Monday, January 30, 2012

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.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

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."


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.


*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.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

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"... left already?


(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.