New Contest: Win some smutty reading!

A few months back I asked the good citizens of the In Bed With Married Women Facebook page* what they'd like to see as a contest prize. The resounding answer was, surprisingly not what I usually offer, that is, "giant blue vibrators with vaguely frightening prongs," but "sexy books."

Oh, I won't judge because I too am a fan of the smut (See also: In Praise of Smut, if you don't believe me.). I think a little smutty reading puts you in a more sexual/sensual frame of mind which makes life a hell of a lot better.

Thus, as part of my unceasing efforts to make life a hell of a lot better for you, gentle reader, this week's prize is Playing With Fire, a book of sexy stories from cool, SF-based sex shop, Good Vibrations.  I haven't actually read it, but here's the blurb, complete with its embarrassingly excessive scorching! fire! heat! imagery.

This scorching collection of torrid tales will leave you burning with desire. Incendiary short stories tackle taboos and set boundaries ablaze, allowing couples to act out their most fiery fantasies. Alyson Tyler gets burned in “Some Like It Hot,” while Thomas Roche’s “Hot Off the Presses” follows a reporter infected with rock ‘n’ roll fever. Playing With Fire will ignite your imagination, fuel your fervor, and inspire you to have some smokin’ hot sex!

To enter, list your favorite sexy book in the comments below. I'll choose a winner by random drawing on Tuesday. And if you don't feel like waiting around 'til damn Tuesday to left "burning with desire," you are more than welcome to order the book yourself.**

* For more on my love/hate relationship with the IBWMW Facebook page, plus some truly awesome (deliberately) bad smut written by the lovely Katsidhe see The Language of Seduction, Plus Guest Smut from Tapetum Lucidum.)

**Disclaimer: a portion of your Good Vibes purchases made through this blog goes to my Lexapro paying-the-electric-bill fund. (A note to the shy: Don't worry, I don't see who is ordering or what people order or anything like that. So stock up on anal plugs, dungeon master DVDs and sexy nurse costumes--I'll be none the wiser. Unless you want to tell me. Which is also fine. I think. Unless it is too weird. Then it would probably creep me out.)

P.S. A few people have told me that the comments are acting weird. You can also enter by emailing me.

The Lost and Found List From Furry Weekend Atlanta 2010.

The 2010 Furry Weekend was held at the Hilton in Atlanta. (Much to the surprise, I imagine, of the guests who just happened to book a stay there that weekend). There was a full schedule of activities including classes on fursuit construction, a panel on "Why Anthromorphics?" and, oddly, "DJing 101." There were also sessions of the card game Furoticon, which combines D&D with furry fandom, thus making it the nerdiest game of all time. 

Now, I am down with whatever people want to do sexually.  It's all good, really.  And I'm not trying to judge, even thought one could argue that I totally am judging. But I love exploring fetishes that seem super foreign to me.
 

This particular fetish is fascinating to me because I so don't get it. Fursuits, to me, are the antithesis of sexy. I mean, the big, goofy cartoon heads, the googley eyes--and surely those suits must smell horrendous. But again that's just me. If the idea of wearing a sexy squirrel costume makes you hot, go to it, man.

And, by the way, if you happened to be at Furry Weekend Atlanta and left something behind, please check this (actual) list from the Lost and Found which includes:

--one white cat tail

--a fursuit eye

--a hacky sack

--a rat

--matted fur

--a bag of knobs

Meanwhile, I will remain fixated on the perplexing questions this list brings up, including:  WTF?...a bag of knobs? Exactly how minuscule is the sub-culture of furries who also play hacky sack? How much matted fur was there to qualify as a "lost and found item" rather than "something to sweep up"?

xoxo
jill

note: revised in 2016 in attempt to not write such heteronormative CIS BS.  Perhaps successfully, perhaps not.

How To Behave in the Presence of a Female Condom

My favorite question of the day comes from Anonymous, in response to Female Condom, Where Art Thou?

"At 58, I have never seen one female condom and I'm not sure what I would do if I did. Should a gentleman just lay back and let the lady take the lead? Or maybe offer to help with it???"

Well, gentle reader, I appreciate your desire to be polite when faced with an unscheduled female condom sighting.

According to this informative animated video I just watched on your behalf, How To Insert the Female Condom, both are considered correct etiquette. The woman can put the thing in ahead of time OR the gentleman can assist with insertion. Which would be great, if either option seemed in the least bit appealing. Let's assess:

Option #1:  If the man offers to assist, well, it's kind of a complex procedure. There are the mysteries of an inner ring and outer ring to unravel and the necessity of locating the cervix. Not to mention of question of whether you are the one who is supposed to shove it up there, or if you just offer moral support to your lady, referring as needed to the handy clip-n-save chart at left.  ("I am going to fuck you so hard. But first, according to Figure 3, you need to squeeze the inner ring between your index finger and thumb and insert it in your vagina, making sure it is resting against the cervix.")

Option #2:  Alternately, the women can insert it beforehand so it's already there "for foreplay." Or so suggests the video, which was filmed in an alternate universe in which a rubber ring dangling out of the vag is a sexy and desirable part of foreplay. "Do you like it when I stroke your outer ring?"  

And there is the added indignity of having to make an entrance while donning the device. Is it even remotely possible to feel seductive with this thing hanging out of your nether regions, flapping in the breeze like some sort of vaginal wind sock, and making its trademark Pampers-like "rustling" sound with each step? Thwick, thwick, thwick.

Option #3?: I guess a third option would be to insert it in front of the man when the time comes. But I'm not sure that even the combined forces of mood lighting, sexy music and seductive movements could make these insertion moves look alluring.

But, to be fair, let's experiment:

Okay, put the lights down low, relax and put on some sexy music, while gazing at the above picture.....

Take a good breath and get comfortable. Trail a fingertip lightly along your jawline, then slowly down your neck and work your way lazily across and down your chest....

Is it working for you? No, not even the squatting picture? That's not making you hot?

Okay, then. I am officially flummoxed. Does any one else have some female condom wisdom/advice/haiku to share with dear Anonymous?

Do These Pants Make My Vagina Look Fat?

What? You can see my nipples
through this shirt? Well, I'll just
have to do something about that.
Right after I drink this delicious
Taster's Choice Instant Coffee®.

I don't know quite how to bring this up, but your genitals, well, they look fine. Your boobs too. I would hope everyone knows this, but I am beginning to wonder.

Consider the evidence:
--The ubiquitous gigantic foam boob-shaped bras* to be placed over one's own inadequate orbs (note: all boob sizes are deemed inadequate by bra manufacturers).
--The absurd amount of bra technological know-how devoted to designing thick, excessive "coverage" (that is, padding) for all new bras, lest anyone see any scandalous evidence of nipple-having.
--The very existence of the Smooth Grove, a heinous sanitary pad-looking piece of "medical grade polymer" used to prevent--and, gentle reader, please know that I absolutely despise this word and am using it here only because no other word will suffice--camel toe. (Handy hint!: try pants that do not ram themselves up your crotch...)
--Various and sundry other pants-stuffing items. Reported Anonymous:

"I saw these things designed to be put down the front of a guy's underpants.  They're sort of like bas-relief foam sculptures of a large, non-erect penis and balls, and I guess if you're walking around with very tight pants, they give the illusion of having a thick, meaty wang." 

Okay, excepting lesbians who pack for reasons of their own, if you don't actually have "a thick, meaty wang," why are you trying to attract someone with the very thing you don't possess? (Not to mention the mind-boggling etiquette issues regarding the hows and whens of fake wiener removal.)

Whatever. I'm judging. Maybe I should just accept all the fakery. I'll just buy plenty of nipple-hiding bras and be done with it.  Because, wait, wha...?

Seriously? So nipples, now bad, were once...good? And not just good, but an important part of "that sensual no-bra-look"? (The ad makes no mention of what happens if your real nipples dare to make an appearance. A nipple truism: although two nipples are sexy, four nipples, oddly, are not twice as sexy.)

Okay, this is all giving me a plan. As we've learned today:
1. sexual trends go in cycles (nipples/no nipples)
2. bigger is better ("thick, meaty wang")

So this is what we do: we manufacture foam prosthetic camel toes to be worn inside the pants. And I'm not talking just any camel toes, I'm talking HUGE ones. (Remember, bigger is better...) I'm talking big-ass camel toes that will make folks stop and stare. "Look at the camel toe on her! That chick must have one giant vagina. Oh, hell, yeah!"

I'm pretty sure it's the perfect plan. Are you with me?

OR maybe we could just accept that we are all as hot as fucking hell. You, unadorned, are incredibly sexy.  The curve of your thigh, the rise of your nipple, the jut of your lower lip, the way that part of your body swells when you're aroused--these things, these real things are what is sexy. Not some stupid mass-marketed unbreathable foam approximation in the (currently fashionable) shape of a sexual part.

Now, I'm not saying not to throw on a little lipstick or do a sit up or two. I mean, everyone wants to look decent. But, for fuck's sake, don't go around wearing a foam penis. Yes, they're all forms of enhancement, but you need to draw the line somewhere--preferably way way before you're sticking foam down your pants. Believe me, your genitals look fine. As they are.

So, yes, you're hot. To an absurd degree. Go forth and enchant.


For further reading on things of a boobic nature:
--An excellent article on nipple fear: The Tyranny of the T-Shirt Bra in The Hairpin.
--An IBWMW post on changes in boob styles (plus a photo of a truly awesome set of bullet boobs): Major Boobage
--*A post on fake superboobs in Overthinking the Magic Bra

(image source:  http://lacontessa.tumblr.com/archive)

How to Have a G-spot Orgasm, Plus A Contest

We've got lots to cover today so walk with me, will you?

It has come to my attention that some of you haven't had a G-spot orgasm and/or can't even find the damned thing. (Have you checked the sock drawer?) It's understandable -- there is still debate among the scientific community (generally identifiable in the wild by their distinctive "scientific community" t-shirts) over whether the G-spot even exists. But more on that later. The point is, if you want to have a G-spot orgasm (or "alleged" G-spot orgasm), you need to know how. Writes reader Harleyq:

Having never experienced a G-Spot "Big O," I find the idea titillating and am imagining the prospect of instant amazing "Big O's" every day quite exciting, beneficial to my co-workers and an improvement on my demeanor. 

Yes, we could all use an improvement on our demeanors, could we not? (A brief aside to men who wish to run screaming out of the room: Go. Go now. See also: Men Who Care About The G-Spot Are A Myth, Say Experts in the Daily Mash.)

Sooo....the G-spot. It's odd--for a body part that can elicit such pleasure, talk of the G-spot is often oddly unsexy. The G-spot doesn't have the sexual cache of say, a swelling bosom or a jutting erection. And it doesn't help that every account of the spot is seemingly required by law to mention that the spot is "shaped like a bean," not exactly the most sexual of legumes. (Which, of course, would be the pea. See also: Ed's identification of my excessive pea mentions in a "robo-sexual context").

If I were the G-spot's press agent--a job I would totally take--I would definitely do something about the dreary tone of most G-spot articles. Look at this snippet from Wikipedia's G-spot entry:

"The vaginal wall is, in fact, the clitoris," said O'Connell. "If you lift the skin off the vagina on the side walls, you get the bulbs of the clitoris – triangular, crescental masses of erectile tissue."

Lifting vagina skin? "Bulbs of the clitoris?" Um, are we still talking about sex here? This is erection-deflating language, to say the least. And I'm talking both penile erections and erections of the "triangular, crescental masses of the bulbs of the clitoris."

Now, if you will direct your attention to the overhead projector, you'll see the oversized female x-section showing the G-spot.

The G-spot is #4. Or is it #8? I kid, I'm pretty sure it's #4. In non-disembodied-halved-torso terms, it is on the upper part of the inside of your vag, about an inch or so back. If you were to stick your finger in there--oh, just friggin' do it, don't be such a pussy--you can locate it by pretending as though you were trying to stimulate what would be the back side of the clitoris. Which is exactly what some scientists theorize is going on with G-spot orgasms.

Scientists actually don't know much about what's happening with women and their sexual response, despite years of study (including Ernst Grafenberg's--the g in G-spot--1950s page-turner The Role of the Urethra in Female Orgasm, a work which Wikipedia, perhaps cheekily, describes as "seminal.") G-spot theories include: it's analogous to a female prostate, women only think they have one, or it might have something to do with the Skene's gland or perhaps the nerve-rich urethral sponge. (Note: do not use the urethral sponge for washing dishes.) To make matters more confusing, a few women emit some sort of ejaculate during G-spot orgasms and scientists don't even know what the hell it is.

Despite all this, G-spots rock the house. Women describe G-spot orgasms with words like "deeper," "stronger" and "more satisfying." These would be good adjectives, orgasm-wise.

Here's how to attain such satisfaction (aka imaginary satisfaction, probably due to the common female vexation of "hysteria.") Step one: Get yourself an insertable vibrator. (I suggest Good Vibrations because of all the bonus educational material they offer, plus whole the kickback thing.) Step two: Go to it. Step three: as you become more aroused*, direct the vibrator's attention to the upper, front part of the inside of your vag. Press hard. Step four: Keep at it until you experience transcendence, see nirvana, pulse with the Universe, etc... Step five: Go about your regularly scheduled day.

What is important with the G-spot to get the right tool, so to speak, for the job. In my post about testing the vibrator, The Post in Which I Whore Myself Out for a $22 Piece of Thermoplastic Rubber, I was too timid (yes, I know, so very lame) to write that the vibrations on that particular model were a little tepid for me. But lovely reader Tricia, who has major (metaphorical) balls, had no such qualms and commented:

I have one of those vibes and it does nothing for me. The vibration is too weak. Does GV have a 'strong as a jackhammer' section? That takes a car battery, perhaps?

Yes, in the words of the Diff'rent Strokes theme song "What might be right for you, may not be right for some." If you're unsure of the strength you require, GV has a chart of vibes that shows the intensity and volume relative to other choices.

And FINALLY, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, THE CONEST:  Our prize today is the Dreamy Mini-G Vibrator (pictured at left) which in the mid-range of intensity (3 of 5, one notch higher than the one I tested). To enter, recruit some sap to "like" the In Bed With Married Women's Facebook page, then come back here and tell me that you did it, either via a comment or email. I'll chose a winner according to the vagaries of my whims.

*Because of the way in which G-spot stimulation gets better and more effective as things progress, I could be talked into the Taoist belief (see also: The Three Types of Orgasms) which describes woman's sexual arousal as a series of three gates (clitoral, vaginal and cervical) that need to be entered in progression to ultimately reach "an ecstatic state of arousal." I cannot, however, be talked into the Taoist belief that eating lamb "produces excitable people with inordinately strong sexual desire."


photo source: http://wickedknickers.tumblr.com/post/925107020/marilyn-monroe-via-blueruins-retrodoll
EHWS6HNH2R3Q

Guest Post: Molly Mounds from Scary Sextoy Friday, Plus I Digress

Mounds brandishing her
weapon of choice. 

As you just read .00054 seconds ago in the title, today's guest post is from Molly Mounds, penner of the accurately named Scary Sextoy Friday. Mounds, a writer and online smut peddler in Silicon Valley, reports that she "encounters many terrifying sextoys on a daily basis and chronicles them for your pleasure, dismay and horror." Last week's entry's was particularly heinous and I feel the urge--nay, the need--to pass it on to you. So without further ado, please give a warm welcome to Miss Molly Mounds and The Molestache:

OK, it's been awhile since I literally jumped out of my seat:

, 

GAHHH!!!!

I don't even know where to start with this one; the creepy '70s molestache, the Jay Leno-sized chin, or how about the ROWS OF FUCKING SPIKES INSIDE?

Also, there's something oddly familiar about this...thing. 

It's reminding me of something...

Someone...

Someone from my past...

Wait! I've got it!



AHHHHHHH!!!

There you have it folks: your childhood, ruined. Again.

You're welcome!

Again, that was Miss Molly Mounds at Scary Sextoy Friday.

Oddly, the Molestache also reminds me of a Jim Henson creature, only in my case, it's Cookie Monster.* I feel that this toy would, for sure, make a Cookie Monster-esque "Mmmwahhh, ummmmwha" chomping sound as it serviced your member.

Anyway, if I did have a member wishing to be serviced, I would be way too afraid to stick it in there. Who knows what the hell might lurk inside? If the scary pokey spikes are the thing you can see, I'm guessing something even worse hides in its bowels. An evil gnome? The entrance to Narnia? The imprisoned and miniaturized cast of Starsky and Hutch? I don't know, but I'm not hanging around to find out.

And you? Your thoughts?

* Addendum: I am not proud to admit this, but after writing this, I interrupted my important vacuuming duties and googled "cookie monster sex" to discover if anyone did, indeed, harbor sexual fantasies about the insatiable blue Muppet. Besides an oddly high number of Youtube videos of Cookie Monster having sex with, among others, Barbie and Elmo, I found the following chart from LA Weekly, detailing the results of a UCLA sex survey of college students.  The question here was: Which innocent childhood fantasies could best morph into adult sexual fantasies?

There's Cookie Monster, right there with a host of other WTF choices like "Strawberry Shortcake and Lemon Meringue," "My Little Pony" and "Oral Sex with Barney." Compared to these, Cookie Monster is starting to look sexier by the moment. At least he seems passionate. On the other hand, the Count is European, which might make up for his rather boring conversational skills...  Hmmm, I am assessing the sexual potential of various puppets--clearly it is time for me to return to my vacuuming.
bye.

The Post In Which I Whore Myself Out For a $22 Piece of Thermoplastic Rubber

As I have incessantly harped on mentioned in passing, there are three ways I (theoretically) make money with this blog.
1. The Paypal donate button there on the right, which, quite frankly, I think is becoming rusted from lack of use.
2. Readers buying stuff through the Amazon search box here on the blog. (Valentine's idea: a Kindle pre-loaded with a thoughtfully chosen book. Go the Bill Clinton route and pop a little Leaves of Grass on there, or click on Project Gutenberg where there are a ton of free ebooks, including The Kama Sutra.)
3. Readers buying sexy things from Good Vibrations through this blog. I get a cut of the sales, which is why I'm always pimping their stuff, but I chose GV for a reason. I like that it's a company that works to educate people--women especially--on how to best enjoy their sexual selves. I love how free and open they are about sex on their site, with people blithely discussing their various sex toys and a whole sex education page covering topics from basics like How to find the G-spot and How to choose a vibrator to more advanced ones like How to pack a cock. I even love how they just say it outright--How to Pack a Cock--without the weird prudery that generally surrounds sex in our society.* The GV attitude is: You want to pack a cock? Great! Here's the best way to do it.

Good Vibes also gives me a monthly list of products I can give as prizes or review myself. As I was looking over the prize choices this month, I read the user reviews for the Flirty G Waterproof G-spot Vibrator. Reviewers were using words like "Wow!" "incredible orgasms" and "Oh...my...god!" so I impulsively decided, "Screw the readers, I'm getting this for myself." (Uh, no offense, readers.)

So, after running to the mailbox every day like a kid who had ordered X-ray specs from a comic book, it arrived and, with it, the disturbing knowledge that I would actually have to write about using it. (See also: "weird prudery" above.)

My husband was sick in bed that day so it was a good a time as any to get down with the Flirty G (which I don't actually call that, not even in my mind). One problem: I put the batteries in wrong and they got all hot and made a burning smell. Thus, my poor bedridden husband was accosted with me brandishing a bright blue, possibly burning sex toy, demanding that he fix it. Which, to his credit, he did.

Here's what I thought: it is quiet. Like so quiet I could be in the next room using it and you wouldn't even know. (Don't bother checking, I'm not.) It has 9 speeds, which I pictured going from 1 (mellow) to 9 (Help! Eggbeater on the groin!)  Speeds 1 to 3 do indeed increase in intensity, but 4-9 are various rhythms, whir-whir-whirrrrrrr, pause, whir-whir-whirrrrrr, pause and so on.

Yes, it looks weird, kind of like an IKEA coat hook, and why the hell does it have to be bright blue, and yet... It's designed to hit your g-spot, which--in one of the few fair things about getting older--becomes more findable as you age (see also: In Search of the Elusive Third Type of Orgasm). G-spot orgasms are more extended, deeper and, not to be an orgasm elitist, but just plain better. Explains reader Anne, who just wrote in the other day with the important news of her excellent g-spot orgasm.

I'm 42 and had one. I've never distinguished between vaginal and clitoral orgasms, it's just one big heap of pleasure felt all over. But this one? Completely different. I felt like I was lost in the orgasm and floating above myself witnessing it happen--all rolled into one. For lack of a better description I felt my uterus contract and every contraction was slow and deep, sending waves of pleasure up my stomach into my chest. It felt like the air was being forced from my lungs with every groan. I've heard too that things get better with age and I think I've gained a new erogenous zone that I didn't have a year or so ago. It's right above the mons pubis where the uterus and, bladder create that little bulge. GSpot? I don't know. It feels a little more pleasurable there, and deeper in feels even better still. I've never owned a gspot specific toy, but between the new erogenous zone and this orgasm I think I should correct that post haste. 

The Flirty G is waterproof so you can take it into the shower, but quite frankly, I was too scared to, fearing some sort of embarrassing accident involving me, the Flirty G and electrocution. Although if firefighters had to be called in it might not be so bad...

Anyway, I think I've spilled enough highly personal information and have more than earned my $22 toy. If you want one for yourself, click this link and order one, as Anne would put it, post haste. Oh, and in case you're concerned, GV doesn't tell me who bought things or who bought what or anything like that, so go ahead and get yourself some cock to pack--get a whole damn case of cock, why don't you?  I'll never know.


*I forget how bad the prudery still is. I recently used the word "bawdy" to some relatives of my brother. After rushing to the dictionary to look it up, they got all offended. By the dictionary definition of the word.

photo source: http://wickedknickers.tumblr.com/post/2654206040/1960s-playboy

Enough With the Freakin' Robot Sex, Lady

(part of 3 of what has become the In Bed With Married Women Robot Sex Trilogy, a series so generally unpopular that it makes me want to write about it all the more.)

A few readers have noted the bitter inequality that is the lack of male sexbots. If you are a women, and want to get down with an inanimate human-type object, you have to go with gay robot lovin'. Gay robot lovin' is fine and all that, and I do appreciate there being an area where gay chicks don't get shafted, as it were, but as the lovely Barreness put it, "Um...where's the dude version." Chimed in Harleyq, "What about some ripped rubbed action for those not willing to share personal attention with the T.V.?"

Well, y'all raise a valid point, but don't be rushing to renew your NOW membership quite yet, or better yet do, but heed these words: The way robot technology is today you do not want gender equality. I draw your attention to the TrueCompanion site, the web site for Roxxxy, the interactive sexbot. I linked to this before, but it was only later, after you all were gone, that I looked, really looked, at that site, and damn, is it bad.

If you don't want a visit to a sexbot site in your computer's search history (and I would encourage you to figure out the "private browsing" feature--stat), I can give you the highlights since, as I've noted before, my computer's search history is already a ravaged mess, filled with web sites for balloon sexual fetishes, disembodied vagina sex toys and, most recently, the home page for the National Organization of Women.

If I was at your house showing you the True Companion web site (and don't think I won't do it), I would point out:
1. The hideous quality of the site. Web sites and sexbots both are computer-based and, on that alone, I can safely say that there is no way in hell that I would have sex with anything designed by the same people who made the site.
2. Creepy videos.

The guy on the left (above) who looks like George Costanza is Roxxxy's creator. In all his video appearances, he wears this same white lab coat. I guess it's so he doesn't look like a creepy-ass weirdo, but the coat doesn't quite do the trick. But look at Roxxxy! I mean, where to start? The way she is sitting, her drag queen body and worse--if you are brave enough to watch the video--the frightening way she turns her head to look at him. Creeeeaaak! Aaaaaaaah! It's alive! Also, there is the matter of that hideous couch, but at this point, I think that's the least of our worries.

Or this, a video in which Roxxxy demonstrates her "new leg, head and body movement in action!"

In it, Lab Coat Dude sits at a computer, trying desperately to convey that not only is he a respected member of the medical community, he's also computer literate. This is immediately disproved with the continuation of the vid which inexplicably has no sound. In eerie silence, Roxxxy demonstrates her new hip movement by thrusting in the general direction of an wooden dining room chair. Although she is wearing thigh-highs and animal print undies (rawwrr!), she moves with the sensuality of a bag of frozen peas. Right in the middle of the damned thing, Mr. Lab Coat walks into frame--not to have his dirty, dirty way with Roxxxy--but to remove her wig! Help! Suddenly bald Roxxxy! Not real girl, scary robot! Fantasy abruptly ruined! He sort of fondles her bald pate for a moment, then places the wig back on and walks back out of frame. I think he is demonstrating something, but we'll never know what because over at TrueCompanion they haven't yet mastered the technology of talkies. (Again, they can't even put friggin' sound on videos. Do you really want to stick your wiener in something they've designed?)

3. The history page for TrueCompanion in which mention is made of an earlier 1993 'bot called Trudy. She was not "user-friendly" is all they will allude to, and frankly, I don't think I want to know any more. Also mentioned in the history are 9/11, a dead friend and the idea of recreating said dead friend via talking robot which leads--obviously--to...sex robot!

And finally, 4. A male robot is indeed in the works. His name in Rocky. On his order form (he's about $7000 plus $19.99 monthly service fees), you can choose his hair color, race, razor stubble ($100 extra), etc... I was briefly intrigued until I remembered the horror of the Roxxxy video. I can only imagine what sort of hideous barely-representative-of-human-male creature would arrive at my doorstep. They won't even show Rocky's picture on the site, so I think he might look a lot like the Rocky from Mask.  (My worse fear: Rocky looks just like Mr. Lab Coat, despite my asking for a German-speaking Asian man with black eyebrows, hairstyle #7, and paying $100 extra for razor stubble.)

Oh wait, I forgot about 5. The weird prudish language on the site. Here's what they have to say about Rocky:

When you are using Rocky’s private “area”, it is like sleeping with a beautiful hunk that is really big down there and he moves it around to please you instead of just pleasing himself! Plus, the vibrations from his manhood coupled with his erotic personality is described as unbeatable. 

"Private 'area'"? "Down there"? "It"? "Manhood"? What the fuck is that? "Attention purchaser, touch me in my private 'area.' Feel the vibrations from my manhood as it touches you 'down there.'"

Oh, I could go on, but my butt, it grows numb. Suffice it to say, if you have a spare $7000 earmarked for sex toys, I can think of about 233 better things to spend your money on. I bet you can, too. (May I suggest Good Vibrations? Good products, eco-friendly policies and a sweet sweet cut to IBWMW if you buy something through this link.)

Should You Fuck A Robot? Well...Maybe Not. (Part 2 of what, embarrassingly, has become a series on robot sex)

As you may recall from the last post, Should You Fuck A Robot? Well...Maybe, I was all hepped on banging robots. My main arguments being:
1) An article I read skimmed that predicted that one day doctors would prescribe sex with robots as part of a healthy lifestyle (orgasm=longevity). But mostly:
2) The sudden realization that if sexbots were as good as predicting what I liked, sex-wise, as Pandora internet radio is, music-wise--well, sign me the fuck up.

However, I'm not saying that you should rush to locate the nearest robot and start humping away. No, there are a few very important caveats. To wit:

1. I'm talking about robots in the future. WAY, WAY, WAY in the future. Like in 2050, the year experts predict sexbots will become indistinguishable from humans. (Although, by 2050, the only thing I'll be wanting my sexbot to do is bring me my slippers and juice.) Unfortunately sexbots of 2011 are quite distinguishable from humans.

Consider Roxxxy (above and left) the state-of-art in sexbots from TrueCompanion. She has five programmable personalities, a motor that makes her appear to breathe, and she talks in her sleep. She can hold a "conversation," "look" at you with her dead, soulless eyes and will fuck you senseless for 3 hours (at which time her battery runs out), never once mentioning the wretched fact that you have just spent the last 3 hours having sex with a household appliance. However, I think TrueCompanion could stand to do some re-jiggering on Roxxxy's general demeanor.  I am not a robotologist, but in these pix, Roxxxy appears to be less "in the mood" and more "prepared to acquire human genetic samples to take to hostile home planet."

2. Expense. $7000--a sum of cash that's difficult to hide, even using the kind of highly developed "black budget" I've adopted in my own household finances. And don't be trying to save money on this kind of thing. Reader Belinda brought up the enchantingly disturbing possibility of cheaper knockoffs that would exhibit only a passing knowledge of human sexual desires. "You liiiiike arm," your cheapo doll would squeak in an unpleasant voice, using the twisted syntax of dollar store product instructions, as it poked your arm painfully. "Time to put sex on me!" Then its plastic eye would fall out.


3. Various and sundry concerns brought up by beloved In Bed With Married Women readers (among them dear Ed, Tricia, Annah, Candycan and The Barreness) including lack of relationship drama, loss of human interaction, and fear of becoming so smitten by robot love that you'd give up on flawed humans entirely. Not to mention embarrassing tech support calls. ("Well, the problems started when Roxxxy and I decided to get a can of peas involved...")

I will leave you today with a link to this wonderfully cheeky Cracked.com article, The First Talking Robot: A (Terrified) User's Review, in which Daniel O'Brien spends an evening with Roxxy. Is it a date? Household appliance review? You decide...

Should You Fuck A Robot? Well...Maybe.

If you asked me yesterday what my opinion on robot sex was, I would have said--while backing away from you, claiming to have vague, but quite pressing errands to attend to--something dismissive about social misfits and sex dolls. But today as I was walking Daisy, I was pondering the concept of robot sex (well, what the hell do you think about when you walk your dog?) and my whole robot sex worldview radically shifted with one word: Pandora. Sweet sweet Pandora. Pandora, if you haven't had the pleasure, is an Internet radio station that picks music for you based on what you like.

I am half crazy in love with Pandora. If I could make out with it, I would. Pandora is like the best, most attentive lover ever. It knows exactly what I'd like to hear and when I'd like to hear it. It makes music choices that charm and delight me--"Following an obscure live Radiohead track with old Pogues? Pandora, how clever!" And Pandora doesn't just spew back what I put into it. Using some algorhythms that are probably highly creepy and may well be the ruin of us all, Pandora peers into my fucking soul, man, and knows what I want. Nay, what I need.

So here's my idea: what if a robot lover was like Pandora? What if using the same creepy-ass technology, Robot Lover could be exactly what you need, even if you didn't know what it was that you needed? In the h+ Magazine article, Sexbots Will Give Us Longevity Orgasm, writer Hank Hyena predicts that such sexbots are coming and will be a physician-recommended tool for longevity as present in American homes as Omega oil capsules and Zumba DVDs. Writes Hyena:

Remember the most convulsive, brain-ripping climax you ever had? The one that left you with "I could die happy now" satiety? Sexbots will electrocute our flesh with climaxes twice as gigantic because they'll be more desirable, patient, eager, and altruistic than their meat-bag competition, plus they'll be uploaded with supreme sex-skills from millennia of erotic manuals, archives and academic experiments, and their anatomy will feature sexplosive devices. Sexbots will heighten our ecstasy until we have frothy, shrieking, bug-eyed, amnesia-inducing orgasms. They'll offer us split-tongued cunnilingus, open-throat fellatio, deliriously gentle kissing, transcendent nipple tweaking, g-spot massage prostate milking dexterity, plus 2,000 varieties of coital rhythm with scented lubes.

Of course, sexual communion between real flesh-and-blood humans is transcendent and soul-igniting and all that, and yet...

Well, consider the Pandora factor. Maybe you'd be thinking you needed some soulful tender sex, but your sexbot would give you a spanking--and it would be exactly right. Or vice versa. (That is, you get the tender love, not that you spank the robot. Though of course you could. If it's been naughty. And that's the whole point, it's your sex fantasy robot--you can do whatever the hell you want.) You could set your 'bot to Javier Bardem one night, then the cute dad from school the next. Hell, set it to Carol Channing, if that's what you're feeling. Plus, you could have all the unhealthy brain fuck relationships you want with none of the painful psychic damage. That means you could set your sexbot -- full power! -- to Somewhat Insane, but Delightfully Passionate Philosophical Guy on Thursday, and Hilarious But Depressive Writer on Friday.

This all plays into an area which is endlessly fascinating to me--that is, the continuum and overlap between sex and love. I mean, you can have incredible sex with your hand or your vibrator or whatever but (most of us, at least) don't experience any kind of love feelings for them. Conversely, you can have emotionally intense sex with a live person but experience only mild physical sensations. Or some mix n' match combo therein. Where would these 'bots fit in? Would we fall in love with them? Or would we feel as romantically attached to them as we do to, say, our toasters?

What do you think about all this? (And if I were your sexbot, I would already know.)

P.S. Coming Next: "Should You Fuck A Robot? Well...Maybe Not."

(image source: http://wickedknickers.tumblr.com/post/300069786/via-scandyfactory)

We're Number 3,513,232! Suck it, Number 3,513,233!

Instead of doing any number of the productive tasks lurking annoyingly on my to-do list, I just spent the better part of an hour studying my Alexa ranking. Alexa rankings, for the non-nerds among you, tell you how popular your blog is, what keywords are working for you, and whatnot. Checking your Alexa ranking is a somewhat masturbatory activity in that it's a self-involved and vaguely shameful way to spend one's time, but unlike actual masturbation, it doesn't necessarily end well.

What I love about Alexa is that it presents the largely obscene In Bed With Married Women data in such a serious, business-like fashion. Alexa seems to think I am transmitting their data directly to In Bed With Married Women World Headquarters, where crisply efficient workers enter it via punch cards into a room-sized computer. There are lots of numbers bandied about, and talk of percentages and "high impact search queries." Thus, Alexa informs me gravely, the search query "yes I have done a mangina" has suffered a 1.32% decline. On the plus side, "vajazzling porn," "fuckable women," and "anatomically correct fur suit" are all climbing the charts. Perhaps I will present this information at the Board Meeting on Monday.

Actually, I'm not sure how accurate Alexa really is because it lists one of top search queries for the month as "is your anus stained by poo". Now, I am willing to accept that one person, maybe even up to three people, used that search term to find me--but come on!--I get thousands of visitors to this site, many of them through search terms. I refuse to accept that "is your anus stained by poo" is one of my top draws. I simply won't have it.

I am much more willing to believe the data that comes from Google Analytics. Over there "In Bed With Married Women" is the top search query, as it cussing well should be, and the top ten are all non-embarrassing variations of that. (Well, except for #5 "how to bleach your anus at home" which I will choose to ignore.) Way, way down the list are the usual what-the-hell-people-seriously-Google-this? kinds of queries I so enjoy such as, "alien dildoing self," "deflated boobs porn," (hey, watch it, buddy!) "bad sounds from women," and, oddly, "our forefathers" (Whoops! Wrong page!).

I am especially fond of the query "red-head-perfect-shapped-body-in-bed-with-nice-ass-tags-skin-hair-foot-feet-small-ass" for its excessive specificity ("I distinctly typed in that my perfect 'shapped' redhead should have skin! This redhead is not only skinless, but clearly has a medium--not small--ass!") But my favorite of the week was "free and no signing up for videos of women fucking their dogs." I think this searcher has been burned before. "I want to see women fucking their dogs, but no way am I paying. And NO sign ups! That's how they get ya!" I emailed this breaking dog fucking news to my friend who responded--and this is why I love him so: "You gotta pay, otherwise you just get short, lo-rez vids and the dogs are always ugly. Plus, when you pay, they always throw in a couple of horses, too." Totally. Besides, those free dog fucking videos always just jump straight into the action. Maybe it's because I'm a girl or something, but I need some back story. Tell me a little bit more--WHY are the females fucking their dogs? Is it angry sex? Make-up sex? Is the cat watching?

But for now, I need to run over to Headquarters to get our numbers guys on some data analysis. After all, you don't get to be the Alexa 3,513,232th most visited web site in the world (yeah, that's right, baby) without some good business sense. And lots of talk about aliens dildoing themselves.


(photo source: http://wickedknickers.tumblr.com)

Mmm, Sex Toy Recycling*

Your sex life is probably already pretty green. Hopefully you're not doing it while simultaneously eating excessively-packaged Lunchables, and I certainly hope you've traded up from your old-fashioned coal and nuclear-powered vibrator. But beyond the obvious ways of greening your sex life (i.e. take a shower together to save water, don't have 8 billion kids the Earth can't sustain, etc...), there are a few ways to push it further--way further.

There are companies, like Sex Toy Recycling Program and Sex Toy Recycling, that--as their names quite strongly imply--recycle sex toys. The Sex Toy Recycling site sums up this mysterious and magical process with this oddly heart-warming diagram of old, sad broken sex toys being transformed into a shiny new purple dildo. (Hooray! The Island of Misfit Sex Toys is saved!)

I know, I know, sex toy recycling, gross.  But it's not like they're just hosing 'em off and putting them back on the shelves. They take the items to the lab where a (hopefully very highly paid) team of workers sorts through all the materials 

and sends them to the appropriate bins for grinding up to be made into shiny new sex toys and other things as well. Like, perhaps, that coffee cup you're drinking out of right now! (Pause for spit take.)  

The (unused) sex toy industry is also all over this green thing and has a host of green sexy stuff including vibrators with rechargeable batteries, organic lube, flavored vegan condoms, even bondage gear made out of 100% recyclable rubber. Our favorite (unused) sex toy company Good Vibrations has a whole Ecorotic line of these "sustainable" sex toys. (Press the green banner to the left to see what they have. Buy yourself something fancy, honey.) And you can feel even more virtuous with the purchase of your non-PVC anal plug or whatever because GV is partnering with the Global Justice Ecology Project, a cool group focusing on climate justice, Indigenous People's rights and protection of native forests.

This is all good, right?  Because we really don't want our children's children surrounded, Wall-E-style, by piles of grandma's non-recyclable polystyrene anal ring toss game, now do we?

* And yes, this post was indeed recycled as well. It used to be a giant plastic penis. But don't worry. I rinsed it off.

Female Condom, Where Art Thou?*

Ahhhh, remember the female condom?  Yeah, neither do I.  The poor old female condom seems like one of those ideas that got lost in time, like Esperanto or getting Americans to understand the metric system.  I mean, did any of you ever use a female condom?  Or even see one?  (If so, do tell.)

It's not much of a mystery why we aren't all using female condoms on a daily basis.  (Although I personally am wearing one right now.  You know, just in case.)  According to the Wikipedia entry on female condoms (because I am willing to spend minutes on research for you, dear reader), "reported 'rusting' sounds during intercourse turn off some potential users, as does the visibility of the outer ring which remains outside of the vagina."  Yes, the rubbery thing hanging out your nether regions seems like it would be a deal-breaker for most people, especially since the instructions for the contraceptive warn that the device should be hanging out  at least an inch.  Hanging out there an inch, flapping in the breeze.  Promotional materials also note that the female condom can be put in early.  "Honey, do I hear a rustling sound? And is that what I think it is hanging out your pants?  Oooh, baby."  As if all this weren't enough--and believe me, I think it is--the name given female condoms by the FDA is "vaginal pouches." 

The odd coda to all this that Female Health Company (FHC), the maker of female condoms, was just named 8th in the top 100 fastest growing publicly traded small companies by Fortune.  How can this be?    Well, it seems we have been distributing massive amounts to women in developing countries, like a mean big sister handing down clothing rejects.  "Here, these are totally lame.  But you might like them."

And btw, if all this talk of female condoms is making you hot, they're still available here in America from Good Vibrations. Order yourself a nice, big, tan-colored one. The one that really hangs out far.


*And yes, it is rerun week around here. If you don't like it, I am afraid I will have to advise you to suck it.

Guest Post: On Being Chosen For A Threesome

Today's guest post is from Confessions of a Recovering Cynic, a ballsy, hilarious blog in which heroine, self-described "train wreck," Tricia* writes about hideous dates, having to move back in with her parents and sending her brother to the post office to mail a butt plug to a reader/contest winner.

In the following post, Guest Star, Tricia--who clearly has an especially alluring Blogger profile--has been propositioned by a married couple for a threesome. Instead of just writing about that, which would certainly be fine enough, Tricia takes it a step further and imagines the couple's conversation as they look at her profile, deciding if she is the one to share their marital bed. Note the subtle manuevering between the husband and wife as they try to work the situation to their own advantage.

So behold, Guest Star (text and artwork courtesy of Confessions of a Recovering Cynic):

Guest Star

So, I've already told you that my online profile is quite titillating to the geriatric set. I get swamped with emails from silver not-so-foxys suggesting that I look like I'd be a hoot.

Cuz mama taught you to share...

Today I was surprised to find out that apparently I am attractive to someone who doesn't bear an AARP card.

More specifically, two people who don't bear AARP cards.

That's right...I'm being propositioned as a guest star.

Now, I'm no fool.

I know how this conversation went down as they perused the profiles.


Hubs (clicking on picture of blonde could-be Playmate):
     She looks pretty good, honey.

Wife (thinking over my dead body):
     Um, I prefer brunettes...

Hubs (clicking on Megan Fox look-alike):
     Here's a brunette!

Wife (still thinking over my dead body):
     Hmm...she looks like she might have herpes.
(Shuffles profiles, lands on mine. EUREKA!)  
     How about her? She looks...nice.
(Nice = not so ugly that hubs will heave his lunch, but not as pretty as wife, naturally.)

Hubs (considering):
     She's a little...chubby - don't you think?

Wife (speaking soothingly):
     Nah, I think she's...sensual looking. Just think, hon - big tits!

Hubs (realizing with alarm this might be his only shot, and that a mediocre threesome is still better than no threesome):
     You're right, babe! Let's email her.

*And yes, overly attentive stalker  astute reader, this is indeed the same Tricia who "won" last week's contest on Most Stupid-Ass Thing Done for Love. She was the one who, among other things, paid for her own engagement ring.