Saturday, December 27, 2014

Erica Jong, the Stealing of Smoked Meats and the Stuff of Memory

Francesca Woodman- Self-deceit
Oh man, I am in dire need of practicing some goddamn gratitude (maybe minus the goddamn part...) There must be something around here to be happy about, yes?  Let's have a look and see what we can dredge up.

1.  My story What Men Raised on Porn Need to Know About Actually Pleasing a Woman  was named one of the 10 Weirdest, Most Fascinating Sex Stories of 2014 by Alternet. I'm hoping mine was more in the "fascinating" category than "weirdest," but as Cathya pointed out, I do plenty of weird, too. To wit: coming up next, an article on the Orgasmic Meditation conference where I let a complete stranger touch my secret garden. Yes, I did.

2.This terrifically fun fact: Instead of Santa, little kids in Iceland believe in "The Yuletide Lads, thirteen mischievous gremlins who traipse across the country each December perpetuating holiday shenanigans," according to Jerry Mahoney in Mommy Man: How I Went from Mild-Mannered Geek to Gay Superdad  My favorite of these is Bjúgnakrækir, the Sausage Thief, who "hides in the rafters of your house to steal smoked meats."
Oh, Bjúgnakrækir! Not again!
 3.  This happened:

I first read Erica Jong back in Ann Arbor, Michigan, circa late 80s, on the Band-Aid-colored front porch of what my old housemate/live-in booty call referred to as our "fuck house." Reading her again makes me realize what a huge influence she's had on me re: trying to be a fearless and open explorer of matters of the heart and body, valuing the deep sexiness of books and an intelligent mind, experiencing the vastness of feminine energy/desire not for what it should be but what it is, and the idea of living with a fierce passion and an open heart.

I'm going through a big ol' stack of her books from the library, including:

Fear of Fifty
Seducing the Demon: Writing for My Life
Sugar in My Bowl: Real Women Write About Real Sex
Sappho's Leap (eh, on this one.)
Any Woman's Blues: A Novel of Obsession

Have a look if you'd like. All these years later, I'm still finding her to be so fresh and alive and sexy and willing to peek into dark corners. Viva Erica Jong!

4. And finally, this idea that I found, in all places, Marilyn vos Savant's "Ask Marilyn" column in friggin' Parade magazine:

"Memories are chemical, meaning that they have substance, however slight."

Marilyn explains that you can't hypnotize a bad memory away--Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-style--because you'd only be blocking off the access routes to it. If you tried, you'd still feel bad, but wouldn't be able to recall why. The physical matter of the memory would still be there fucking your ass up. I know! A memory as an actual, tangible thing. Mind-blowing!


So yeah, life is huge and fascinating and full of wonder. I'm gonna try to keep that in mind.


Wednesday, December 24, 2014

My 10 Favorite Things You Bought on Amazon This Year

Actual purchase, approximation of purchaser
I was feeling all grumpy and hateful about the blog until I happened upon the year-end list of stuff readers bought via the Amazon search link at right. I don't love Amazon ===> particularly, but I do like that any time someone buys something through the link, the probably-evil corporate behemoth has contractually agreed to throw me a few pennies. Suckas.

I enjoy re-framing it as a private grassroots campaign to Take Down Corporate America.  But really, I just like pennies.

But I also like that each purchase means someone took the time to drag their virtual ass all the way over to the blog to use the search button.  There's love in that act, yes?

I don't get to see who places orders or who orders what--so I can't thank anyone specifically, unless you tell me and demand praise--but I can see what is ordered.  I am trying to apply complex Psychological Purchase Analytics to the list, for purposes of exploiting the fuck out of the reader base, but I'm flummoxed. If anyone sees a pattern in here, let me know.

Anyway, here are my favorite things you ordered on Amazon this year:

10.  Books!
Heady stuff, including: A book of Rilke poems, a chemistry textbook, One Hundred Years of Solitude, books on autism, zen, labor unions, the nature of love and desire, and international environmental law.  Also some vampire smut, and lots of copies of  Naomi Wolf's Vagina (The book, not her actual vagina.  For actual vagina purchases, see #3.)

9.  eBooks!
Maybe it's the lack of visible evidence of embarrassing reading choices, but the selection of ebooks ordered was...well, have a look for yourself:  In Another Man's Bed, Ex on the Beach, Bound by Wolves (Impregnated by Wolves, Part 1), and the unappealing erotica of Taken and Milked (A Forced Lactation Fantasy--Milked by Master). (Hey Milky, you might also enjoy Escaping the Milking Machines: An Impregnation and Lactation Story which sounds just as...awesome.)

8.  A 4-pack of anal plugs
 The purple jelly variety.

7.  This item, just because of its name.
Stunning 3D Red Blossom with Dazzling Pink and White Crystals All Over The Clear Plastic License Plate Frame

6.  One comb.

5. The person who bought the book Changing Behavior: Immediately Transform Your Relationships with Easy-to-Learn, Proven Communication Skills
Because they bought it, then promptly returned it. "Fuck communication skills, I'm just gonna stick with the silent treatment."

4. One Friday the 13th Jason Axe Costume accessory
Not ordered anywhere near Halloween.

3.  3 pairs (!) of Realistic Wearable Vaginas
Two people bought the pair featured in Vagina. Panty. Vagina Panty! (one black, one nude), dropping $130 apiece.

However, one among you opted to save $60.01 and got the cheapo pair (below) which, dude, it's your fake vagina--that's important. Don't get the one that looks like a homemade cast.



at #1:   A Quart of Natures Miracle "Just for Cats" Urine Destroyer

So for any among you who were among the people who ordered one of the 323 items this year--especially the expensive ones like the chocolate protein powder, the Kindle Fires, the 4 copies of The Handbook of Dispute Resolution and the adult-sized Conan The Barbarian Costume--please know that while you sit there with four anal plugs up your butt, reading forced milking erotica in your newly cat pee odor-free home, I thank you from the bottom of my vaginal panties*


*The expensive kind.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

How To Please a Woman. Maybe. Well, me, at least.

I'll be here for a bit
I just wrote my first article for Alternet: What Men Raised on Porn Really Need to Know About Pleasing a Women. Whee!

Well...kinda. You'll see.

The idea was that since most porn has little in the way of usable lady-pleasin' info, I would offer some ideas culled from the Sexual Wisdom of the Ages. I nerdishly went back through sex manuals and uncovered common themes from sources both ancient, like Master Tung-hsuan and Ovid, to modern teachers like Rabbi Shmuley Boteach, Ovid, Daniel Bergner, and Naomi Wolf.

I loved what I found and thought, "I am sharing the Deep Wisdom here. The people, they shall rejoice!"

Except "the people"-- oh god, I don't know how to put this but, some of them are not so dear and smart and open-minded like you. The commenters, some who maybe even read the article, did not fawn over me as I was expecting, but instead saw all kinds of nefarious messages in what I thought was a completely benign (and mighty delightful!) article. One guy thought was I calling men "shitty" (what??), another said I was advocating rape (for the record, I am "anti-rape"), another thought that I didn't include enough info on gay an article on how men can please women.

Sure, plenty of people got it, like the 1000+ people who are sharing it on Facebook or readers like this chick who wrote: "This is possibly the best article on the subject that I have had the pleasure to read." (btw, another complaint:  calling female humans "chicks." Because I AM THE OPPRESSOR!) 

Of course I gave the negative comments a billion times more of my attention. How was my message and intention so so misheard? I mean, how did anyone end up interpreting it as some sort of criticism against men? (Also for the record: Yay, men!)

I was completely disappointed and thrown and was gonna write this big ol' sad, pissed-off, point-by-point refutation of each gripe. I was even going to cite Erica Jong from Fear of Fifty about the backlash when women talk honestly about sex. ("We need to unlock the staggering power of Eros in the female psyche. We must demand the right to depict women's lives as we know them, not as we might like them to be." Go Erica!)

But....then I looked at comments on other articles and realized:  They are all like that.  Angry, off-topic, defensive.


Internet people just like bitchin,' I guess. Crisis averted.

In the meantime, the article is among the site's "most read."  Just hope some people are actually reading it.

Go ahead and have a look yourself.  I still really like it, dammit, and agree with practically all of my points. Let me know what you think.*


*Be gentle. I'm still a little raw.

Update 12/15/14:  The article is the number #1 most read piece on Alternet and is now on Salon.  So suck my non-gender specific dick, haters.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

On "disturbingly fuckable" elves

The worst part isn't that I spent hours and hours on this Cosmo article trudging through the backwaters of weird-ass holiday erotica (Santas with boners, Ebenezer Scrooge getting head...elf ass, for fuck's sake.)

No, the worst part is that after all reading so so much about teasing mouths, hardening cocks and the like, I started getting kinda turned on. Yeah. So that happened.

If you want to see what I dredged up, here's the link for  14 Insane Erotica Stories to Get You Through the Winter.  Head over and leave a comment or like or share or something if you're feeling brave. Go on, I'll hold your hand.

And in case you're curious, the one that finally made me realize what was going on with my body was gay erotica in which a mall elf was suggesting sucking a candy cane to tease/torment a mall Santa.  Yes, a mall Santa.  Please don't tell anyone about this.


Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Reader Question on Dirty Sex Talk, Joan Rivers on Saggy Bits, and Life Philosophies That May Or May Not Help You.

"Line, please."
1.  First, this question from reader G:  
     Hi Jill,
     Any chance of writing a piece on sexual insults that men would find a turn on?
     I love being called a bitch/slut/whore etc, whilst being right royally fucked, but I often struggle with how to respond without damaging the delicate male ego!  I'd love you to write about dirty sex talk that women could use towards men.
     Thanks :-)
    Kind regards,

Okay, a) I am presently too lazy and stricken with "restless legs"* to write a whole big thing about dirty sex talk. (However, here's a vaguely-related, consolation one about a lover's moan and other completely lovely sex sounds...)

But b), and probably more importantly, these days I don't fucking know. (See also: I had sex with water.) However, I do love your phrase "whilst being right royally fucked" so let's throw your question out to the Strangers of the Internet. Strangers? Can you come up with anything, you dirty,, selfish passive-aggressive fuckheads who can't recognize real love and big, earth-shaking passion when it stares you right in the fucking face, goddammit... Um, yeah.  So this is why I need you to handle this one. Anyone?

2.  A lot of people think that Joan Rivers was bitchy and mean, which she totally was, but she was also ground-breaking, ballsy and often hilarious. I laughed a ton reading her book  I Hate Everyone...Starting with Me especially this bit on why she hates old bodies:

Everything drops when you get old...boobs, bellies, butts, everything.  Last week my friend Miriam was sagging so much she tripped over her vagina. Talk about turning lemons into lemonade. She said she's glad her vagina dropped because every time there's an earthquake she's suctioned to the floor.

C'mon, the woman was a billion years old and saying completely edgy things like that. Viva Joan!

3.  And finally these two bits of Possible Life Wisdom I received today via mass emailings which, as everyone knows, is where all of history's great sages got their enlightenment.

This from Pamela Madsen in an email with the subject line: " The Vagina is A Gateway To Our Well Being," which as subject lines go, pretty well gets to the point.

Why do I believe that a woman's vagina and her erotic arousal is the gateway to her happiness? It's partly about a neurotransmitter we call Dopamine. Women are able to create and move Dopamine through their body themselves by engaging in a practice that I teach called "The Lotus Lift".

It's really the self stimulation of a woman's own genitals. When women are not moving Dopamine in their bodies they are more likely to engage in addictive behavior, have depression, low libido, sleep disturbances, "restless legs", a lack of ambition and drive and look a the world through a colorless glass. When women are able to bring their Dopamine levels up to a normal level they experience a feeling of well being in their body, their creativity goes up, they are motivated and happier with the little things in life.

What's the magic trick? Getting women to be willing to touch their own genitals on a regular basis and explore the power of their arousal as a healing life force energy.
Okay, if I ignore overly specific part about "restless legs"

Not shown: Time frame for "restless legs" cure.

and the phrase "getting women to touch their genitals on a regular basis" and especially especially that she calls it "The Lotus Lift" (dear god, woman!), I am completely down with the part about a woman's arousal being this sort of huge, amazing life force. 'Cause it so is!

And finally, this from Matthew Hussey who is a bit of a dating huckster, but I liked this nonetheless.  It's about taking chances, risking embarrassment and whatnot. Here he's furthering some metaphor about your ego being like an expensive camera--don't be so worried about breaking it that you don't get the shots or something. Anyway, he says:

People are so busy nursing themselves and cradling themselves and so afraid of the scratches that they never end up using all of their creative channels, they never end up saying half the things they could say to the person they’re interested in. They never go through half the experiences they could go through in life, they’re too busy avoiding the scratches.

Don’t be afraid of the scratches. 


Don't be afraid of the scratches, motherfuckers.


*Only for the purposes of this joke. I do not actually have restless legs.  DO. NOT. HAVE. Ok?


Monday, August 25, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So how does it work?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

 Rudolf Koppitz - Sculptor and Nude, 1926

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Things I Learned From Books, and Other Product Placement

Image bears no resemblance to my actual life. Which is not ideal.
Having been through several weeks of working solely for pay, I can report from the midst of it that it is no fucking way to live your life. I am currently humorless and dull, without passion, spark, and creative outlet--that is, anything that makes life worth living. People need Art and Love and Fucking--whatever it takes to give you your glimpse of the divine.

What I am getting at is: feed your soul, motherfuckers. This is not negotiable.

At least I've been been feeding my literary soul and tearing through Philip Rothas well as a stack of vaguely smutty books I got at the library. (With no mishaps. True: My friend K checked out the Jenna Jameson book How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale which she of course has every right to do, and the librarian quickly wrapped it in a plain brown bag for her. Unasked.)

Here's what I'm thinking on:

--According to Debra Ollivier's What French Women Know: About Love, Sex, and Other Matters of the Heart and Mind little girls in France don't say "He loves me, he loves me not" when pulling off flower petals. (Which is sort of cruel, now that I think about it, but perhaps such cruelty is appropriate for matters of love.) Instead they say: "Il m'aine un peu, beaucoup, passionnement, a la folie, pas du tout" which means: "He loves me a little, a lot, passionately, madly, not at all."

"How unfair," writes Olliviers. "While we American girls are stuck in the absolutes of total love or utter rejection, the French girl is already primed to think in nuances and in an infinite gamut of romance. While we lust after happy endings and closure, they're comfortable with emotional subtleties and ambiguity."


--Esther Perel has talked a lot about marriage and passion and the struggle between the strong desire for intimacy, comfort and stability with the equally strong drive for excitement, passion and unpredictability. (Here's her TED talk and a link to her book Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence)

In Kosher Sex: A Recipe for Passion and Intimacy Shmuley Boteach, offers a Jewish spin on how to work the comfort/passion balance. "Every month, there must be two weeks devoted to physical love, and two weeks devoted to intellectual communication and emotional intimacy," he writes. When the women starts her period, you abstain for two weeks. The original idea was probably about women being "unclean" during that time (bosh!), but the on/off plan does neatly correspond with most women's monthly swings of desire. Plus you get to build up lust during the abstinence weeks.

Maybe it would be kind of hot. What do you think? Has anyone tried this? Or are you willing to try it and write about it?

--A Billion Wicked Thoughts: What the Internet Tells Us About Sexual Relationships by Ogi Ogas and Sai Gaddam examines internet searches to figure out what men and women are actually into. It's all completely fascinating--Why men want to see other men fucking their wives! Why men like to look at other dude's penises in porn in a totally not-gay way! Why the hell women flash their boobs in "Girls Gone Wild" videos! It's all very scientific and smart.

Women, for example, tend to have an arousal cue for "competent" men. In romance novels (i.e. female porn, for some), the hero is always some dude at the top of his game. "Men who don't know what to do with their life, who are midlevel bureaucrats, or who sit around the house watching TV are never heroes," they write. (Problematic since that also = most men.) Men, by contrast, don't seem to have the competence cue. What a woman can do (aside from presenting their various holes, "fuckyeah"ing and such) is totally irrelevant to their arousal.

The very different drives and desires between men and women (in general--relax) makes me wonder yet again, how we manage to ever find ourselves in bed together in the first place.

--And finally, in Emily Southwood's memoir Prude: Lessons I Learned When My Fiance Filmed Porn Emily--as the title kinda spells out there--has a fiance working as a camera man on porn reality show. She was not especially a porn watcher in the first place, and becomes a bit unhinged by a comment Fiance makes about a porn star named Cytherea and her prowess at squirting. It is real? Fake? What the hell? She gets one of C's films and watches it. Then watches it again. And again.

"By viewing number five I'm turned on, despite myself. I decide to tire myself out with some angry masturbation.  Five orgasms later, I've discovered that it's entirely possible to hate-fuck yourself, all the while mentally reapplying someone's eye make-up," she writes in an incredibly beautiful sequences of sentences.


Fuck, I feel so much better now.  Now go do your thing that you do. This is an order.

 P.S. If you want to see a wee compendium of my stuff, do see my new page on Contently.

 P.P. S. Thank you, thank you (!) for your orders via the Amazon link. Though I an now needing to know--and am possibly concerned about--the back story with the following purchases. Sequential? Cause and effect? What do you make of it?
1.  Sex at Dawn: How We Mate, Why We Stray, and What It Means for Modern Relationships
2. How to Help Your Spouse Heal From Your Affair: A Compact Manual for the Unfaithful
3. All American Whopper Vibe 8"

(image via Lady Cheeky, just cuz)

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Reader Stories: Crossdressing, BDSM, Possible Domming and Other Things Your Cubemates Desire

Ah, my dears. You are so good to me. Always sending me funny little stories, smart thinky articles, and heartfelt missives on your sex lives (or lack thereof).

And I cruelly repay you by saving them for later, then forgetting to run them. But today, I shall make up for this, putting some of the backlog into a big ol' virtual sack and depositing it unceremoniously on your Internet doorstep.

In some of the stories below it was hard for me to find a point of reference for the particulars involved (and even got a little cringy at times), but what I find fascinating is the fearlessness all the writers had in uncovering and exploring their desires. Maybe they didn't want to want what they wanted, but they kept wanting it anyway.

"Underneath it all, we are wild and we know it"--Reginald A. Ray

--Let's start with this one from..let's call her Pia: "I have always been very adventurous in bed," she wrote, by way of introduction. "Even my virginity was taken in a kinky way. I have been in a relationship for seven years with a wonderful man but I was getting very bored and needed to let my kinky side come out again. He was not kinky at all. I was the closeted freak. I finally came clean early this year and he was ok with me exploring within a clear set of boundaries. Doing some research, I found FetLife, where I talked with local people. I found a submissive's discussion group, met some wonderful people, got invited to a tasting of kink party, and the rest is history. This is my journaling before my first scene. I thought it would give you a good intro.  I have been journaling every scene I have had so far, some are more graphic than others."

The Nerves of My First BDSM Scene
     As Saturday approaches, the nerves and butterflies increase. I have been pondering a lot about having the guts to do what I am about to do on Saturday.
     Since I decided to go into the community, I have met a number of wonderful people and I have gathered the guts to surrender to my desire. This particular lady has given me the warm and fuzzies since I met her. She is wonderful, open, warm, welcoming, and a bunch of other things that make you want to trust her. Her girlfriend is also super nice, caring, protective, funny, etc. What I want to say is that I really like both of them. I am not bisexual but BDSM is about much more than just sex and I feel very comfortable with her.
     That is the reason why I decided to go for it. I trust her, and I have become a Violet Wand fan, or like she put it, a juice bug. I never in my life thought I would enjoy and crave electricity!
     I have been so nervous about it, not it it ... but about the party attached to it. Since the first time I went to a play party, I have been in a constant state of admiration; admiration for the freedom and acceptance of women of all shapes and sizes. It was a huge lesson for me from the beginning. Every time I went to parties I thought that I want to be like that when I grow up; I want to be that free. I want to disrobe not worrying about what someone else might think, but just for the pure pleasure of it all. Just because I cannot wait to feel that intense sensation on every inch of my skin... and oh my god, I do! I wanted a seasoned Violet Wand user to show me new heights. I just cannot wait.
     A friend of mine just told me how hot it is what I am about to do and he also told me that the one block I have is my own thoughts. He is so right; I get too deep in my own head and overthink everything. His advice: just do it. He sounds like a Nike commercial but he is right, and I want to do it. I want to close my eyes or look deep into His eyes and get lost in the raw sensation of it all. All I want to do is feel and not think.
     Ironically, today I read the following:  Love YOU. – Let someone love you just the way you are – as flawed as you might be, as unattractive as you sometimes feel, and as unaccomplished as you think you are. Yes, let someone love you despite all of this; and let that someone be YOU.
     And I think I usually do ... but this ... this is a huge deal for me. I will do it and I will enjoy it, because it is totally out of my comfort zone; and someone once told me that life begins at the end of your comfort zone. So life ... here I go.
     Can't hardly wait for tomorrow!
--The next story is How I Became My Wife's Wife.  I'm not sure if the author wants me to put his name so I'll just say his name is D. D, if you want to write in and claim ownership, I'll be happy to put your name on here.
    My story is a bit unique, but I thought I'd share. You see, my body isn't always right. I enjoy being a man. I enjoy it immensely. I love using my penis to take my wife to the brink of ecstasy, hold her there, and with a lunge, send her into a blacked out world of fireworks that has a population of one: The entity we become together.
     I love being a man who's unabashedly and irresistibly attracted to women who outweigh me, and at 6'1", you know what that means. I love all the sensuality available from such a body. Easily my favorite thing about being a man is feeling every inch of my penis moving inside my wife's finely textured pussy. See, what passes as a g spot for other women, my wife doesn't have. That peculiarly textured area occurs right behind the bone, and is easily tongue-accessible, making her one of those few women that come hard from being fucked hard.
     She gushes cum and covers me with it.
     And squirts.
     Oh yes, I love being a man.
     As both a former cheerleader and a former stripper, you can imagine the body issues my size 22 wife had when we started dating. She's down to an 18, now. Nevertheless, she bought this outfit early on to wear for me. The top is sleeveless with a plunge neck, and the skirt is my favorite length: long enough to cover her ass, but not long enough that she'd wear in public.
     A few months before we got married, she wore it for me again, we screwed like porn stars (again), And she went to eBay to find a new outfit.
     A few days later, It arrived, and we immediately covered it with cum.
     The following evening, I asked her What she wanted me to wear. She told me to pick something, so I put on her sleeveless plunge top. Nervously, I looked at her. Surprise flew across her face and was gone. She said "well, there's a skirt to go with that..." So I put it on.
     She adjusted it until I was wearing it correctly, then had me turn around. She lifted the skirt, rubbed my ass, dropped the skirt, then pushed her lighter on the floor and giggled an oops. I put my ass as high as I could as I bent over to retrieve the lighter, and she gasped in my general direction.
     "NOW I see why you like the skirt," she managed to get out.
     I turned towards her and handed her the lighter. She threw it and surrounded my dick with her mouth. I stood perfectly still as I received the most passionate blowjob she'd ever given me, making it the most passionate blowjob that ever happened. 
     A new feeling had awakened inside of me, and I had to put it inside of her.
     So I did the only logical thing I could do. I grabbed her ponytail and pulled her head off my dick. She resisted, hard, but I overcame, grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back on the bed. Then I hooked my arms under her knees and pulled her close.
     My dick knew where to go, and I took the next five minutes slowly inserting it. She was dry when I started, but dripping wet when I bottomed out.
     Holding steady, I moved my lips to her ear, pushing her legs back as I did so. I asked her if she'd like her husband to be a woman, and she started to cum. She couldn't speak or move. All she could do was quiver against my hips and pulsars.
     Since the first insertion went so well, I followed it up with as many rough insertions as I could, moving around to hit as many spots as I could in a vagina that was increasingly voluminous. 
     2.3 minutes later, I dropped down on the bed next to her. We'd each had an orgasm, hers was still happening. We were both unable to move. So we did what you'd have done instead: we passed out.
     I woke up in the morning feeling great. I put my hands on my chest and the feeling was gone. I hadn't magically grown breasts overnight.
     We repeated the experience with her new outfit. ...on me.
     The next day, I spent a great deal of time trying to understand what I was doing and why. Even though I had embraced feminism and done any and every thing I could to abdicate my own male privilege, I was still subject to 38 years of conditioning telling me it was bad/wrong (badong) to be a woman with a penis. I stood for transgender rights, but I was uncomfortable with the idea those might be my rights.
     That evening, wrestling with my inner demons, I started the conversation my wife didn't even know she never wanted to have it.
     In the couple of years since then, we've both learned a lot about ourselves. We understand that I'm a crossdresser, and we share clothes. We understand that women and men can't be equal until I can put on a dress and breast forms and walk around in public in safety.
     Most importantly, we understand how awesome it is that we're together.

--And finally, here's this one. I couldn't tell if this was a bit spammy ("Dear 'Ms. Hamilton'") or not (used the correct, awkward acronym for blog), so I give it to you as is.

Dear Ms. Hamilton,
I greatly enjoy IBWMW and thought you may be interested in a short cartoon I made. "So, You Want to Be a Dom?" is about a man who wants to be a Dom, but doesn't actually want to be a Dom, or even know what one is:


"Desire presses ever forward unsubdued," said Freud. You can try to smash it down (note: this does not work) or you can leap right the fuck into it and see where it takes you.

Let me know which you pick.


Monday, June 23, 2014

What is "Adult Content"? Hell, I don't even know anymore.

Please avert your eyes.
The first time I went into a gym locker room when I was a kid, I was completely wigged out that grown-ups were walking around naked. Not because adults were naked--I had seen plenty of that--but because it seemed so arbitrary. Naked in locker room = a-ok. Naked in KMart = alert the police. How could rules be so iron-clad in one place, then completely disregarded in another?

It was a dual morality that seemed a bit pointless. Why were we pretending to be shocked by nudity, when it was obvious from the locker room experience that we could all handle it just fine? Yes, I get that the gender-segregation made it "different," but I think that's crap. If some chick was walking around naked in the Winn-Dixie, we would need to giggle and/or pretend to be scandalized.

I think the same phenomenon is happening right now with sex--this sort of weird combo of pretending, denial, and reacting like we think we're supposed to react.

We are all here via fucking--someone did IT with someone else. Our ancestors made love, they had tepid sex because the ovulation thermometer said it was time, they co-mingled souls and saw God, they slam-fucked on a dirty old couch in the dorm. Everyone* came from someone coming. To ignore that and pretend that sex is still some sort of unspeakable thing that adults cannot even discuss without everyone needing to giggle and/or be scandalized is ridiculous. Ridiculous! And yet it's STILL happening all the time. I don't mind the giggling part, sex is funny, but the scandalized bit, I am just so...done with that.

To wit: Trisha Borowicz has made a smart, funny, amazing film about female pleasure called Science, Sex and the Ladies. It's educational and cheeky. She's been shopping it around to festivals but reports they flat out won't run it because it's "too explicit." "Even festivals that are known for taking risks," she reported via email, though I've added in my head that she was also shaking her head in disbelief.

The film is sort of "explicit," in that it shows stuff like photographs of an aroused clitoris vs. unaroused clitoris, but it's not porn. It's about biology and the history of how society views women's sexual pleasure and how women can best have an orgasm. It's for learnin'. And besides, even if it was porn, these are film festivals, for fuck's sake. When the hell did film festivals get all uptight?

I honestly don't know what's acceptable anymore. Every night on TV there are shows about grisly sexual/violent crimes, but this month Facebook made me take down a photo of a vaguely naked woman. Everyone's mom has read Fifty Shades of Grey, and there were articles in major publications about it, but Google has docked me for my supposed "pornographic content." My friggin' Sunday paper supplement has coupons for vibrators and lubes, but my blog provider (Google, again) has threatened to take down all Blogger blogs with ads for "adult products." Seriously? The dorky newspaper coupon section is more progressive than these supposedly modern, forward-thinking tech companies?

Do we really not get the difference between supposedly offensive content and regular adults just trying to figure out how to have proper sex? Why do we have such a nonsensical patchwork of rules that apply here, but not there? For this body part but not that one?

So, yes, this was supposed to be about Science, Sex and the Ladies, but kind of digressed into ranting. Fear not, next post I will tell you how you can see the movie, for free. People, especially women, need to know how their bodies work. Why is that even controversial? It's madness!

Anyway, tomorrow we talk about the movie and female pleasure.

Til then.

*Test-tube babies: even you came from some jizz.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

True Tale: I was a Grade School Nudist

Yes, I know that every kid is a nudist.  But I really was one.  Like, officially. As in, card carrying member of the ASA (American Sunbathing Association.) As in going to special places--nudist camps, or if would want to make them sound really creepy and culty, nudist colonies--which were created for no other reason than so people could walk around naked.

This was the Shameful Secret of my childhood, like having an alcoholic mother who hit or an uncle who touched you in the areas where the bathing suit covers. No one was to know. As you may recall, I grew up in the 1970s, the time of hippies, macrame owls and mushroom decor, but I grew up in 1970s Georgia, a place of macrame owls, etc..., but also a very conservative, uptight place. It was a place where every white family had a "nigro" maid named something like Mavis, vegetarians were suspect and you sure as fuck weren't supposed to be something as whack as a nudist.

Nudism, then as probably now, was considered to be something weird, at the very least, and at the worse, probably sexual. Not sexual in a particularly nameable way but just...wrong. Naked=sex, end of story.

The reality, which would become apparent to anyone who spent 2 minutes at a nudist camp, is that they are about a sexual as any average RV park. Picture the folks in line at your Target store. Now picture them naked. Now picture them naked and running for a tennis ball, their own balls flopping in the wind. Feeling sexy? Exactly.

Every nice weekend in the summer, my dad would load up the car with camping equipment and we'd be off to a campground in nearby Florida. It was run by a sweet old man named Uncle Sammy who was also, incongruently, incredibly racist. And, if you must know, he had rather large testicles that were kind of a blueish hue.

My two sisters and I hated going. HATED it. And it wasn't because of our unfortunate kid's eye view of Uncle Sammy's literally blue balls. Being nudists was the thing that made us different.  Made us weird. Made us wrong. "How was your weekend?" our neighbor Mrs. P would leeringly ask me when we got back. "Did y'all go camping?" She knew what she meant and I knew what she meant, but both of us were loathe to acknowledge it. "Yes," I would admit, mumbling. "Oh, reeeeeeally?" she would smirk triumphantly.

It was this sort of insinuating attitude about nudism that was what was so shameful about it to us. The actual nudism was no big deal. Really.

People find this really hard to believe. Even today, if I mention it to someone--I mean, people who know I write this blog, friends who know me well--they get that Mrs. P look on their faces. It's a mixture of judgey, sort of aroused, completely intrigued, yet put off at the same time.

"It's like a KOA, but everyone's naked," I say, lamely. They never believe me and press for more details. Because surely--surely!--there's more to it than that. But really that's it. Here's what people do at a nudist camp: swim, play old-school sports like horseshoes, ping pong or pool, sit around and play cards, sit in saunas or whirlpools, lie out in the sun, eat dinner and so on. All of this is done naked. Or naked but wearing the appropriate gear like tennis shoes. (If the idea of a bunch of your average Appleby's customers walking around naked isn't non-sexual enough, seeing those same folk naked but for a pair of socks and tennis shoes should do the trick.)

BTW, if you were wondering, the cliche about nudists and volleyball is totally true. Nudists love their volleyball--love it! Every camp has a court, no exceptions. Another nudist thing is the Importance of Towels. Nudists have an inordinate faith in the power of towels as all-purpose protectant. Every nudist carries a towel so that can put it between their sweaty naked ass and whatever surface they put said ass upon. The towel, you see, magically protects everyone from...well everything. I'm not sure why no one considers the "towel flipping factor," that is, once you re-use the towel, can you really be sure you're putting the butt side on your butt? Nonetheless, it seems to work. I don't know the science behind it, but to my knowledge, nudists don't suffer from any greater incident of butt-transmitted disease.

Because everyone is naked there probably are some things I've seen that most people haven't seen. I have seen flaccid penises covered in tanning oil (it was the 70s, remember). I have seen very obese men walking around naked, their genitalia tiny and cowering under the massive flap of their bellies. I have seen boobs hanging down to stomach level, all kinds of scars, varicose veins, sunburned boobs, flat wrinkly bums, prodigious bushes (70s, ditto), and balls that hang down nearly to knee level. I have seen women walking around with a tampon string hanging out their wangs (the accepted nudist procedure, by the way, is for a menstruating woman to don a pair of underpants. Why they couldn't just tuck the string inside and try to "pass" as a non-menstruating woman remains unexplained to me. Perhaps many women of the day still had the whole belt and pad apparatus?)

What I did not see includes: orgies, sex of any kind, an erect penis. (As a child, I read a Q&A pamphlet for new nudists featuring naked cartoon "Love is..." looking folks. For the question "What if I get, you know, aroused?" naked cartoon man was advised to take a quick jump in the pool.)

When teenage nudist kids start rebelling against their parents they do so--seriously--by wearing clothes. Every nudist camp has kids in their awkward years Fighting the Power by wearing a long t-shirt or--fuck it!--even a full pants and shirt combo.

As I said, my sisters and I hated our nudist secret. It wasn't the actual nudism so much because, in truth that was kind of fun. Not the naked part, which we really didn't care one way or the other about, but going on adventures-- running wild, exploring woods and creeks, water skiing, climbing trees and getting to play grown-up games like pool. Nudist camps are like a secret club. They are all over the country and--at least at the time--you had to know where they were (invariably down a long dirt road in the middle of nowhere), the secret code to unlock the gate or who to ask for at the intercom when you pulled up. When we pulled up to the gate at a new club, we'd ask for whoever--Dottie, say--and Dottie would come to the gate, bronzed, wrinkled and wearing only a terry cloth wrap around skirt.  The Dotties always seemed to smoke and had a vague white-trashiness about them. The Dotties always had the nicest mobile home in the place, but nudist camp nice, which is not really that nice.

For my sisters and I, it was the secret part that was so bad. We weren't supposed to tell anyone about it. Knowing that I had a thing about me that people couldn't know gave me a sense of shame that took years to shake. I thought if anyone ever knew this horrible nudist thing about me...well, that'd be about it. I, seriously, didn't even tell my husband until we'd been married several years. I still haven't told my children, or many of you guys. I don't think either of my sisters have told their husbands. (uh, til now. Sorry! Hope you enjoy your Big Talk tonight.)

It is not right to make children keep secrets and, well, let's just say that perhaps the situation could have been handled differently. Though I don't know how. There really was no good way to present the whole nudist family idea to my Georgia neighbors. And I still think there's something a little weird about needing to be naked in public, among other naked people. Couldn't people be just be fine walking around naked in their house without formalizing it, building camps, forming the ASA and whatnot? Was there something sexual about it that I wasn't getting?

That said, as an adult, I can see some of the advantages of the whole nothing-to-hide aspect of it all. I recently went to a Korean spa with my friend Janet. It was hardcore. Old Korean women were squatting down by these sort of low faucets scrubbing the bejesus out of their nether regions. (For a really long time too. They are either really really clean or there must be some sort of pleasure in taking to your crotch with a scrub brush that I'm not aware of.) Everyone was naked because you had to be--sign on the door said so. As I soaked with Janet in the hot tub (making, like, constant eye contact so I wouldn't appear to be staring at her boobs in an unseemly manner*), I looked around.

Everyone looked bad naked, and yet everyone looked good. That is to say, we all looked human. Clothes give the illusion that other people have perfect bodies and that, plus general media bombardment, etc... gives us the idea that most everyone else looks fucking amazing. Of course we "know" that's not true. We know models are genetic rarities, culled from millions of others, and that they are strategically posed, photoshopped, etc... But seeing these regular bodies made me really know it, in a deep way. The chick with the amazing boobs had a bit of a wide ass going on. The trim woman was also a bit gaunt. It was incredibly liberating to realize that we all looked...well, okay enough.

The other day I had the experience of being on the other side of the naked generational divide. I was pet sitting for friends who have a pool. I invited my husband and two daughters over to swim. When they got there, I shouted, "Woo! Let's go skinny dipping!" I peeled off my clothes and dove into the pool. When I surfaced, my three family members were staring at me in semi-horror. "Woo!" I said, again, defiantly. I swam around briefly, to prove my point that they were missing out--big time--but it was half-hearted. I felt foolish and suddenly way way too naked. Soon I climbed out and grabbed my towel. I was half-embarrassed, half-hating their prudery.

Despite that, at 47, I think I've pretty much come to peace with my supposedly sordid past. At least enough that I feel fine telling you, Dear Internet Stranger, and who knows who the hell you'll tell. The good part is that I don't really care any more.

In an interesting coda to all this: My nudist connection which had always been the Worst Thing of my Life also turned out to be one of the best things. When I was looking for an idea to pitch to Rolling Stone, my dad told me that a local nudist camp was hosting bands like Foreigner and Loverboy for a concert, a two-day Nudestock festival. This, anyone could see, was comedy gold. My piece on Nudestock (thank you to my RS editor, the amazing Jancee Dunn) was my first national story.

So what have we learned here? Here are your takeaways: Things are never all good or all bad, they just are. Keeping secrets=bad. Some men have really really long balls.

Now you know the worst,

* For the record, Janet has an incredible ass.

(Note: names, places, and such have been changed to protect the privacy of various pissed off family members)
(photo source)

Friday, June 6, 2014

On the Benefits of a Smaller Penis by Blue

Oh god, please tell me I didn't send an email last night to
 IBWMW about my lover's ruddy, noble, well-formed penis
Reader Blue sent in the following missive. When I asked her what pseudonym she'd like, she answered, "I can't believe I sent that! I wrote that while drunk a few weeks ago and sent it while drunk last night."

Don't worry, Blue, lots of people write to me when they're drunk, which is probably not at all flattering, but I'm just gonna decide that it is actually highly flattering and be done with it.

Besides, the whole drunk Internet/texting/sexting possibilities available to Today's Modern Drunk makes me so so so happy that my own drunken days were pre-all of that. I can't even fucking imagine the hideousness of waking up all bleary-eyed and hung over and having to face my Sent Mail folder to see what horrors might lie within.

To her credit, Blue is not the incoherent mess of a drunk I was, so I reprint her story here in its full glory. Enjoy.

a few weeks ago i saw your invitation to "Just sit down at the computer, rip your heart out, and jot the results down"  and started writing this.  i don't know if this is what you want, and that was awhile ago but here's my story: 

i started writing this because of the part of dusky's letter where she writes "the idea that naturally the greatest sex of your life will be with the love of your life."  for me sex was indeed "a litmus test of the true inner feelings of two people" although love has always been a Big Deal for me, sex had never been the highest on my list of priorities.  i had attributed my lackluster sex life to my complete disinterest, not the other way around. it had kind of escaped my notice that the way people feel physically and the way they feel emotionally have a lot to do with each other.  there is no aphrodisiac like love... 

so i didn't know this but not everybody is know... anatomically compatible.  there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.  sorry guys, but now you know.  it CAN be too big.  but i didn't learn this little secret until i cheated.  and let me tell you, for those lucky people out there who have never cheated on anybody: it a repulsive experience, don't do it!  but then, the marriage sucked and sometimes you don't know the grass is greener until you get on the other side of the fence.  sure it looks greener, but.... now i know.  

there are people in the world who are really good at having sex.  just like mozart was a great composer, da vinci was a master painter, and stratavarius made the best violins ever, some people are really REALLY good at fucking.  

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Bad Erotica, that is, Erotica Other People Like

Somebody mentioned erotica for folks over 60, which reminded me of this post. Pretend like you haven't met before.  

As part of my affiliate deal with Good Vibrations, I get to pick from an assortment of free stuff each month which I can offer to you as a prize or keep for myself*. (My motto: if you're going to sell out to a corporate overlord, do it for a sex-positive, girl-power one that showers you and your loved ones with free sex toys.)

Usually I pass the free sex toy love on to one of y'all, but a couple months ago, Good Vibes was offering a book called Lust: Erotic Fantasies for Women. Oh yes, I decided selfishly--giving not a whit of thought to you and your needs--this one's for mama.

When it arrived in its discreet brown wrapper, I snuck away to be alone with my new smut and started reading. There was a story about an anonymous encounter on a subway which was kinda good. Something about a lady working at a fruit stand and a TV star who comes and whisks her away, eh... Next. I kept reading and reading, hoping to get to "the good part," as it were, but it started to become apparent that, for me at least, there wasn't gonna be a good part.

By the time I got to a story about retiree sex, I stopped looking to be aroused by the book and started reading as sort of a sociological study. (Yes, I am this nerdy. Reading porn as an intellectual exercise. I would appreciate it if you'd not bring it up again.)

I am not at all against retirees having sex. I'm all for it, I swear! But seriously, listen to this supposed "erotica" in "Moving" by Susan St. Aubin.
We trade medical notes: he sometimes takes Viagra in the afternoon. Mornings he can do without. I tell him about the hormone cream I've started using in my cunt to bring back its raw silk texture.
What. The. Fuck???

My point here is not that it is unsexy**, but that yes, though it is unsexy to me, it's completely fucking off-the-charts sexy to someone else. For all I know, writing it was so fucking hot to Susan St. Aubin that she had to slip away several times while writing it to push her hand between her legs to relieve the growing pressure in her hormone cream-covered raw silkiness.

I find it fascinating how different people are turned on by different things. Your particular biological predilection, plus snippets from your experiences--people you knew growing up, a sexy movie scene you saw in 2003, an early lover, an idea you saw in a book--all converge in your brain to form an idea of what is erotic to you.

A friend of mine lent me a book called The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Vol. 5. I turned to something called "I Want to Watch you Do It" because I liked the title. In it, the girl makes the guy jack off in front of her while she watches, then he takes charge and bosses her around. She, overcome with lust, can do nothing but obey his sexual commands. "Just do what I ask and don't say a word until you come at least twice. Nod your head if you agree," demands the guy, as her puts her through a series of moves. Oh, darling, I loved that #$##! But that's because it happens to fire up whatever particular erotica neurons I have set up in my brain. You, by contrast, might be left completely cold. Perhaps you need a vampire involved, or a fetching Scotsman, or a fierce dominatrix wearing a specific brand of blue boots.

I can imagine that Mammoth contributor Joshua Hoobler would be among those unaroused by my beloved story of sexual instructions. His story, "Not at Risk," lavishly shares the details of some dude giving himself enemas (5 of them!) and having sex with a series of three dildos. (Each oh so very very special.)
On Sunday morning I wake up early, have my regular bowel movement, wipe thoroughly, take the enema bag out from the bathroom cabinet, fill it with warm water, hang it on the towel rack, grab the Astroglide, slip on some latex gloves, lube up my asshole and commence upon a series of two quart enemas...It takes me at least three and sometimes up to five to get to where the toilet water is as clear when I'm done as it is when I sat down. 
Again, the point is not that this is unsexy***, but that this guy and I have a vast chasm--oh so very, very vast--between what we each consider sexy. When he was describing the particular quality of his friggin' poo, I not only wasn't turned on, I was whatever the complete opposite of turned on is. In truth, I really kind of wanted to retch.

However, if me retching turns you on, I would direct you to Puke Planet, a site for those with a vomiting fetish.

Which, I think, kind of makes my point...


*I also get a 20% commission on anything you order from Good Vibes through In Bed With Married Women. Might I suggest the We-Vibe couples vibrator thing? The woman wears it during penetration, while it hums along outside and inside at the same time. Haven't tried it but, damn, sure sounds good.
**Though, c'mon it totally is!
***But, holy fuck, it is so so so unsexy!!!