people in Orange County do not. I sank lower in the water, hoping the bubbles would obscure the now-shameful fact of my nakedness.

I considered the situation. It did not seem good. Not at all! I was inappropriately naked in public! Holy fuck! It was just like that dream where you're naked at school!

And yet.

It WAS just like that dream. Which meant that the situation wasn't entirely unfamiliar. I had been in this situation before--at least in my mind--and knew just what to do. I would act like I was NOT naked, and perhaps no one would notice.

I waited for a few minutes on the off chance that everyone would suddenly leave and I could exit the tub in peace. This did not happen. So chanting the silent mantra to myself--"I am a cool European chick who does not share your silly American hang-ups"--I stepped out of the tub, dripping in my unwanted naked glory and made the long long long walk to the safety of my robe. I did not tarry, but I at least tried to exit the pool with some sort of naked dignity. I guess I succeeded, but I don't know for sure. I didn't make eye contact with anyone. I wasn't that fucking brave.

A Little Housekeeping, Plus A Man on How It Feels To Use A Fleshlight and A Woman on How It Feels To Use the Female Condom

In Bed With Married Women can now be sent directly to your Kindle or other e-reader! Imagine how horrified your other e-books will be. Click here for a free two-week subscription.

And just so it's not all money-grubbing around here today, I'll leave you with these two How Does It Feel descriptions from readers.  First, a man on Fleshlights, which are flashlight-looking male masturbation sleeves, and second, a woman on what it feels like to use a female condom.

Cpt. Wolf wrote of Fleshlights:   

In my experience, it's simply a different sensation. I don't find them to be a mind blowing experience, just a change up to suit my mood. The ones that I've tried are generally tighter than a woman. There's more tension to the material, even with generous lube. They're certainly not unpleasant, but don't hold a candle to the real thing. They certainly don't do the same thing for me as my girlfriend's toys when I use them on her. Although we've never tried using one of mine in bed. That, I have a feeling, is a totally different story. I think one of the big things is that I'm aware that it's still me doing it. The addition of another person would most definitely change the intensity. Then it might just have that mind blowing effect.

And Robin Wolfe (yes, she of Victorian Porn Fridays) had this to say of female condoms:

I tried them once. Imagine one of those small plastic bags that you put produce in at the grocery store. At either end, attach one of those silicone message bracelets that people wear to support various charities.

Now take that bag and stick it in your cooter (remember to squeeze the bracelet at the inside end so you can get it up there), and slop some lube inside it so the guy doesn't feel quite as much like he's fucking a plastic bag. Remember to keep reaching down during the act to make sure it isn't sliding out, or in, or perhaps disappearing into the Rift.

That's what it's like to use a female condom.

So, uh, okay, then, you're free to go. But don't forget about the whole IBWMW on Kindle thing. Alert the neighbors, tell your friends or just go on Amazon and give it a decent review.   

Victorian Smut and Homemade Plushies, aka It's Reader Mail Time

 

Sometimes you don't get to see some of the insanely fabulous reader mail I get when it comes via email, as a new comment on an dusty old post, is eaten by Blogger, etc...  

Thus, you missed this one from dear reader Chaffyn Lovejoy regarding the plushie post I'd titled, perhaps rashly and unwisely, I am going to fuck you so hard, Snuggle. Wrote Chaffyn:

I've got a nice plushie for you. Rather, my wife Freya does. Neither of us were aware of the plushie lovers contingency before we read your illuminating report on their . . . uh . . . activities. Freya, a multitalented artist, musician, and dancer (currently organizing and training a burlesque troupe) is making a series of anatomically correct stuffed animals. Here's her latest which she calls "Tranny Bear":

Not since someone doctored up a Snuggle Fabric Softener Bear® for me in 1987 and made it look it evil (it was all in the eyebrows), have I been so pleased to have inspired a disturbingly modified stuffed animal. Although, to be fair, there really have only been the two stuffed animal mutants. So, it's not, like, my thing, or anything... Still, I can certainly see how it all must look to you. I suspect having even one altered stuffed animal associated with my name is one more than most people have, and has undoubtedly put me on a suspicious persons list somewhere.

Meanwhile, gentle reader Robin Wolfe schooled me on Female Hysteria and Creepy Old-Time Vibrators:

Victorians have an unfair reputation as being sexless and/or frigid. Yes, there were the "lie back and think of England" types, just as there are now; but there were also plenty of people, including many women, who enjoyed sex plenty. In fact, many women in the Victorian era had what were referred to as "romantic friendships", which were passionate emotional relationships with other women, and they often crossed into being sexual. It was considered perfectly acceptable back then, and nobody (including husbands and families) thought anything of it. On a semi-related note, if you've never read any Victorian porn, you should; despite the use of ridiculous euphemisms, they often had an explicit frankness that can still be startling today. (If anyone's curious, I run a series called "Victorian Porn Fridays" where I occasionally post excerpts from Victorian-era porn.)

Well, OF COURSE I was curious to see Victorian porn and I'm glad I did. Do hie on over through Robin's link anon and verily you will behold Victorian smut like 1891's The Power of Mesmerism 

(man mesmerizes "Ethel" to remove her drawers, "insert her finger in that divine cunt and frig herself" and finally "draw forth his prick...then suck it until with a positive howl of delight he inundated her mouth with his spendings"). See also 1901's Autobiography of a Flea, written from the point of view of a strangely observant and well-spoken flea. Reports the intrepid flea:

From my perch nestling inside her bellybutton, I could observe everything. The pink, plump lips of her orifice seemed to be drawn back as he burrowed himself to his very balls within her womb. Their bellies touched as did their thighs, and a shivering paroxysm seized them both as their mouths fused in hot communion. Then slowly he drew himself out almost to the very tip and there was a sucking sound as the moist recesses of her matrix grudgingly released his weapon, straining every wily inner muscle with which the female is so lovingly endowed in the aspiration of bringing him back swiftly to her bower.

If you're into the whole Victorian porn thing, you might also have a look at Wicked Knickers, an oddly fascinating site of vintage erotic photos that proves definitively that old-timey people did more than just sit around in their parlors, roll hoops down the streets, and ring for Maid to bring in tea. 

(image source: http://lacontessa.tumblr.com/post/6062347052/alla-nazimova-and-rudolph-valentino-for-camille)

Steve Buscemi, the Archetypal Ugly Celebrity Crush? Plus, the Contest Winner

Not just hot,
Steve Buscemi hot.

The winner of the Ugly Celebrity Crush contest is Anna Marie. Her prize is an iRabbit Mini Waterproof Vibrator from Good Vibrations. Anna, send your mailing address to: jillhamilton001(at)gmail(dot)com and GV will mail your prize out asap. (A side note: Anna Marie will be "in the shower" for the foreseeable future.)

Anna's Ugly Celebrity Crushes were Rosie O'Donnell and Steve Buscemi. (Steve Buscemi, coincidentally, inspired this contest after a typically meandering and non-productive coffee conversation with Sandra that began, "I know Steve Buscemi is totally ugly, but...") Your Ugly Celebrity Crushes also included Conan O'Brien, Marty Feldman, Steven King, Dwight Yoakum and Donatella Versace, among many others. Yikes. 

I will add that it ripped my heart out to pick only one winner, and in the end, I just had my daughter draw a name out of a bowl. (I told her it was for a "back massager." Because that's the kind of lying parent I am.) I enjoyed your answers immensely and please know that I wish I could send blue vibrators to each and every one of you (and a pink one for you, little Lost.In.Idaho.) 

And if you didn't win, don't worry. I'll post another contest soon, if only to assuage my latent Socialist guilt over picking one person over another. (If you're feeling more Capitalistically-inclined, click here to buy it for yourself because you're not waiting for a stinkin' hand-out. You've worked hard for your money and will spend it as you damn well please.)

xoxox
jill

A Really Good Contest, Plus Your Ugly Celebrity Crush

See that blue thing below that appears to be pointing to these words? That, my friend, is not just a handy pointing device, but also today's fabulous contest prize.

It's an iRabbit Mini Waterproof Vibrator from hipster sex toy company Good Vibrations, an $89 value! (insert cheery game show music here.)

Damnably, I haven't tried it myself, but it sounds quite delightful. One, it's phthalate-free and waterproof. Two, it ranks very low on the volume scale (good for sneaking back to your room to "fold the laundry"), yet ranks highly on the intensity scale (meaning, laundry folding will be really, really....good.) But, that's not all--dude, listen to this ad copy: 

Sporting the same semi- realistic design [as the full-size version], the multi-speed iRabbit features the swiveling shaft, scintillating pearls, and multi-function pulsation patterns for a variety of stimulating experiences. 

The last part of the sentence with the swiveling shaft and whatnot is so appealing, I can scarcely be bothered to make a joke about the "semi-realistic design." I would so get this swag for myself, but I'm pretty sure I'd never leave the house again. (Note: not a lie.)

To enter, name your Ugly Celebrity Crush as a comment below. A UCC--because I'm literally too lazy to type the whole fucking name again (a time-saver I just negated by typing a much longer explanation which required the additional arduous task of italicizing. Crap.)--is a famous person who, while technically ugly, still has a certain something. Which is visible only to you. 

Dick Morris,
pre-fatness

Mine, I am sorry to report, is Dick Morris, who is a complete asshole and, truth be told, getting pretty fat. Yes, he's a fat, unattractive, politically heinous asshole, but...well, rrraaoooww. 

I know. I know. I am filled with shame. 

Okay, now you. Who's your Ugly Celebrity Crush?

Winner will be announced Monday, June 20, 2011, and selected by me and the vagaries of my whims. Or...if I'm lucky, me and my new lover, Dick Morris.

(Btw, if you want to bypass the contest and get to that "laundry folding" right away, click here to order the contraption.)

A Horse With No Name, And Other Sexual Props

I was tinkering around here, setting up a new, more alluring Donate button (over there, upper right) and saw a "You Might Also Like" link to an old post. I clicked on the ancient post, deciphered the cuneiform therein, and rediscovered a completely fascinating fetish prop store. It was found by a reader who'd been inspired to Seek Greater Knowledge by the anal ring toss game post. She wrote:

"I actually googled 'Who invented the anal ring toss?' I needed to know the story. Couldn't find anything. Darn. But what I did find while searching was almost as funny to me. I need to explore these web sites more... Here I feel so knowledgeable, but I didn't know this existed. Check this out:  The Pony Head Bridle Set."

What she found was horsey gear, very expensive horsey gear. This Pony Head Bridle Set, for example, is $275-335, despite the difficult-to-miss fact that the plume looks suspiciously like a feather duster. (That's how they get you! Cheap plume!) Although, to be fair, I'm not an expert and am willing to entertain the idea that my plume/feather duster differentiation skills might be a bit off. According to the ad copy (and I'm just going to take their word on this): "You could search the finest stables in the world for the rest of your life and never find a bridle set as intricate and beautiful as this one." In other words, Miss Smarty Pants Blogger Girl, it's not a fucking feather duster. It's a PLUME.  

If you're one of those matchy-matchy types, you can also buy the Stainless Steel Horse Hair Anal Plug for only $99 (stainless, I guess, being much better than the rusty tin anal plugs grandma used). It has a "pleasing teardrop shape for ease of entry" and is also, according to the copy, "French" and "chic." Because if you're not sporting a chic anal plug, your pretend horse tail will just look silly. If you want hooves as well, it's going to set you back another $199. And that's just front hooves, the only kind available. (Miss Smith, take a memo! Re: new business idea, back hooves.)

Horse Hair Anal Plug.
Note the "pleasing" shape.

It is all WAY too pricey for me, adding one more item to my mental list of Reasons I'm Glad This Is Not My Fetish. If it were my thing, I'd be having to do it on the cheap, "making do" with some sorry-ass broom being my horsey, a dollar store feather duster as my sad, garishly-colored plume, and one of my daughter's old matted princess wigs as my Eeyore-like tail. ("Uh, Mommy, what are you doing with my Belle wig?!") Yes, I would be a sad little Clover (this is my horse name, I just decided). No chic, non-rusting tail butt plug for poor Clover. No happy prancing for my master. Just a pitiful whinny and a simple wish for a sugar cube.

Anyway, if you are feeling brave and have an easily erasable search history, I suggest you go over and check out the whole damn fetish store, if only to scare the bejeezus out of yourself.  I spent the good part of the morning doing just that (uh...maybe you could forget I said that..) and discovered such items as:

--Something called a "Fuck Saw": "You hold it like a gun, and drill into the ass or vagina with powerful and steady force," the copy helpfully explains. 

--The Love Machine: Incorrectly described as having "elegant styling and clean lines" (?), The Love Machine looks less streamline sex toy and more 7-11 hot dog machine--albeit one gone frighteningly awry, spinning out of control and slapping your genitals repeatedly with its elegantly styled wieners. Slapslapslapslap.

The Love Machine.
Hey, anyone else want a Slurpee?

--The Slave Driver Fucking Machine: It costs a little over a thousand bucks but is almost worth it for the name alone. "Hey boss, what should we name this slave driver fucking machine?" "Ma'am? FedEx. Can you sign for this Slave Driver Fucking Machine?" "Honey, how many times do I have to tell you not to throw dirty clothes on the Slave Driver Fucking Machine?" (Note: The ad says in bold text, "No returns/exchanges will be accepted for this product." So don't be ordering a Slave Driver Fucking Machine in periwinkle, then deciding you want the yellow one after all.)

--And finally, The Ultimate Asslock: It's a chastity belt. For your ass. Which would be a fine enough slogan, but I like this one better, from the product's description: "Sometimes, you want others to know your ass is off-limits."

It's, like, THE perfect slogan.  It's short. It creates a consumer need where none existed before. ("Hmmm...I used to have to tell people my ass was off-limits, but with the Ultimate Asslock, I needn't say a word...") And it's relatable. I'm mean, who doesn't agree that: "Sometimes, you want others to know your ass is off-limits"?

As for me, because I do not (yet) own The Ultimate Asslock, I will need to inform you, gentle reader, in the tiresomely old-fashioned, verbal manner that: "Sorry, today my ass is off-limits."


(image source: http://wickedknickers.tumblr.com/post/2545752277/pole-position-for-the-toy-poodle)

Welcome to Our 300th Facebook Fan

After hovering around just below 300 fans for an annoyingly long time--297, 298, 299....back down to 293, and so on--the In Bed With Married Women Facebook page finally hit 300. By the time you read this there may well be a mass exodus, but at this very second, there are 300 fans. So I'll be quick.

Now, as you know from reading the comments on the blog, In Bed readers are funny and smart and cool, but over at Facebook, well, it's a different story. Some of the people, like you, are cool and all, but there's a steady stream of freaky weirdos who stop by thinking it's a hook-up spot for picking up married chicks. They put up a picture of big boobs (or worse, a creepy-ass mug shot-looking picture of themselves they obviously took in their bathrooms) and wait for the offers from hot chicks to start rolling in. After awhile, they get arrested go away when their foolproof pickup plans don't work out. I'm not proud of it, but the Facebook page is kind of like the bad side of town--even I reach for my car door locks when I'm over there.

But upon seeing my 300th fan, I started thinking: Why must I stubbornly cling to the notion that I want fans who "get" my whole sex-is-funny-and-boring-and-fascinating (or whatever the hell it is I do) thing? Clearly there's a sizable contingent of people who want me to shut the hell up and just start hooking them up with sexy married ladies. So fuck it, maybe I just should. I'm an adaptable. I can cope if someone moves my damn cheese. (note: not actually true) Thus, today I say to you:

Sexy married ladies, it's your lucky day because I'm going to introduce you to some passingly literate Internet stranger! Maybe even your dream passingly literate Internet stranger!

Ladies, give a warm welcome to our 300th fan. His name is Maha and he's from Sri Lanka. Let's have a look at his Facebook page to get to know him better.

Let's see, says here Maha's "Activities and Interests" are:

Sexy married women of Nepal, In Bed With Married Women, Lonely married women, Married women personals, sexy women 40&over, Sexy Ladies Over 40,married ladies in one place <3, Married Ladies, Sri Lankan Actress Hot Images, Salon Aunty, SeX, Srilanka sex chat, Sex cartoons, safe sex, Chat sex

Yeah, I know it looks like just liked random pages that sounded sexy, but I am pretty sure he picked In Bed With Married Women for the sociological observations, dry wit and such. (Although, just in case, don't tell him about Charlie Sexton or sextuplets! Those sound hot, too!)

According to Facebook, Maha has 14 friends and filled out his "About Me" statement thusly:

VERY ...VERY...INTERESTING IN SEX......... I LOVE SEX!

I am married........like to have more sex..... Sexy girls....sexy ladies....you are welcome!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So....sexy ladies, any takers? Maha can be quite charming. According to today's Facebook stalking research, just the other day, he wrote "what a sexy boobs!" on a lucky young woman's photo. That could be you!

And, like Maha says, "If you are very interesting in sex, you are welcome."

(An aside: Maha's exclusive interest in married women reminds me of a recent misguided Googler to In Bed With Married Women who searched for: "free pictures of married womens vaginas." Why did this person care so much that they were married women's vaginas? Are they notably different? Would he really notice if some single chick's vagina was slipped in the mix? And if he's not fricking paying, what sort of guarantee does he deserve of the marital status of any vagina? And finally, does he really have so little imagination that he can't just look at any old free pictures of women's vaginas--although the word 'women's' seems to be superfluous in this case as, in general, it is women who possess vaginas and not, say, cans of green beans--and just pretend that they are married women's vaginas? But I digress...)

(image source: http://lacontessa.tumblr.com/post/5972446259/jan-saudek)

I'm A Prude, I'm Encouraging the Spread of HIV in South Africa and Other Reader Comments

Let's reach into the mailbag and--ouch!--there are some pokey ones in there this week.

Emmanence, a reader from South Africa, had this to say about How To Behave in the Presence of a Female Condom:

I laughed out loud and then it made me sad. Not that the whole 'women's empowerment through access to female condom' thing isn't riddled with its own problems, but really, that we can be so disgusted by the one barrier method that doesn't rely on anyone else to use it, and actively discourage people from even trying? I'm writing from South Africa, highest rate of HIV infection in the world, lots of issues with women even being able to talk to men about sex, or even have control over where, when & how. There's some evidence that some women manage to use it in a way that hides it from their partners so they don't even have to get into this discussion...

Point taken, Emmanence. I'm not sure how many South African women consult In Bed With Married Women when making Important Sexual Decisions, but just in case:  ATTENTION women of South Africa (and elsewhere)!: Although female condoms, like nearly all forms of contraception (and sex itself, for that matter), are both awkward and humorous, if some dude is trying get on you and you're not in the mood to get pregnant or infected with HIV, by all means, USE A FEMALE CONDOM.  Use two or three of them, if you want.  Put 'em in all your orifices. Better safe than sorry, I say. Meanwhile, here in the States, I will be contemplating the physics of hiding an external rubbery tube from my partner.

Meanwhile, Kiki is all irate because of the post on furries.

DAMN, those furries are weird! Right. Because, no one EVER has sex in a costume at a Star Trek convention, or after a Halloween party. You're a prude!

Although I took great pains in the post to note that people can do whatever they want, it's all good, etc... after careful consideration, I have decided that I am indeed a furry prude. If some giant bobble-headed googly-eyed Chipmunk came up to me and said (chirped?) "Hey, suck the matted fur on my erect Chipmunk penis. C'mon, honey, don't be such a prude," I would have to decline. Even if, he (or she) promised to lift his (or her) specially built-in groinal flap to reveal the glories beneath. I feel somewhat ashamed of this prudery, but there it is. (Attention Google: please add "furry prude" to "Jill Hamilton" searches to go with my name's current designation as "anal bleaching expert.")

It wasn't all hatin' around here this week. There was an uptick in people clicking on the blog's pay-per-click Google ads (sending fives of dollars my way--sweet!), someone used the Amazon search box and actually bought something, and as usual, you came through with a host of witty, smart, thought-provoking comments. ValVan, for instance, urged his fellow men to consider "the long game" with regards to the back-rub-as-stealth-route-to-sex technique. Men, heed his words, as they hold great wisdom.

And Anonymous' comment on "That Doesn't Turn Me On" by The Housewife Blogger made me realize how damn nitpicky we women are when it comes to sex. Like Seinfeld and the man hands, we can get turned off by anything from a surprise butt thwacking with a penis to "vacuum-like head" to a mid-sex "Hoo Boy" exclamation. Wrote Anonymous:

The Mars/Venus problem here is that most men don't need to be "turned on." They turn on automatically. A lot of women get frustrated when guys equate sex and food, but to us, they really are quite similar. Horniness comes on naturally, like hunger. And also like hunger, it's an urgent need that we don't like putting off until later. We don't need to be inspired into it. We don't need you to talk dirty about steaks and pasta, or dress up a hamburger in a sexy bun, or sprinkle cake crumbs around the kitchen in an appetizing pattern. When our stomachs rumble, we want to eat. When our dicks get hard, we want to fool around. 

Besides the delightful image of dirty talk about steaks and pasta (Oh, you just wait, I am going to roll you around my fork. Slowly. Until you think you can't take it anymore. Then, with increasing urgency, I'm going to...) Uh...sorry, I, uh, was writing a sentence or something? Oh yeah, this: This brings up a question: Men, at the very real risk of sounding like a Playboy, circa 1978, what are your turn-offs anyway? Is there nothing so heinous it dampers your ardor, or is this just a dumb stereotype? I honestly don't know. I've asked one dude so far, who told me about having sex with a goth chick who suddenly bit his neck, drawing blood. But I kind of think he wasn't turned off so much as bragging about it.

And finally I'll leave with this quote by, well, I'm just going to let you look that one up yourself.

 “Men wake up aroused in the morning. We can't help it. We just wake up and we want you. And the women are thinking, 'How can he want me the way I look in the morning?' It's because we can't see you. We have no blood anywhere near our optic nerve.”

Okay, go on now. Oh, and I do apologize for the image that will pop into your head once you look up who said it.

(image source: http://wickedknickers.tumblr.com/post/3475685092/vintage-nude-erotica-boxing-1940s-naked-woman)

Guest Post: "That Doesn't Turn Me On" by The Housewife Blogger

Since we're already talking about bad sex moves (that would be you, unexplained thwacking on the butt with a penis), I unearthed today's guest post, That Doesn't Turn Me On, courtesy of The Housewife Blogger. So, without further ado, The Housewife:

The Husband and I have been together for the better part of a decade.  Yet, sometimes, he seems to revert back to teenager mode, and do stupid things.  I want to ask him what he's thinking when he does some of these things.  For instance...

• My tits are not balls of dough.  There should be no hard kneading involved; especially after I ovulate because they are the most sensitive things in the world after that.  The jiggle that happens when I walk down the stairs is enough to hurt them, so please, no kneading.

• Saying stupid things like, "You kind of need to trim things up a bit".  Shut.  Up.  There needs to be 4-6 weeks in between waxing appointments, and I can't trim it super short or else the wax can't hold on to the hair as well.  Deal with it, in a few days, it will be smooth again.

• Pretending like you're giving me a back rub, then migrating to either my boobs or cooter.  Do it right!  When I say my shoulders are tight, I don't mean my boobs.  When I say my lower back hurts, that doesn't mean my cooter.  If you give me a proper back rub, then I'll consider your advances.

• When you try to have sex with me when I'm sick.  I know I stay sick forever when I get a cold, but when my nose is stuffy, I don't want to be stuffed.  That's just how it is.

I think I'll turn this into a Powerpoint presentation for The Husband.

Thank you, Housewife. See more of her posts here.

BTW, after I ran the bad sex moves contest, several people asked me what bad sex move I'd experienced. Okay, here goes: I once (briefly!) dated a guy who exclaimed "Hoo Boy!" during sex.

Yes, I know. One should be free and uninhibited during sex and all that. But if lack of inhibitions leads to "Hoo Boy"-yelling, it's time for self-protective inhibitions to kick in.

But that's just according to me. As I learned after being reprimanded by an angry furry, one person's Sexy Tiger Lover is another's weirdo-in-a-sweaty-ass-tiger-costume-with-alarmingly-situated-groinal-flaps.

Who knows, maybe the person who's with Mr. Hoo Boy today is at her desk this very second, reliving the feverish night before when her man shouted "Hoo Boy!" during the throes, and shivering with a secret thrill of delight. "Hoo...boy," she whispers to herself, dreamily twisting a loose strand of hair around her finger.

So, gentle reader, I wish for you sweet dreams of whatever it is that does it for you, whether it be fevered kisses in the night, furry tiger penises or, hell, reruns of What's Happening!! Though maybe not a combination of all three. Unless it's that one where Rerun does that cool dance.