What People Have Down Their Pants

That's me.

Yes, I know the whole fucking world is going to hell in a hand basket, whatever that means, and what follows here today is just silliness, but my present coping mechanism of staring at my social media feeds, impotently pressing the mad face emoji is not really doing the trick today.*

Anyway there's lots to tell you. Walk with me, will you?

My Weird Job
--I was on the Cosmo Happy Hour podcast! Which would be more exciting if I could tell you how to listen! (Try iTunes or Play.It) It's the Who Invents Cosmo Sex Positions episode and--spoiler:  It's *sigh* me. I come in about the 8 minute mark and talk without pre-thinking anything for even one second, as is my way.

Things People Saw and Thought of Me:
 --Matthew saw this underwear with a built-in camel toe and quite reasonably, thought of me. Not because I am known for anything camel toe related (...yet. though I do get an oddly high amount of traffic from the search terms "Jill St. John camel toe") but because I am a little obsessed with the stuff people put down their pants.

I'm guessing they're probably for people in various stages of transitioning because beyond clearing up painful front wedgies due to 1970s time travel/wardrobe problems, it's hard to see the appeal here. Like any of these body "enhancement" deals, why would your try to attract someone with the very thing you lack? If some dude/lady is into big-ass vaginas**, they're going to be mighty disappointed when you disrobe and that camel toe of yours is lying next to you, still puffed up and ready to go. Do they then fuck you out of politeness or go straight for the panties they really wanted to fuck? Do you really want to know? 

In any case, there's also a camel toe blocker (because no matter what you have going down there, somebody is gonna tell you it's not right. See also Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth.) The blocker, of course, creates the opposite problem of the enhancer. Someone who is into you because of your unobtrusive little cooter will likely be shaken when you unleash your formerly-contained camel toe, and it expands like an air bag, possibly putting someone's eye out. 

If you're undecided, maybe just buy some pants that fit and see who comes your way.

--Anne sends the important news of crystals dildos designed to "quiet the mind in order to feel subtle energies, develop emotional intelligence, strengthen self-awareness, and accepting every aspect of who you are." It seems like an awful lot to ask of a dildo--guess that's why it costs $149. 91. Anne, who is from a foreign land signed off, "Hope your vagina is feeling magical" which is the way they sign off in her country, I think, but it did made to pause for a second to consider if my vagina was feeling magical. Answer: sorta? I think?
 
Things People Saw and Didn't Think of Me, But I Looked Anyway:
--My friend Janet saw Disney Dudes' Dicks: What Your Favorite Princes Look Like Naked and cruelly did not think of me. But I looked anyway, bc pervy, and beheld some waaay over-Imagineered cartoon prince nudity. I'm showing you to purge myself, in the same way that you tell someone when there's an annoying song playing over in your head. Take this:

Gaston

 Gaston likes to take nude selfies. He has a small dick—very tiny—pube-less and uncut.

 

Which seems about right.  As for Prince Charming, I've never given it any thought, but if for some reason I were forced to speculate--which could totally happen--I would guess that Prince Charming is asexual down below and has just a smooth flap of skin, like Ken. But clearly I am wrong.

Prince Charming

Obviously, the perfect guy has the perfect dick: like eight or nine inches, thick—but not too thick otherwise it's painful—rock hard with a nice throbbing vein. He's groomed perfectly in a way that's considerate of lovers without being too gay porn-y about it. He's standing in front of the fireplace that Cinderella no longer has to rake, arm draped over the mantle.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go and try to grow the fuck up. 

Contest coming!
Stay tuned. Have the prizes. Need to think of what I'm gonna make you do.

xoxo
jill

P.S. Tell me what's on your mind. I miss your ass.

*Don't worry. I'm still all about the #resist and will be back on my mad face emoji pressing duties soon enough
**I know. LABIA. Piss off.. 

The Blow Job as Path to the Divine

I am not a religious person. I don't even know that I want to be. I have sort of tried, a little, but for better or worse, I don't seem to have the God gene. The closest I ever get to the sublime feeling of connection with the universe that religious people describe is generally through music. Walking at night, the wet smell of the evening mist, a full moon hanging overripe in the sky, and Pandora radio seducing me with exactly what I want to hear before I know myself (Damn, Pandora, I will tell you again, I would so fuck you if I could) is the closest I get to experiencing the Divine.

Except for sex. I think what's appealing to me about sex is not the actual friction between body parts-- although that's pretty damn good, too--but the out-of-body, out-of-your-fucking-mind, brain/body explosion that happens during the best sex. Good sex is just somehow...beyond. You're extremely focused on the Now, the line between you and other is blurred, and, in the best moments, you feel like you and the Universe are sort of throbbing together as one. Which sounds a lot like religious ecstasy.  (Other times it's just you and your partner, or your hand, or your vibrator--you get off, then go about your day. Which is fine as well.)

In an oldish issue of Playboy, Samantha Gillison wrote a wonderful essay "The Platonic Ideal" on this idea of sex as route to the Divine. I would link to it, but-- incredibly in this day and age--it is not available on-line! Well, unless you pay. That's why this month I am a member of iPlayboy.com, for you, dear reader.

In Gillison's piece, she describes the moment she became illuminated on the joys of giving head. It was after a Bad Brains concert, and in the darkness of the parking lot, she knelt before her date.

We could have been strangers--we almost were--and somehow the darkness, the anonymity of the situation liberated me from worrying about doing something wrong or feeling self-conscious. I allowed myself to sink deep into the fantasy of what it must feel like for him--the pressure, the warmth, the wetness. All of a sudden the only thing in the world was that cock and my connection to it.

Previously, Gillison had thought of blow jobs as something you gave, like a gift, or something you did as a favor. Plus there was some fear and uncertainty.

It was just that I was unsure of cock when I got up close to one; it contained unreadable male mysteries. I might hurt it or maybe just do nothing right. Maybe I looked ridiculous. I didn’t really know which parts of it wanted to be touched, or how. It seemed to be its own creature, almost uncannily separate from the man who owned it. Perhaps simpleminded but authoritarian and judgemental. 

This time, however, she had a revelation.

But starting that night in the parking lot, I began to understand the profound, dirty pleasure of giving blow jobs. It isn’t just that I discovered how much I like being in control, how much I like giving the kind of pleasure that makes someone helpless, and how intoxicating it is to be on the receiving end of hurricane-levels of desire. But, that night, it was also the revelation of the particular male smell you get up close with a cock and balls that turned me on in ways that are almost beyond description. It was like being inside sex.

"Being inside sex." Dear God. 

Plato said that human beings can only truly access the divine through sexual ecstasy, Eros. This has always made so much sense to me. When else are humans as rapt by feeling as when they come and when they touch God? That feeling of connection to the universal, the feeling of having exited my own body as I orgasm is nothing other than touching the infinite.

Yet I have never been able to get close to that Platonic, out-of-my-mind kind of sexual ecstasy unless I can satisfy a primal hunger: Whether in fantasy or reality, I need a connection to another equally raunchy human being. It has always been the case with me, since I was a teenager, that I have to see someone else’s horniness in order to feel horny. What I happily realized on my knees in the parking lot is that an erect cock in my face is among the most blatant ways of experiencing the realness of someone else’s desire I’d ever encountered. And every time, it spurs a response in me, hot and dark and if I’m doing something transgressive in the best possible way.

Blow jobs! Philosophical talk! The phrase "erect cock in my face"!  Gah, I am a goner! LOVE this $%$#!

I'll add a little bit more of her essay, because I want to make sure I don't stray from "fair use" territory to "stealing" and "copyright infringement." Here's Gillison on the experience of blowing a long time friend and feeling, then overcoming, the awkwardness inherent in that particular situation.

But then a supple communication started between me and his penis as I began to suck, a communication beyond words and much deeper than any we had ever had before.

His cock felt so sexy in my mouth, hard and hot and aching with desire. But I could also feel how much of this man was being revealed to me: his sexuality, his vulnerability, his musky smell.

Soon the connection started to feel like a merging, as though I was experiencing that blow job too. It felt crazy, off-the-charts raunchy, to fantasize that I was not only giving head but getting it. All of a sudden I was overwhelmed by pure animal pleasure. I was so turned on that I came.

Since that night’s discovery I always revel in the double fantasy of giving and receiving. And I honor the wisdom of the old Greek philosophers who pointed out that although the Divine is inscrutable, it is easy to find while sucking on a dick.

And there is no better way to end a post than what Gillison ended with right there, so I will leave you to your day.

xoxoxo
jill

* Afterword:  Do NOT do a Google image search for "penis public domain." Hideous medical photos!  "Lesion on the glans"! Holy crap! Look away! Look away!

photo: William M. Rattase

The Lush Sexuality of a Woman in Full Bloom

I've been writing about vaginas a lot lately.

Which is weird, because I can barely even say the word "vagina." (I'm even a little iffy on "angina," though rest assured, if there were a medical emergency, I'd probably manage to choke it out.*) I'm not alone in this. Even Eve Ensler, Little Miss Vagina Monologues said: "Doesn't matter how many times you say it, it never sounds like a word you want to say."

True that. However, I think I am going through some sort of vaginal consciousness raising which, I know, sounds completely horrible, like it would involve attending meetings, holding hands with caftan-clad strangers, and answering dreadful questions like "What is your vaginal song?"

But you see, vaginas don't just exist as they are--well, I mean, they do--but they're also subject to the Prevailing Attitudes of the Day. In the 19th century, for example, girls who learned how to masturbate were considered to have a medical problem. Writes Ensler: "Often they were 'treated' or 'corrected' by amputation or cautery of the clitoris or 'miniature chastity belts,' sewing the vaginal lips together to put the clitoris out of reach.'" Which, I imagine, certainly did the trick.

It was only a few hundred years ago that the existence of the clitoris was still a matter of serious scientific debate. And even today, we're still sort of iffy on some pretty major issues such as the G-spot's validity, what the hell a woman's ejaculate is, and whether or not there are different types of orgasm. Science, it seems, doesn't quite know what to make of female sexuality, and by association, vaginas.

So, yes, vaginas are mysterious and hard to figure out. But guess what? That's what so good about them. What fun would it be if you solved it all at once?

I think that's why the Prevailing Attitudes of the Day re: vaginas and the stupid bleaching and plastic surgery are bothering me so much. Because all of those things are about making the vagina chaste-looking and less, well, womanly. Like a beginner vagina that doesn't know anything. The lips of a vagina that has birthed babies and been well fucked are lush and flushed and swollen. They are not tiny and pink and virginal. They are full and open and just...so ripe.

I started thinking of them as being ripe, like a rose in full bloom, after reading this passage from Michael Pollan's Into the Rose Garden on roses and female sexuality. (Yes, I said "like a rose in full bloom." And yes, I know I sound like I'm talking about singing your vaginal song and all that, but hear me out.) In the piece, Pollan writes about his Maiden's Blush rose, also known as Cuisse de Nymphe Emue which means "the thigh of an aroused nymph."

Maiden’s Blush...seems to press her sexuality on us. Her petals are more loosely arrayed than Madame Hardy’s; less done up, almost unbuttoned. They are larger, too, and they flush with the palest flesh pink toward the center, which itself is elusive, concealed in their innumerable folds. The blush of this maiden is not in the face only. Could I be imagining things?

No, Maiden’s Blush is certainly not the old lady I expected when I planted roses. And though Maiden’s Blush bears an especially provocative bloom, every one of the old roses I planted, and all I’ve since seen and smelled, have been deeply sensuous in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Compared with the chaste buds and modest scent of the modern roses, these old ones give freely of themselves. They flower all at once, in a single, climactic week. Their blooms look best fully opened, when their form is most intricate; explicit, yet still so deeply enfolded on themselves as to imply a certain inward mystery....More than most floral scents, the fragrance of these roses is impossible to get hold of or describe “it seems to short-circuit conscious thought, to travel in a straight line from nostril to brain stem." Inhale deeply the perfume of a Bourbon rose and then try to separate out what is scent, what is memory, what is emotion; you cannot pull apart the threads that form this . . . this what?...

If the allure of old roses is in the frank sensuality of their blooms, then what are we to make of the development and eventual triumph of the modern hybrid tea? Maybe the Victorian middle class simply couldn’t deal with the rose’s sexuality. Perhaps what really happened in 1867 was a monumental act of horticultural repression. By transforming the ideal of rose beauty from the fully opened bloom to the bud, the Victorians took a womanly flower and turned her into a virgin, "a celebrated beauty when poised on the verge of opening, but quickly fallen after that."

Deeply sensuous? Frank sensuality? Short-circuiting conscious thought? Oh, Michael Pollan, this is why I love you so! (Oh, also for your excellent points on monocultures, sustainable farming techniques, and whatnot.)

But I wonder, are we doing the same thing with our bodies? Will we keep trying to bio-engineer chaste-appearing closed-up girl vaginas, forever "poised on the verge of opening," while foolishly missing out on the best damn part--the extreme fuckability and lush sexuality of a woman in full bloom? 

xoxo
jill

*This is a lie. Instead of "angina," I would say "chest pains."

(photo source)

Did You Marry The Best Sex Of Your Life?

As though you didn't already have enough damn stuff to worry about, now two surveys have come out saying that if you're a married and/or olderish person, your sex life probably sucks ass. And not in a good way.

According to a survey in the Telegraph, three-quarters of people over 45 think sex became less enjoyable after they turned 40. The average 45+ person has sex once a week and this Sex of the Week--which is generally done in the missionary position, in a bedroom, with the lights off--rarely lasts more than 22 minutes, including any sort of foreplay.

And if all this weren't enough, 31% of people had cut a session short because as the Telegraph so Britishly put it, "They were too exhausted to carry on." "Simon, I do say, I am exhausted and can no longer carry on. If you've not come, perhaps a nice wanking off for you, old fellow?" (In marginally-related wanking off news: I was looking up British slang terms for masturbation and discovered --to my horror--that "jill off" is a vulgar term for female masturbation. How is it that they know?) But anyway, these Brits are so out of shape they can't even manage a boring session of weekly dutiful sex. Brits, mind you! Not drive-thru window-using, cheeseburger-eating, WalMart cart-riding Americans. I can (all too easily) see being too tired to start sex, but too tired to finish sex? Man, how crappy would you feel if your partner just stopped mid-thrust and said, "Eh, I'm too fat and lazy to continue banging you"?

The good news in a study from iVillage was that nearly half of the women surveyed married the person with whom they'd had the best sex of their lives. But it gets more confusing from there. Two-thirds of the women said they'd rather do something else like read a book, go to a movie, etc... than have sex with Mr. Supposedly Best Sex of Their Lives. A huge majority, 81%, described their sex lives as "predictable," but then they go on to report than most of them are quite happy with their sex lives.

I was confused by the whole survey until I saw that only 62% of women "admitted" they had fantasized about having sex with someone other than their spouse. Oh, come on! Clearly this survey is bogus. Never fantasized about another person ever? What are these 37% of women fantasizing about?

Mmm, my husband comes into bed for sex because it's Saturday. He is wearing black socks and turns off the lights. We discuss who will take the kids to the Brownie meeting, then with little to no foreplay, we get into the missionary position. After far less than 22 minutes, we have to stop because we are too tired to carry on. Oh, God, is anyone else totally hot right now? 

As you might have guessed, this is all leading to some questions for you. Namely:
1.  Did you marry the best sex of your life?
2.  Have you ever fantasized about someone other than your partner?  If so, who?
3.  If not, go back and answer question #2, this time telling the truth, and tell us who.
4.  Do you thinking jilling off is a really bad name for masturbating? Mark "yes" or "definitely yes."

xoxo
jill

(note: this is totally a rerun. Data may now be completely wrong so do not attempt any Major Life Changes based on information obtained herein.)

The Wisdom (?) of the Cunt

You pass

I think men have their relationships with their cocks all worked out. An understanding, of sorts. They know that their dicks react to certain people and they've pretty much decided how much credence they'll give to the input coming from their pants. Yes?

With women, it all seems a bit more nebulous. There is no female equivalent to the phrase "thinking with the little head." Women don't have such a strong, obvious sexual reaction--no big ol' boners--and besides, our emotional, intellectual and physical selves seem to have only rudimentary inter-communication skills.

In the Meredith Chivers experiment that I slightly incorrectly cited the other day, the sexual visuals that women reported being aroused by (i.e. naked man walking on the beach) were completely different than what their genitals reacted to* (homo and hetero sex, men or women masturbating, even a chick doing calisthenics).  As my beloved Daniel Bergner, put it in the New York Times, "...with the women, especially the straight women, mind and genitals seemed scarcely to belong to the same person."

This is so intriguing to me because it seems that rather it being a case of the women being embarrassed, and just saying they were aroused by naked beach dude because thought that's what they should be aroused by, they truly had a disconnect between mind and body. Like they actually did not know what their bodies were aroused by.

But then reader Unknown (Unknown actually has a Blogger profile with that name) wrote this genius comment which threw my mind off-track (unfortunately, no genital reading was recorded to corroborate):

Whoa wait a second, though, let's not conflate "things a woman's vagina does in a laboratory" with "the final word on what turns women on." Sometimes women are turned on by things and don't exhibit a vaginal response. It's called non-concordance and it's a thing.

It's an important thing to keep in mind, because valuing a woman's physical response over what she actually says she's enjoying sexually paves the way for shit like "well she was wet, so she must have wanted it." Nobody's vagina has a better idea of what they want than their brain does. 

So where does us leave us?

What is the biological point of our bodies and minds having such different agendas and poor inter-networking skills? 

I think I've always ascribed a greater wisdom to the body--like "This guy seems wholly unsuitable and not even horribly attractive, but my body sure as hell wants him. Clearly it has access to some sort of magical/evolutionary Greater Wisdom. Let's do it!"

I mean, this is beyond TMI, but I have literally checked my panties to gauge how wet they were to determine my level of interest in someone. Was the panty-check smart thinking/working with nature or just worthless (and graphic) voodoo?  Does the cunt provide Greater Wisdom or does it just shoot out random misfires to fuck with us?  If it's the first case, should it take precedence over rational thought? And, should I maybe not have mentioned that whole bit about the panties?

Or how 'bout this: what if there's someone who is wildly good looking, smart, intriguing, sensual, way sexy to your brain--all of it--but doesn't actually moisten your panties? Is your body just...wrong? Or is this something to pay attention to?

When your body has an intense sexual reaction to someone--or lack thereof--how much do you listen to it? How wise have its decisions been? Please report back with your findings.

xoxox
jill
 
p.s.  Just checked my panties. And you're good.

p.p.s.  This is a rerun and upon rereading, I regret using the word "moisten" a little bit.  Also when it ran, some people didn't like that photo, even though it's a mannequin, a seemingly sexual aroused mannequinm but still.  Also some people didn't like that I said "cunt."  This was in the days before certain public figures "bragged" about grabbing pussies.  (Note: I think Justin Trudeau doesn't need to resort to grabbing them--not that it's ever right, of course--because pussies just float into his hand, like butterflies.)


 * As measured by a sexy, sexy vaginal probe.

A Lover's Moan and Other Sounds of Sex

Jesus, that was good.

Really amazing sex gets you from every direction. Besides the whole crazy love/spiritual intoxicating chemical dump that's happening in your brain, truly great fuckery involves all your senses as well. I think that's why it's all so damn heady. I mean, all these completely intense inputs are hammering you at once. The particular delicious smell of your lover's neck, the sight of a body part swelling with desire for you, the taste of their upper thigh...oh god.  Plus the wild array of touches-- the slow sliding, out-of-control violent thrusting, fierce whole body throbbing ride that marks a really good fuck.

What I've been thinking about lately, though, are the sounds of sex. The sighs, the wet smack of a woman's arousal, a rasped plea, a lover's moan (is there anything better than the sound of your lover's moan?*), a primitive growl of lust, a passionate whisper or shout of your name**--all these sounds convey sublime feelings and pleasures that are literally unspeakable.

I once had a lover leave me a phone message of his orgasm. (If you are as into sound as I am, do this. Do this at once. God, it would kill me to listen to it even today!) He started off talking me through it, explaining what he was looking at (picture of my boobs, you nosy motherfucker) and how close he was to coming. But the catch in his voice told me how aroused he was much more than what he was saying. He described riding the edge of almost coming, as his voice became raspier and his breathing more ragged. His words grew incoherent, as he went toward, then through his orgasm, completely conveying the experience through sound alone. I could hear (and almost feel) the tension, the inevitability, the blinding orgasm, then the strong aftershocks. It was pretty fucking amazing.

Sex sounds are a whole other language, made of groans and gasps and breath patterns and non-verbal...I don't know...emoting. We might "mmm" a bit over food, or grunt as we hit a tennis ball, but it's nothing like the extended, intricate, primal aural communication we have during sex.

So why do we make these sounds during sex?

The science on the sounds of sex is pretty scant. British primatologist Stuart Semple recorded 550 baboon female "copulation calls"--which is not at all a weird way to spend one's time--analyzed their acoustic structure and found that the calls contained information about what point the female was in her reproductive cycle and the status of her partner. Humans might be subconsciously exchanging similar information. A 2008 study found that women's voices--as judged by impartial listeners--changed during their cycle, becoming "more attractive" during ovulation and "less attractive" during menstruation. (Insert bitchy period joke here.)

A 2011 study found that women often made "copulatory vocalizations" (this is really what they called them) to accompany their partner's orgasm. Why? Politeness and/or trying to get it over with. Reports Salon's Lucy McKeon in A Nation of Moaners:

Sixty-six percent reported making noise to accelerate their partner’s ejaculation. Ninety-two percent believed these vocalizations upped their partner’s self-esteem (87 percent reported vocalizing for this purpose). Other reported reasons included speeding things up, “to relieve discomfort/pain, boredom, and fatigue in equal proportion, as well as because of time limitations.”

I don't particularly care for this study because 1). they only used 71 women, and just asked them questions instead of measuring them during real sex with sort of scientific Copulatory Vocalizationometer. 2). Those results are depressing.

I dislike the idea of calculated sounds, designed to spur someone to orgasm or worse "relieve boredom." I much prefer the unbidden moan, the deep rich moan that rises spontaneously from some primitive place of dark-red wanting.

I'll leave you today with these words from a lawyer-turned-dominitrix describing her love of "finding" this moan in her lovers. Or as she puts it in The Vagina Monologues "Discovering the key, unlocking this voice, this wild song."

"I made love to quiet women and I found this place inside them and they shocked themselves in their moaning. I made love to moaners and they found a deeper, more penetrating moan...It was a kind of surgery, a kind of delicate science, finding the tempo, the exact location or home or the moan."
 
xoxoxo,
jill

*answer: no, there is not.
**Why is it so delightful to hear your name on your lover's lips during the throes of passion? Egotism, pretty much. From Dale Carnegie's How To Win Friends and Influence People: Principle #6 –Remember that a person’s name is to that person the sweetest and most important sound in any language.

(Alfred Noyer, Paris 1920s)

Books by readers, "I'm horny lol" and whatever the hell else is in my mail today

Note: Sign not necessarily accurate

Oh girl, I get some good reader mail--real good--some so good, I'll never, ever tell you about it.

But among the sexy, flattering, funny and/or smart things, there's always something like this, fresh from today's in-box: "I'm horny. lol."

Yes, obviously "I'm horny. lol" is stupid and pointless and spectacularly ineffectual, but I hated it extra because:
1.  It's just plain selfish (they are horny but don't ask about my own situation).
2.  Use of the word "horny" (ick)
3.  They completely dissipate whatever "heat" they may have generated in the first two words with "lol."

Still. Reader, I married him. JK. Still too soon to tell.

Your Dick Is Fine--You Don't Need to Send Me A Picture Of It
Meanwhile over on Twitter, some dude wanted to send me his dick pic. Since this was a step above the usual unasked for surprise dick pic, I kindly directed him to Critique My Dick Pic. Yet he kept coming back, begging and begging me to look at it, claiming he was from a repressive society and was desperately worried if it looked okay or not. Finally, as no reasonable person would do, I told him to send me the damn dick pic and I'd tell him it was fine. He did, I did. But then, as you might have predicted, he kept writing, wanting me to rank it from one to ten. It was then I finally blocked him, about 15 messages later that you would have, and he will never know that I actually thought his dick was pretty hot, a solid 8 or so, even though I'd only give his personality a 2.

British Audio Porn
In happier news, reader Anonymous wrote me about 8 million years ago about British Filth. "It's a guy who records audio porn with an awesome British accent that is A-mazing.  It's first-person--put on your headphones and he's talking to you," A writes. I test listened to  "Jerk Off With Me" in which the Brit (who sounds like a pervier version of the Headspace meditation guy) instructs the male listerner to wank off along with him. It was indeed super hot and I was semi-wishing I had a dick too, then remembered, Oh yeah, I do.

Books by Readers
While I remain busy never writing my book, these friends of IBWMW have no such psychological barriers and are pounding them out.   

The Goddess Guide to Sex, Love & Life by Caitlin Grace. I completely adore Caitlin Grace because she's a bawdy chick with a cool accent. Her book is about being your bad-ass sexual self and just owning the fuck out of it--even if, especially if, you're an older chick. In one section about "creating sacred sanctuary," she writes about ridding your bedroom of family photos, unread books and such.  "None of that shit belongs in there," she writes, the unwarranted cussing making it that much better.

Inviting Desire by Walker J. Thornton is 30 day plan for midlife women to enhance their sex lives.  Thornton offers earnest practical advice and literary inspiration via Diane Ackerman, Pablo Neruda and D.H. Lawrence.

Of Sound Mind and Someone Else's Body by William Quincy Belle. A man and woman switch bodies and figure out stuff like walking in heels and whether they're gonna kiss. (Extra credit question for future IBWMW Ministers of Overachievement: Would you fuck someone who was residing in your body?) 

****
And finally, the most popular thing I've written lately was a Cosmo piece on sex positions with a dude with a micropenis. It's had about 38K shares so far, 99.9% of them guys tagging their friends on Facebook: "This might help you with that problem you were telling me about." Bam!

At the same time the article came out, an actual baby started following me on Twitter. However, I suspect it's unrelated.

Anyway, I'll try to write you something good to make up for it all because I miss your ass. A lot.

xoxo
jill

Reader Mail--Japanese Edition! "This is art, dude!"

The sadness of unfavorable penis-to-bowtie size ratio.

I'm been on a bit of an extended Japanese jag, so let's finish this tangent off with some reader mail, shall we?

--Christina sent an email with the subject line--but of course--"Sooo...this made me think of you."

"I abhor parades," she wrote. "But this? Definitely a must see. Japan's Annual Penis Festival Is As Phallic As You'd Expect."

Yes, April 6 was Kanamara Matsuri, the "Festival of the Steel Phallus," which features phallic-centric activities such as the wearing of penis hats and the sucking of penis lollipops. (April 7, I think, marks the "The Day Penis Lollipops Are 50% Off.")

The celebration, the continuation of an ancient tradition, is a jolly street festival with penis seesaws, much crossdressing and giant penises being hoisted down the street. The woman hoisting that giant penis down there (below) doesn't look especially jolly about her role in the day, but in truth, I'm not certain what the appropriate expression is, really, for heavy penis hauling. I assume she is pondering the series of life choices that led to this exact moment in her life. But perhaps I am projecting.

Woman questioning life choices.

The penis, by contrast, looks quite happy, despite its lack of accompanying body. Everyone likes to be acknowledged, I guess. Or perhaps it's the penis' still unrealized hope that this will be the year they finally run into the Hime-no-miya Masuri, or Grand Vagina Festival.

--Next, this from Trista, who through international efforts, solved the mystery of what the talking onahole is saying:

"Hi! My friend [ed: let's call him Anonymous] is partway through a JET career in Okinawa. Though raised in the US, his father and extended family hail from that southern archepelago of Japan. Anonymous-san is currently engaged teaching the wonders of English to middle school Japanese students, the bravest of whom might possess their very own 'onahole'.

Anyway, I sent him your posting, and this was his response. :) I was hoping he'd send it in, but apparently he's shy:

What the Onahole is saying is (roughly): "Read the attached warning!"
 
The other stuff is just notes on various features of the product. e.g., the grey bubble on the top right reads: "THIS IS ART, DUDE! The start of the sinewy shaft is a perfect reproduction!" (I'm taking license with the translation. Direct translation sounds weird as hell.)

He also notes that the "ona" is for onanism (see also: How Wanking It Created The Universe and Other Theories on Masturbation). Thank you, Trista and Anonymous-san! It's oddly pleasing to me to think of dear, shy Anonynous-san way over there in Japan poring over tiny Onahole kanji so we all may Learn.

--And finally James alerted us to the existence of the Furu Furi Ona Shaker, which is an Onahole cleaner, somewhat like a cocktail shaker but with really awesome graphics on the outside. Look!

I like that guy there at the bottom with the big ol' afro shaking his Onahole clean. He does a nice job on Glee too.

Shown here forcing Sue Sylvester to behold his freshly cleansed Onahole.

But mostly I love the cheery expression on the little white shaker character. Like there's nothing he likes more the sight of someone's ravaged splooge-filled Onahole headed his way.

My series of life choices? A-OK!

Ads for the shaker feature a somewhat confusing series of diagrams which seem to be instructions on cleaning one's well-fucked and now languid, post-coital Onahole, like this:

Step #4

...and this....?

....Huh?

...but could just as easily be instructions on making the world's ickiest knickknack.

"World's Greatest Lover"

xoxo
jill

(source for photo of sad clown man)

DIY Edible Underwear

These were called Candypants. Shiny.

"New business idea," writes Janet in response to Taste Like Your Worst Nightmare. "Gourmet edible undies for foodies -- stuff like Meyer lemon tart that you sprinkle powdered sugar on after said panty wearer has them on. Molten lava cake that comes with whip cream lube. Then there's the savory edition so you could actually skip dinner and go straight to the sex--sushi flavored panties in assorted fancy rolls, beef wellington, and for the vegetarian, quinoa with chick peas and kale. I think there's a big opportunity here:)"

Yeah... Maybe.... 'Cept it's kinda been done. As my genius friend Bill put it on Facebook yesterday, "Yes, yes. This is every goddamn day of my life," linking to The Onion's Best, Most Original Idea Man Has 114, 000 Search Results.

Which brings us to this instructional (sewing pattern? recipe?) for DIY Beef Jerky Underwear.

Yep.

The recipe contains hot sauce and liquid smoke, which seems problematic, but I suppose if you're come to terms with the other accompanying comfort issues inherent with crotch/dried meat contact, you're probably good.

Isn't this wasteful? asked one earnest commenter.

"Where is the waste?" answered another. "They are edible. No doubt the plan is to eat them off your partner. [D]epend[ing on] the size they would be good for more than one fun time activity, pretty much guaranteeing they will be consumed to the last bit."

So, yeah, problem solved. You gnaw away at it until it all gets too sexy and arousing and the meat underwear must --must, please now!--be savagely and hastily removed. Then, next time you're feeling randy, drag those raggedy-ass, half-eaten jerky pants out of the pantry and don them suggestively. Maybe run around a bit or do a few squats, to further arouse your partner as well as soften them up for easier chewing.

My favorite comment was from one Wazzupdoc. "Let's bump this up a notch. Jump in the hot-tub to soften things up a bit and chew away! Secondary benefit? Soup!"

xoxox
jill

ps.  In Bed With Married Women is currently the #1 highest-rated and #3 best-selling erotica blog on Kindle. Clearly Amazon has a pretty loose definition/strange concept of erotica, but I'll take it. Though I do feel a bit sorry for anyone buying it expecting some sexytime reading and instead discovering a big ol' picture of meat underwear.


(photo source)

Diagnosis: A Case of Femaleness

I look GOOD. Damn good.

In the past few days, I've hit a perfect storm of media consumption that has spun me into a feminist spiral. So if you're not into wild-eyed ranting, please avert your eyes.

It all started with a friggin' Campfire girl meeting. A high school girl showed a short film she'd made on body image, then in a halting, nervous voice told about her struggles with an eating disorder. By the end, every mother there was in tears. In tears! Because we totally got it. We all had our thing--too fat, too thin, hair too weird, butt too little, butt too big, etc...--that made us so horribly not right.

The next night, I watched a Netflix doc called "Orgasm Inc." It was about how in the past few years, pharmaceutical companies, along with willing shills in the medical community, have popularized the "disease" of Female Sexual Dysfunction (FSD). (Not to be confused with FTD, which provides human females with unattractive flower arrangements).

"I think there is dissatisfaction and perhaps disinterest among a lot of women, but that doesn't mean they have a disease," said Dr. Sandra Leiblum, professor of psychiatry at Robert Wood Johnson Medical School in "Myth of female impotence 'created'" in the BBC News.

Word.

I'm not arguing that some women don't have sexual problems that could be improved medically, but a lot of the FDS "symptoms" are just the way women are. Yes, women can take a long time to come, yes, women can take awhile to get aroused (note: FTD flowers will not speed arousal time), and, yes, women get pissed at their mates which, yeah, fucking does affect desire.

In this study of FDS among women in Lower Egypt:  Marital disharmony, 'hate' and unfavourable socio-economic circumstances were the most common aggravating factors (28.1%) for sexual dysfunction among the participants, followed by pregnancy-related events.

I'm not a doctor, but as far as I know, there is not a pill for curing "unfavourable socio-economic circumstances" and the like. (Although if there were, I would so fucking take it.)

One middle-aged women in Orgasm, Inc., ("middle-aged" = older than me) volunteered to be a guinea pig in some freaky-ass experimental procedure in which electrodes were inserted into her back. Into her back, as in under her skin. Did I mention that this was a totally untested procedure by, for all she knew, a completely iffy doctor?

The implants did nothing for her besides causing her to kick her left leg at random times. (This new trick, while novel and exciting, did not help her sex life.) The creepy invasive procedure did nothing to cure her "problem" which was--oh, dear god--inability to come during intercourse. Not inability to have an orgasm. Not inability to come if someone paid a whit of attention to her clit. No, this woman, raised on the notion that women's sexuality is just like men's--stick in it, pull it out, repeat til orgasm--believed that if she couldn't come from penetration alone, she was "ill."

I so wish she could have read an article like this from RH Reality Check which took special care to state in the very biggest and boldest of fonts:

The majority of women -- according to most studies, at least 70% -- do not and will not reach orgasm through vaginal intercourse or vagina-only stimulation (like "fingering" that's only about vaginal insertion) only.

So yeah, a little testosterone might help you out a bit (I said might--even this isn't certain), but seems to me the best way to alleviate FSD would be to spend a little time on arousal, make sure the female parts that feel pleasure are actually the parts that get stimulated (did I really just have to fucking write that sentence?)...plus a bunch of boring stuff like providing favorable economic conditions for the ladies and whatnot.

What is that? You have more sexual problems, you say? You've suddenly realized that your vag is not completely normal as you'd thought for years and years, but, in fact, hideously ugly and in need of surgical intervention. Don't worry, my ugly little freak, Vaginal Rejuvenation (i.e. plastic surgery for your vag) will fix any and all labia deemed unsightly.

What's sightly and what is not? Well, the highly lucrative Genital Mutilation Vaginal Rejuvenation centers that have popped up in the last few years (Hey....isn't that about the same time you started becoming displeased with your own vag? *shrugs* Weird.) have to find some way to keep the ladies coming in so currently they've determined that "too long" labia are "out." If you go ahead and get them shortened, I sure hope that long labia don't come into vogue because then you'll be bumming, huh?! (See also: The Sneetches by Dr. Seuss).

Check out these before and after Gential Muti Vaginal Rejuvenation photos from one place "helping" women.

Seriously!!!??? Not only did this chick not realize that she had a perfectly fine vag (I think it's a good one, actually, don't you?) but she actually thought it was so heinous that it required surgery--surgery!--to "correct". (Expensive surgery too. When I googled "vaginal rejuvenation" for you, the sponsored link offered a raffle for $1000 off. If they're offering $1000 off, you know that $%$# ain't cheap. Although I have to admit that the concept of a vag. rejuvenation raffle is sort of appealing in its utter wrongness. Coming soon...penile bleaching cake walk.)

Okay.

I would hope that we women would all come to our fucking senses and just...stop it. Realize how totally fine we are and get on with more important things (see above: taking time with and enjoying arousal). At the very least, I can think of about 6 million better ways to spend our time and money than getting friggin' surgery.

However, as it looks now, I think that the only things that's changing is that more men are buying into this crap too with their pec implants, ED drugs, and the like.

My big wish is that one day someone will be lying on an operating table, legs open wide as they watch a surgeon walking toward them eyeing their groin and wielding some sharp pointy thing and the patient ("patient" = "regular person misled by fucked up societal norms") will think, "What the fucking hell am I doing?!?"

And, O, they shall Rise Up and Spread their Enlightenment among the people, who shall toss aside their sense of shame and unworthiness, and be free to rush forth into the forest where they shall fuck freely and joyfully under the dense green canopy of the trees. (Note: future scenario includes ecological renewal, elimination of STDs, and men and women with true knowledge of each other's sexualities. Void where prohibited by law.)

xoxo
jill

P.S. Meanwhile, just yesterday, I paid $45 for a tube of cream that promises to even out skin tone. One of the ingredients "might cause mercury poisoning."

Fuck.

(photo source)

Postpartum

Meanwhile, in a parallel universe

So depressing was my image of the post-election day Fuck Chair yesterday that several people were compelled to write to me asking if I was okay.  Which yes, and I am beyond grateful that so many people would be on the lookout (you never know!).  And of course, at the same time, I am also not okay with what the fuck happened on election day.

Yesterday my mother called us and on speaker phone gave my girls an incredibly moving speech about not listening to the messages they were hearing and to know that they still had value, dammit.  This is something you don't generally have to tell people. Anyway, at the end we were all weeping.

Then my 15 year old daughter went and made a Sim of Tr*mp wetting his own pants while over-Tweeting. My friend said we shoulda done the one where he was in a pool then taken away the ladder, but this felt like a cleaner, though immature, schadenfreude.

Oh. Yeah.

Today I am in the anger phrase which I expressed by writing a disturbingly long comment to some dude on Facebook I barely know. I recognize that that was not a good use of my time.

In other news that now sounds jarringly hollow and not nearly as fun as it did when it heard it last week, I was #8 on Kinkly's Top 100 Sex Blogging Superheroes of 2016. I adore the site and turn to it for surreptitious midnight web searches on "How do you do X?" or "Wtf is Y?" But what wrecked me* the most with how they so got what I'm trying to do here:  "This blog is funny - like, hilarious - but it's also thoughtful in a way that leaves you feeling a little better about yourself after you read it. We like that." 

And, yes, I do hope I leave you feeling a little better about yourself sometimes, or at least that I've reminded you to do all necessary peeing before embarking on a Tweet storm.

xoxo
jill

* I am highly motivated by extrinsic rewards.  Not good, but hey, it's not smoking crack so I'm not gonna worry about it too much.

November 9, 2106

If you need me, I'll be sitting here for a while. 

xoxox
jill

12 Things I Learned On My Sex Toy Factory Tour!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Importance of Comparison Shopping When Buying A Wearable Vagina

These appear to be the $499 pair

I am here today to address the person who bought the Wearable Panty Latex Vagina for Transvestites and Crossdressers* through the Amazon link there in the right margin.

It's not that you bought a wearable vagina. That's all good with me. Transitioning is no picnic and even if you're just mucking about with toy genitalia, well, we all know about Buck, my big ol' fake penis. If I needed a vagina, or even just a spare, I'd totally buy one. I would buy the fuck out of one. No problem.

What I want to talk to you about is the need to comparison shop. I know I'm sort of cheap but if I were laying down $79.99, plus $8.99 shipping--well, 90 bucks is a lot of money and a wearable vagina is a pretty important purchase. I say do a little research first.

I mean, at least look at the photo:

I haven't actually tried this pair on, but c'mon, you can tell by looking that these things don't breathe. It's made of latex, for fuck's sake.

However, if I had tried this pair on, my pair might end up being the exact ones you get when you order yours. You see, the company that makes them seems pretty lenient with their return policy:

Under no circumstance can any of these items be returned or exchanged because of health considerations and laws! However, "with our permission", an "unused" garment may be returned for an exchange, if it is in its original packaging.

I'm not a germaphobe, really at all, but I am very uncomfortable with the cheeky quotation marks there. "Unused"?

Still, some people love latex, and you may not care whether or not your vag is "unused," but there's still the problematic design and I'm not talking about that too-high waist that makes them look like the very worst pair of granny panties ever.

You gots to read the reviews, my friend. Like this one:  "Crotch connection too narrow and doesn't cover testicles." Balls hanging out ruin the illusion at best and, at worst, make you look like you should seek immediate medical attention.

62.5% of reviewers gave this vagina a 1-star review, complaining of the cheap material and foam butt "padded by that home insulation spray glue stuff," says a review titled "terrible." I don't like those odds.

But the deal-breaker for me would have this review called "Sad Pussy": "It was made of cheap rubber loose at crotch ripped the rubber at crotch when moved cannot wear anymore never buy it again."

I'm not sure if it's the fear of the cheap material suddenly having a pinata-like explosion of crotch rip/inopportune wiener exposure or the fact that they're "loose at the crotch" making them the Period Panties of latex vaginas.

I started looking around for another vaginal option for you (IBWMW--at your service!) but got frightened away by the cost of this $499 little number. ($30 shipping for something the same size as the other vag?--that's how they get ya!)

They look okay, I guess, but I don't see the reason for the extra $300 + price increase. I assume the crotch pixelation is on the photo only and not on the undies themselves. Also, I guess listing the panty's color as "hair" is just a typo. I remain open to the possibility that this really is one hell of a pair of hair-colored pussy panties. If anyone tries a pair, do let me know if they're worth it.

In any event, here are some things to consider.

1. Look at the weather. "I recommend using baby powder before putting it on, and if it's hot and humid it will tend to start to become a little uncomfortable for long time wear," writes a wise reviewer.
2. Look at your skin tone. Are you black? Heed the words of this review: "My black friends all want some too but when they try my pair on it just looks comical! I can't take our sexy time seriously with the bi-tone skin colors in my face."  This is an excellent point.
3. Look at your belly. These only come in small and medium. If you have any kind of extra flab, you risk a vagina panty muffin top which takes a certain panache to pull off.

Anyway, dear reader, I am grateful that you bought it through IBWMW and I hope that the pair you get won't pop open, make your balls hang out, or be anything but "unused." Don't forget to suck in your stomach and put on a fuck of a lot of baby powder if it's hot.

Thank you again for your purchase.

xoxo
jill

*Update 10/24/16: Alas, sad pussy is no longer available. 

(photo via the lovely Lady Cheeky)

Why I Watch Gay Porn

[note:  I wrote this post in 2011 and it's what converted me to gay porn. Wonder if I agree with anything I wrote?* Also check out my new AlterNet article on my Doc Johnson sex toy factory tour!]

Dear reader Anonymous was slogging through the dangerous back waters of the blog and stumbled across What Is Feminist Porn Anyway?, a post in which I was all hepped up on an artsy porn film, Matinee** because the actors not only seemed to be enjoying sex, but also each other. Wrote Anonymous:

What you qualify here as feminist porn seems to describe quite closely a gay male art/porn film I just saw a preview of. I just think that the thing with most straight porn is that it eroticizes a socially-established power imbalance, ie, I'm a male, I'm gonna stick it into you and you better "ohyeahfuckyeah" enjoy it. Here's the excerpt if the possibility of seeing two guys fucking doesn't turn you off.

I dutifully looked at the link Anon sent, but for the life of me, couldn't find the film. I did however see a frighteningly elongated male nipple, which kind of scared me..

However, I aim to please, so I went to another porn site and watched some gay (male) porn. The first film had two Spanish young men, frolicking about in a big white bed like two little puppies. They were smiling and completely adorable, like those two dudes in Y Tu Mama Tambien, and though they were speaking in Spanish, it was easy to get the idea. I mean, I think we can all figure out what "pene" means.  (hint: not the tubular pasta, though you are on track with the tubular idea.) The film was fun and actually kind of sweet, as porn goes.

The second film was good, too. The plot (the short version): two football players sneak away to the locker room and get it on. The plot (the long version): well....actually that's pretty much the whole story. There were all the usual sexual gymnastics, close-up shots of thrusting genitals, lengthy pene sucking scene, etc... but somehow it was just better than the usual "I'm gonna stick it into you and you better 'ohyeahfuckyeah' enjoy it" mainstream straight porn.

I tried to figure out why, and came up with this list. (Yes, I realize there's nothing like quantifying art in list form to drain it of all its magic, but I think it's interesting/possibly instructive to see how changing just a few tiny details could make porn way more accessible to women, or at least this woman.)

So what made it better was:

1.  The receiver of the pene sucking took a moment, looked down at his sucker, and said, "I've been thinking about this for a long time." "Mmmmm, me too," murmured sucker. BAM! Two lines, and you've got yourself some backstory, and you've indicated that suckee likes sucker at least kinda, and vice versa. I know it's beyond girly of me, but I want the participants to like each other. This is why, if I were a gay man (not to be confused with "If I Were a Rich Man," from Fiddler on the Roof), I would not frequent glory holes.

(Glory holes = holes in the wall of a public place, like a restroom, through which anonymous people--not necessary our dear Anonymous above--insert their genitals, hoping the person in the other stall services them sexually. Unless the person in the other stall is me, in which case I'd shout, "Gah!?!" possibly tossing one of those disposable seat liners over the organ, for sanitary purposes. And I would not want to be confronted with anonymous genitals, I need to know whose genitals they are, why there were there, ad nauseum. I'd peek through the hole and ruin the whole damn thing, possibly putting an eye out in the process.

2.  The lovers would occasionally glance nervously toward the locker room door, making sure no one was coming in. And presto, Suspense! Stakes raised! Forbidden love!

3.  At one point, the two characters looked at each other eagerly and hungrily like, "I am so going to ravish you, you delicious creature." This brief moment established that the characters wanted to be there, were enjoying themselves and had some degree of respect for each other.

I know all of this sounds horribly tedious and un-pornlike. I mean, *yawn*...respect, liking each other, a story...who cares? Get on with the boning! But those things are what make it sexy to me. Or at least something recognizable as human sexual interaction.

The whole "I'm gonna stick it into you and you better 'ohyeahfuckyeah' enjoy it" thing (which, btw, is a GENIUS description, Anonymous) is not recognizable as sex to me. I mean, yeah, they're doing it and all, but it's just so...mean, and dead-eyed and passionless. The men seem like they hate the women and the women, well, who the fuck are these women?

Margaret Cho says that growing up she searched for Asian women in the media to identify with and only came up with the "Here's your ancient Chinese secret" lady from Calgon ads. That sucks, but at least that Calgon lady seemed kind of smart and knew a thing or two about laundry. The chicks in porn, who, presumably, I as a women am supposed to identify with, are...well, some sort of sub-genre of women who are completely foreign to me. Who do you know who gets lured into a car and within 25 seconds is showing her boobs and fingering herself, while giggling inanely? Who wishes to have some hairless blank-eyed frat dude ordering them to suck his dick faster, like some sort of bulging-eyed piston?

And who actually thinks that...

Ugh, listen to me, is it getting too Feminist in here? I'd better open a window and let some air in.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, if mainstream porn wants to be a touch more appealing to women (meaning, me) it wouldn't hurt to add some humanity, a smidgen of sensuality, and ditch completely the portrayal of women as dim-witted, creepy, "ohyeahfuckyeah"-ing, fully poseable sex toys. I really don't think the porn maker's give a rat's ass, but I'm putting it out there nonetheless.

Whatever the case, I'm done ranting for today. Maybe.

Tell me what you're into these days.

xoxox
jill

*Sure.
** When I proofread this, I realized I had misspelled the name of the art porn film "Matinee" as "Manatee," which would indeed be a new take on porn.

photo source