Yes, There's Adult Content. That Would Be Because I'm An ADULT.

Google (misleading company slogan: "don't be evil") is making me take their ads off In Bed With Married Women because of my "violations." Which are, according to them: "adult/pornography" and "adult/explicit text."

It was the last post "big tide nipple fuck sliping in bathroom" that alerted them to my wantonness and adult ways. (Apparently my other posts about fucking inflatable sheep, anal bleaching and whatnot were A-OK.) It's kind of strange because the particular post they objected to was about Misguided Googlers®, and the "explicit text" was directly quoted from searchers that Google had sent me.

In my mind, there is a big-ass difference between pornography and an adult talking about adult things. I mean, fuck, I've birthed two babies, presumably I'm old enough to type the word fuck and post a picture of boobs once in a while. (Strangely, I did hesitate before posting the boob picture with that particular post because it seemed a little too sexy, if something can indeed be too sexy. But in the end, that chick's boobs were just so damn hot -- I had to post the picture.)

To me, pornography is not boobs or butts (Guess what, those are standard issue on humans.) Pornography is local news, the insane amount of murder and torture that is loving fetishized in movies, TV shows and video games, US Weekly ("Stars with cellulite!"), reality programming that demonstrates a woeful misunderstanding of the definition of the word "reality," corporate citizenry, airbrushing, Monsanto's business practices, and such. But I live in the United States in 2011, and here, pornography means sex.

Yes, SEX, as in how everyone reading this got here (except you test tube babies there in the back rows. Uh, no offense.) That's right. Someone did "IT" with someone else. They made love, they stuck cock in cunt, they had tepid sex because the ovulation thermometer said it was time, they co-mingled souls and saw God, they slam-fucked next to the dumpsters behind the Hardee's.

How are we STILL so ashamed of something so natural, human and basic?

*Shrug* Eh, dunno.

Anyway, the revenue stream of the Google ads (though perhaps "stream" is a bit strong a word. The revenue "slightly drippy faucet" perhaps?) is now gone, so I'm wondering what kind of monetizing strategies seem less odious to you, dear Gentle Reader? I, of course, am happy to write for you for free just because I love you so much, but my shareholders are total dicks and are always talking about stuff like "monetization" and "paying the electric bill."

I'm posting a poll over in the margin there on the right. Please weigh in with with your vote. The question is this:
How would you be willing to support IBWMW?

1. By making your regular purchases through the Amazon search box there at right?
2. Buying something via blog link from sex toy company Good Vibrations?
3. Making a direct donation using the Donate button in the right margin?
4. Getting a Kindle subscription to In Bed With Married Women (only 99¢ a month!)
5. Reading it for damn free like always.

Mull it over and let me know.

(photo source)

"big tide nipple fuck sliping in bedroom"

I, too, often stand topless
next to my lava lamp.

"Big tide nipple fuck sliping in bedroom."

Ah yes, faithful IBWMW readers will recognize this, not as the beginning of a provocative haiku, but rather as the unmistakably tortured syntax, poor spelling and unclear desires of a Misguided Googler®.

So I have an idea. In the interest of trying to run a good business around here (suddenly thought of new blog motto: "Where the Customer Counts," replacing former blog motto "A Cry for Help"), let's have a look at this month's trends in Misguided Googlers®, shall we? Please get out your folders and direct your attention to the screen in front of the room.

As I see it, the keyword trends directing people to this corner of the Internet are as follows:

1. Sexy time with bedposts:  "Women fucking bed poles." "Free videos of women coming on the bed post."

2. Excessively specialized requests:  "Big tits women7" (not sure why big tits women6 was not acceptable to this searcher, but I'm not here to judge.) "Naked female mail carriers." (rrraowwr!) "Jill St. John Lost World camel toe," "cunnilingus in World War I."

3.  Not even asking a question, just bragging:  "I fucked the older woman down the street."

4. Various and sundry requests for married women doing assorted sexual things:  Including married women... "loving cock," "fucking a stranger," "who like to suck any cock they can"...you get the idea. That's why it was so refreshing to find "married women driving naked." (post idea, cashing in on two trends at once: married women mail carriers driving naked.)

5.  Just funny, though I can't really say why: "Can I put fat sex toy in woman virgina." Hell, why not? "Mmm old woman sex," "gay water," "how to catch married woman for fuck." And my favorite, "homemade fuck."

6.  Flattering (certainly, this had to have been my husband): "Blow job marriage divine jill hamilton."

7.  Insulting: "Long and sagging titties." Not me, darlin'. You have come to the wrong place. (Try again in a few years though!)

8. Racist old Southern woman hitting the sherry and drunk Googling: "Wife in bed with a black."

9. Kind of ick: "Fuck horse cervix," "elderly fuck toy," "dog fuck wife in a bedroom." (the bedroom specified because dog fucking wife in kitchen = unacceptable, I guess.)

10. What the hell?!?: "Vagisil porn," "tentacle eroticism," "sexy chipmunk costume," "dildo masturbation ikea," "vagina cupcakes," "inner dildo-y part plus so-called 'rabbit ears' for outer stimulation," "fuckable household objects," "Snuggle bear gets fucked." Oh wait... *blush*...those are all legit.

So, anyone have any business insights? Ways to cash in and whatnot?

If not, I'll leave you with one more search term, "Woman slow hip rolling in bed to orgasm" which I might have to search myself because it sounds kind of hot. I can only hope that wherever I land, they will treat me kindly.

****This just in!:  Due to this post, IBWMW is now the #2 choice for the search term "married woman fuking dogs." New new blog motto:  "Lots of married woman and dog fuking."

(photo source: Space Ghost Depressed)


Note: For more frequent Misguided Googler updates, "like" the In Bed With Married Women Facebook page.

This is Kind of A Strange Question, But Does Your Teddy Bear Have A Boner?

There are two types of inventors -- the Steve Jobs type, coming up with brilliant, useful products replete with zen-like beauty and then there is...everyone else.

Like whoever the fuck invented this thing, shown there on the left.

This product, as near as I can tell, is called This Teddy Bear Hides Your Sex Toys in a Secret Pouch. Which I guess is a good enough name since that's exactly what it is.

This poor Teddy is upsetting to me because I picture the dude who invented it (Yes, I know it's sexist, but in my mind, this inventor's a guy. And don't be trying to change my mind. I'm pretty firm on this one). Anyway I think of him coming home and telling his wife, "Baby, call your boss and quit your job at the cannery because right here, I've got our ticket out of this rat hole!" Then he proudly whips out the plans for This Teddy Bear Hides Your Sex Toys in a Secret Pouch.

The wife sighs quietly to herself. One gets the feeling that it's just the latest in a long line of sighs that have come with marrying this guy.

I mean, did he not think this through at all? There are so very many ways this is a bad idea.

--First and most importantly, a stuffed animal prominently displayed on the bed is not a guaranteed Mate Attracter. Many, I among them, would argue that it would be more accurately categorized as Mate Repellent.

--If you have kids and want to keep them away from something, a stuffed animal is most assuredly not your best bet. The vegetable drawer in the fridge might be a better choice, or hey, how 'bout trying the night stand drawer like everyone else in the world?

--Except for Plushies, bless those dear, dear stuffed animal fuckers (see also: I Am Going To Fuck You So Hard, Snuggle), stuffed animals and sex just don't go together. Can you imagine rolling about in bed with someone, they get a mischievous look in their eyes and say, "Would you like to try something new?" Then they seductively bring out... their Teddy Bear? No, no, no. And, btw, that sound you hear is genitals shriveling up and scurrying to find a safe place to hide under the bed.

--Pavlovian conditioning. You grab your Teddy Bear, you get out your toy, you have an orgasm. Repeat repeat repeat until, in your mind, Teddy Bear = orgasm. (see above, Plushies) 

--$39.99!  No way, mister, for that kind of money, I'll rip a sex toy hole in my own damn Teddy Bear.

--But main objection to the idea is, well, this:

Right.

xoxoxo

jill

P.S. I found this Back Boner-Having Teddy Bear at Shop In Private, a site featuring all manner of embarrassing products. Loved it as sort of an anthropological study about what sorts of things our society deems to be embarrassing. There were adult diapers, butt lifting lingerie, pubic wigs, lice shampoo, Journey cds, anal douches, back shavers, small sized condoms, cream to keep your balls smelling "fresh" and "The Big Boy Package Appearance Enhancer" (sold out).

Have a look, but be forewarned, when I was there, I inadvertently activated an informational video on the site, and some dude started talking about "coochie shaving cream" in a Really Loud Voice.

Someone Who Actually Used The Female Condom!

A reader over at Dan Savage's column in The Stranger recently linked to this IBWMW reader letter. Upon re-reading it, I loved it again so much that here is it again, showing up at your doorstep, no worse for the long trip. Take it in and give it a good home will you?

Not only is this letter about the female condom, which as faithful readers will recall, I am unduly obsessed with, but it is also stunningly well-written. (Also, non-irrelevantly, I am home with a sick child today and can't be sitting around writing about wieners all day.)

The reader, let's call him B, was good enough to report back to us on his experience with the female condom. I love it especially because he uses the phrase "from a purely penile perspective." Writes B:

"With a regular condom, men lose all the direct friction on the penis, which is, of course, why so many guys hate using them. With the female condom, all the friction and sensation comes back (for the male), but the feeling is still very different from regular no-condom sex, because of what the penis is actually rubbing against: a urethane sheath. Urethane feels nothing like skin, and is also very different from latex… more Saran Wrappy, really.

Maneuvering the penis through the ring-opening is fun, like an accuracy game, and it requires the help of fingers, which most people will probably find lacking in the romance department. But hey, when there’s a plastic ring dangling out of a person’s vagina, it ain't gonna be a scene outta Jane Austen.

Note: Not a scene from
"Pride and Prejudice"

Once the penis is safely inside, a lot of the things you’ve grown to expect from penetration are the same: the pressure and the warmth are as they should be. But then there’s this strange, unfamiliar texture, like your penis is now gripped by something that’s smoother and more plastic than you're used to. From a purely penile perspective, it’s a bit like having sex with a warm, tight sandwich bag. But that’s just a best guess, of course. I’ve never gotten it on with food wrapping, honestly.

I will admit that the sensation was actually exciting as a novelty. Everything else about my girlfriend was the same, but her vagina felt noticeably different. She was 98% human and 2% love doll, and that was a bit of a turn-on, as if she’d swapped out her sex part for something new… not better, but at least different and maybe a tad futuristic.

Blame it on all those nerve endings that make intercourse so penis-centric for guys, but even with all the other stuff that’s going on during sex, there’s no disguising that what you’re feeling down in the thrusting zone isn’t really an au- natural vagina, but something “other.”

So, yeah. Warm, tight, and plasticky.

It’s not a feeling I’d want every time, and it would definitely get to be a drag if it was the default birth control method. But as a one-off experiment, it was enjoyable and memorable."

Someone Wins...um, Something! Plus Comment Passion

The winner of the Love is... contest is the ever-insightful commenter Mongo, At the Moment. For his efforts, he wins a cock ring. What? You can't hear me? Okay, FINE! He wins a COCK RING! That's right, a big ol' candy colored, waterproof, vibrating cock ring, with girth adjustment, "extra nubs," a "baller" (which could probably use a more appealing name) and hell, probably a bacon-cooking attachment. There, I said it, COOOOOOCK RIIIING, happy now? (btw, if you want your own damn cock ring and the joy that is the baller, gather up your courage, and order one here.)

Mongo, who, presumably, is woefully un-cock-ring-festooned at present, answered my exchange rate question about the money Kim Casali made for drawing the inexplicably popular comic "Love Is..." (or, as Cagey-C gorgeously put it, "'love is...' oddly uninhibited Precious Moments") during their 70s heyday. (Short answer: it was a fuck of a lot of money.)

Actually I loved ALL your comments and wish I could drive my parade limo through town like Mr. Monopoly, tossing cock rings to you all.

But it wasn't Mongo's £ to $ exchange rate wisdom that got me. It was the comment he left a few minutes later on the post Help This Reader Out--Girl's Got the Dopamine Sickness! that sealed the deal.

Actually, if you have time, go back to that post and read what everyone had to say on monogamy, chemicals and what the fuck to do about it. Everyone was so honest and insightful and smart, I could have wept. I especially loved mjs's comment, which contained such wisdom as:

The eternal struggle between novelty and secure intimacy - it is a classic. You are experiencing the power of novelty and chemistry. It is why when we start dating someone there is so much energy. It comes from the mystery, the tension, the surprises. It is the opposite of secure intimacy.
     Now we also love secure intimacy as well - the knowns, the stability, the familiarity...but there is no tension or excitement there and hence sexual tension can often diminish or vanish. It gives us great comfort to know everything and share everything with our partners but it more often than not kills desire because that full sharing on every level including mundane details makes lovers into family - and who wants to fuck their family?

Indeed.

Anyway, on to Mongo's tale of dopamine, lust and excruciating restraint. Here, go get a cup of coffee or something, settle in for a few moments, and read what he had to say:

A similar situation happened with me, about a year ago: A friend, with kids; I'm single. Her husband is more an acquaintance of mine than a friend.

She: Simmering long-standing issues with husband. Me: Always wanted to duct-tape her to the back of a Zip Sharecar and drive to Carmel for the weekend. Husband: Would not see the humor in the situation.

This kind of contact can become the functional equivalent of bungee-jumping -- The juice, tension, the frisson of an unspoken agreement to skirt the edge of forbidden contact. Hormones; endorphins; secretly flaunting convention and feeling more alive; both of us were thinking: Yeah, sign me up for more of that... 

It was clear that if either of us had made even a modest physical move, the escalation from flirting to fucking would have been a rapid progression. It hurt so Bad it was almost blissful. After a while, it was clear all this was getting in the way of our relating to each other the way we always had -- so we talked. A lot.

Help This Reader Out--Girl's Got the Dopamine Sickness!

Yikes, I need your help! A reader has asked for advice and I don't want to totally fuck her up provide her with unwise counsel. So I turn to you, Faceless Internet Stranger, as I do on all Important Life Matters. Here, you tell her what to do.

This is what you have to go on, her comment on the post Dopamine, The Cruel Bitch Mistress:

Tell me how to make it stop. I've been married for 7 years now to a man who, 7 years before that was a crazy crush. He's a great guy, wonderful father to our little girl. All that. Then a dude came along who, with a GLANCE turned me inside out. We've flirted, we've talked, and he's told me I do the same to him. His integrity (dammit!) will not allow him to go any further with me, as he knows I'm married with a wee one. But, due to where I work and where said dude shops, I still see him and we still chit chat. It is driving me mad, making me seriously wonder if I still love my husband, getting seriously pissed off that I cannot work up passionate emotions for husband like I have for the dude, losing weight because I don't want to eat, etc. WTF am I supposed to do??? 
Going Crazy Here

Well, what should we tell this lady? Have any of you been in this situation? How did you handle it? Was your solution simple and elegant? Horrible and messy? Some combination therein? Any and all input welcome! You are welcome to comment anonymously (the Internet version of taking the Fifth), but I'll ask you not to be judgmental. The In Bed With Married Women philosophy is that the stuff we talk about around here is not Good or Bad--it's just True, and worth looking at with a clear and open mind.

Yours in Excessive and Unnecessary Capitalization,

jill

(photo source: Hoodoo That Voodoo, Photography by Sarah Moon)

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

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

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

You know you want me...

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

-- In Bed With Married Women Kindle subscribers

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

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

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

--New Twitter followers (@Jill_Hamilton)

Bonus point opportunities!: 

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck...

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

Ooooh, Sears, You Naughty Little Store, You

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

See this?

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

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

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

And quite a bit less:

Excuse me, does this train
go to Leg Avenue?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tag, You're It



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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahhhhh, I feel a whole lot better.

The Finest Scatalogical Humor Ever Written

My gay crush

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

"Just a minute."

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

"Just a minute!"

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

"I'll be out in a second!"

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

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

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

*To a certain extent

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

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

(photo source)

The Most Unsexy Porn EVER

E.T. has needs too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxoxo
jill

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

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

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

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

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

Dreams Do Come True--A Cautionary Tale*

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

****

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

Cpt. Wolf wrote of Fleshlights:   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not just hot,
Steve Buscemi hot.

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

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

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

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

xoxox
jill

A Really Good Contest, Plus Your Ugly Celebrity Crush

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dick Morris,
pre-fatness

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

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

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

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

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

A Horse With No Name, And Other Sexual Props

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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