There’s a scene in The Tailor of Panama in which Pierce Brosnan, as Andy Osnard, a British spy reassigned to Panama, is shown his new office for the first time by his hot but too tense new colleague.
He wanders to a safe in the wall above his new desk and starts trying to crack the combination. The woman, unimpressed, mutters that she doesn’t think it’s even locked.
Sure enough, Osnard gets the safe ajar and glances at her as it creaks open, and says with a suggestive leer on his face. “You’re right… it was open. Just tight from lack of use.”
It’s a great line, funny as hell, and probably makes most women want to fuck Pierce Brosnan then and there. Nothing like a dirty cute Brit.
But it’s also a reality. The longer a woman goes without sex, and without ensuring she’s indulging in some kind of penetrative masturbation with vibrators or dildos, the more her vagina will “atrophy” and tighten. Funny, this doesn’t get spoken of much out there, but perhaps it should.
The beauty of a vagina is its elasticity. While it’s an organ, it’s also governed by many critical muscles. If a woman is not exercising it, it will lose some pliability. The longer she goes without the “exercise”, the more atrophying you’ll run into, and the more difficult sex will be when she gets around to it.
That’s not something we hear a lot about. There’s the old saying, “use it or lose it”, and it applies to both men and women when it comes to masturbation. Men need to be ejaculating regularly to maintain prostate health, but women need to be Kegeling and penetrative-masturbating on a relatively regular basis in order to maintain their vaginal functionality and integrity.
I mean, when you stop exercising and working out on a total-body scale and you start sitting on the couch for a few weeks, how long does it take for your toning to vanish? Not very, right? So, when it comes to sex, how long do ya figure you need to go without before you lose crucial toning down there? Why do we justify scheduling in working out for our total-body fitness, yet seldom worry about maintaining fitness of our sexual organs?
When we’re sexually inactive, full-on masturbation by women is more important than ever. If you’re someone like me who’s been in the position of being deprived of libido as a chemical side effect, it’s important to override the lack of interest felt by the body, and do what needs to be done to stay healthy.
The trouble is, most women get off on clitoral stimulation for orgasms, and I suspect I’m not the only one out there who, 85% of the time, thinks a vibrator is too much work when the clit can be massaged for 45 seconds to produce an orgasm that follows quickly. Easy, tidy, effective, no clean-up, and wholly portable. Not to mention that, when only 60% of women masturbate, you can bet that a good chunk of that total feels awkward about inserting anything into themselves.
It’s a real shame that it’s the sex who has more issues with masturbation that is biologically required to perform a more “invasive” and socially chuckled-about procedure in order to maintain the optimum health of their vaginas, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
After all, it seems there’s still a stigma out there about women using vibrators. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — it’s only the documented sluts and feminists we see in the media with vibrators. The good girls just use hands or maybe a massaging showerhead. Or nothing at all. But she sticks a Rabbit vibe inside her? She’s a man-eater.
Granted, the attitudes are changing, but it’s still a different segment of woman who supposedly uses sex toys, and maybe that stereotype is true to an extent, but wouldn’t it be great for both sexes if that stereotype shattered a little? After all, it’s not like vibrators aren’t actually IMPORTANT for women to use.
I’d be curious to see what percentage of women it is that feels uncomfortable about inserting a vibrator inside her as a result of this not-so-subtle stereotyping that exists everywhere in the media.
I doubt such studies are undertaken that often, about how the average woman masturbates versus the more sexually-liberated one. Because, after all, who really cares how women masturbate? Isn’t it the man’s job to get us off?
Hmm. Talk about your stereotypes.
But if you’re one of these liberated men or women and sex toys work for you… then you should use this 10%-off coupon and go buy yourself a treat at Vibe Review. The coupon is good for as many uses as you want, just save this link and buy often between now and the American election in November. By using this link, you’ll give me a commission of your purchases and help me buy some wine or sexy panties or something. I’ll never know WHO bought anything or WHAT they bought, so your privacy is GUARANTEED, but I’ll get a few bucks stuffed in my piggy bank and the warm-fuzzies will rain happily upon me. So, go for it, and save a few bucks while you’re at it. And feed your favourite scribe. 🙂
And if you’re not liberated, isn’t it time you started to be? C’mon. Invest in yourself.
Monthly Archives: August 2008
Just Another Manic Monday — And the Sugasm
Ahh, minions. Just another manic Monday, hey?
I know being outside of my bed is the last place I want to be this morning. Working for eight hours? Even less appealing.
No, a perfect day for me today would be getting up, having a hot oily bath, smoking up, going back to bed, and praying the gods of sleep felt it time to bless me. Mm, curled up in bed. Sigh.
I’ve been off my mood meds for a couple of weeks now, and it’s really affecting my ability to sleep. I tend to wake up at 6:30am whether I’m rested or not now, and considering I got to bed at 6am Saturday morning, that’s not really helping me much. Yeah, there’s a story there, no, you’re not hearing it. Imagine, minions. Imagine.
The rest of my weekend was filled with similarly shitty sleep, a few unsuccessful naps, and that’s that.
I’m all right with it, but it sure makes for a lousy start to a week. Still, I’m going to cycle today anyhow. Vive le Steff.
All in all, I’m still looking forward to my week ahead. Last week came with several unexpected turns, none of which I’d have guessed on Monday, so I’m hoping this week is similarly filled with excitement.
And, if not, well, at least I’ll finally be seeing Wall-E on Wednesday. Ha. How can the week be a total bust with quality animation, I ask you?
Maybe my brain will be functioning by tomorrow. Until then, I shall leave you with the wonderful Sugasm.
So, here, eat some Sugasm. You’ll feel better.
___________________________
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.
This Week’s Picks
Anti-Porn Protest Gets Weird
“People get very excited about their causes and lack the sense to see if the information backs them up. ”
The Come Shot
“You don’t see their bodies going blotchily red and hear them howling like a banshee.”
Third Time’s a Charm
“If I lift my kilt on Bourbon Street I’m much more likely to get arrested than if Elizabeth takes off her top.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor’s Choice
In My Office
Edwards: The Politics of Infidelity
I’ve never been a John Edwards fan. Any guy who claims he’s a leftist for poverty activism but spends $400 a month on an unremarkable haircut just strikes me as being strangely out of touch with the very people he claims to be fighting for.
But, then again, I pay $15 for my haircut, so what do I know?
Haircuts aside, the guy’s in hot water and I feel for him and his wife. It’s come out now that he fucked up and had an affair in ’06. Is it the only one? No way to know for certain. Does it matter? Not sure it does. Is it really a scandal of this proportion? Really?
I mean, there are sex scandals and there are sex scandals. The Walter Mosley “Nazi” BDSM video, that’s a scandal. Governor Spitzer blowing thousands and thousands of dollars on hookers while married and in office, that’s a scandal.
A guy cheats on his wife? Scandalous, but not a scandal. It’s not worth much ink, as they say. Infidelity sucks, but it happens.
I don’t really see who gains from this story coming out, or how it should reflect on his ability to govern, or why we need to know or care.
As far as I’m concerned, there are three kinds of cheaters.
- There’s the Accidental Cheater: The kind of partner who’s really invested in the relationship and has always been faithful, but who had a weak moment at a weak time where the chemistry and intensity was pretty insurmountable, and instead of being perfect, had the misfortune of being human and fucking up, in more ways than one.
- There’s the Situational Cheater: The partner who had every intention of staying faithful and being “there” in the partnership, but with a lack of sex and poor communication and isolation developing and maintaining within the relationship, decides to seek companionship elsewhere to get what they “need” emotionally and physically.
- There’s the Compulsive Cheater: The Compulsive would cheat no matter how good a relationship is and smacks of the sex-addicted type. This is kind of person who wants to sleep around but isn’t honest enough about it to be in a polyamorous situation, sometimes because they think they deserve sexual variety but don’t want their lover to have it.
Then there are the people who don’t believe in cheating. And I’m one.
I think it’s a shitty fucking thing to do to someone. When I found out I’d been used as an “other woman” once many years ago, when the guy lied about not being in a relationship with an old friend of mine just to get me in bed with him, I actually told my friend about his infidelity. I’m just that way. Honest and old-fashioned, that’s me.
Still, I don’t know if I could get through 30 years of marriage without ever having an Accidental Cheating occur. You get that perfect storm of chemistry and sexiness and opportunity and timing and mood, and sex can be a pretty hard thing to turn down. Whew, can it.
Edwards slept with a woman making a documentary film about his campaign. You think she wasn’t fawning over him a little? There’s nothing sexier than someone who worships you a little but has brains and a life of their own. When someone smart, accomplished, and hot adores you a little but in a liberated and articulate way, it’s really a turn-on. Anyone who’s been on the receiving end of that knows what it’s like. Wild. Or maybe she was just empathetic on a tough day. Who knows?
I’m not laying blame on her, though. It takes two. I’m just saying it’s understandable that something might happen in some scenarios, that hormones are a challenge to overcome at times.
But it sure as hell beats getting a blowjob from an intern half your age in the Oval Office and lying under oath about it.
I mean, if the guy came clean long, long before it ever hit the press, and the family knew of it in entirety, and his wife says she was told very soon after it all… is it really our business?
Doesn’t it say more about the guy that he could have the affair, tell his wife, and then work with her to get past it? Doesn’t he get some credit for honesty? How long do you have to be married before you’re allowed to make a mistake you not only own up to, but repent to?
No relationship is without its flaws, and no person is without errors. We all make mistakes in a life that’s dictated by in-the-moment impulse decisions.
I may be very much opposed to cheating in all its forms, but that doesn’t mean I could never forgive a man for making that mistake. And it doesn’t mean I think I’ll never be above being human and making that kind of mistake, either. I’m a passionate person. I’m moral, honest, and loyal, but I’m also passionate and impulsive. I fear the latter two qualities might one day overwhelm my virtue, and I too could fall guilty of such a mistake.
If, however, I ever do fuck up like Edwards did, I would hope my lover could see more than just the mistake, and instead of just latching onto their anger and the sense of betrayal, they could take me at my word for my regret and self-disdain. I would hope for a chance at redemption. I would hope for the chance to prove my remorse and reestablish trust.
Edwards was lucky and got just that. Who are we to judge him more harshly than his lover and partner of 30 years? It’s their relationship. If they’ve made their peace and they’re working together to overcome it, then who the fuck is the media to second-guess it, and why do we care?
So Why The Hell Do I Write About Sex Anyhow?
I weighed myself this morning, and I’m officially down FORTY-SEVEN pounds. Whoop, there it went! But… I’m only half-way to my goal of losing 100 pounds. And that’s okay. I promised myself I’d do it slowly and in a sustainable way, and I am.
Let’s talk about wanker’s comment again (on this post), which isn’t worth the time for me to go back and check, but one of my nicer readers, Griffin, left an inquisitive comment yesterday challenging wanker’s comment:
I’m not sure I understand what point Anonymous was trying to make. I mean, is he/she suggesting that one is entitled to self-confidence only when one is thin — or paired? Would he/she find Steff’s confidence more acceptable if she looked or lived differently? That seems very odd, indeed.
Yeah, I’m confused too.
But I guess the point the silly man was trying to make had something to do with the fact that if I’m fat, not getting laid, don’t write about my friends, yet spout off all this stuff, then clearly I’m just a liar because none of this “washes”.
Apparently overweight people have no confidence, can’t attract lovers, and have no common sense to impart to others. Who knew?
You want to know the deal on me? There’s a meme circulating a little, I guess, that Ellie Lumpesse started by writing about what got her into writing about sex.
What got me into it? Well, I’m definitely cut from a different cloth than most of the so-called writers on sex out there, because a) I write about it less, and b) I don’t tell you much at all about my encounters. None of anyone’s business what literally happens in my bedroom, and on my floor, and in backseats. I mean, really. I get the whole being-a-voyeur thing in the reading realm, but I figure there are enough writers writing on those dirty shagging events.
I started this blog in 2005, when I had a bit of a moment watching the movie Kinsey.
Long story short — I was raised in a very uptight household. Catholicism ruled the roost. Sex was dirty and amoral. Having sex before marriage was wrong, and even if it was love, if I did it, I’d be thought of as a whore.
I did the waiting-for-the-one thing. I thought he was a lifelong love. I thought he’d be everything I’d need. And I was wrong. We slept together, had a relationship mostly based on sex that spanned the better part of seven years, and then we ended. Would I have stayed with him as long if I’d not had the Catholic indoctrination of sex = love = a bond you can’t break? I doubt it.
After that, I had a lot of hang-ups. I didn’t want to be “promiscuous”. I didn’t want to be perceived as a whore. I didn’t want to be thought of as a bad person because I got laid.
Writing this blog was a way of me getting through the intellectual problems I had with sex, and connecting with the emotional needs I wanted from sex. I’ve learned a lot about myself in the three/four years I’ve written this bloggie, and I like what I’ve learned.
This blog will never, ever be a fly-on-the-wall perspective on my personal sex life. I’ll write about a moment here, a moment there, something said during the frolic of sex, conversations thereafter, experiences and the perceptions thereof… but blow-by-blow, suck-by-suck accounts of my sex? Never, ever going to happen.
I’m a deeply private person that way, ironically. And in other ways. I don’t bore you with the day-to-day struggles of mine with finances or the headgames that are waged daily/weekly in this Reinventing of Steff passage of mine. I have limits of what I want to share. You don’t fucking need to know, it’s not ABOUT that.
But, mostly why I wanted to write this blog is, I’ve had a lot of anger over my life for being made to feel ashamed about sex, for being made to feel that giving of myself and my affections to someone I perceive to be deserving of them is WRONG. I’m outraged that we still have very religious ideas on something that, when I’m having it, when I’m sharing it with someone I love to partner with, makes me feel like an incredible person. Being a sexual person makes me feel like a BETTER person. How is THAT wrong?
I wanted to tackle the philosophical side of hang-ups, the psychological side of sex. I wanted to write about insecurities and headgames and how to intellectually deal with affection. I wanted to make sure I posited an argument in the affirmative about how good sex is for who we are inside.
Writing about dripping hard cocks and marathon sexual encounters is fun — for other writers. For me, the meat of sexuality lies in our biggest organ — our brains. Everyone else can tackle sex as how they see fit.
Me, I prefer to be outside the box. And am I a scholarly expert on the matter? Fuck, no. Have I even taken biology or sexual studies at school? No. Have I read all the right books? No. This is me, my take, my thoughts, my wishes, and nothing more. After being a librarian for a couple years and working in a bookstore where the manager was a huge fan of sex studies, I began reading on the subject of sex and slowly broadening my mind and asking questions of myself.
And maybe, just maybe, if I’d been some waif-thin woman with an ass you can bounce quarters off, instead of a heavy girl with insecurities back in the day (but I still have insecurities — we all do) I might never have began thinking more psychologically and philosophically about sex.
So isn’t it just fucking awesome that I was overweight?
But assholes like tha gutless turd Anonymous, who doesn’t have the balls to sign his name, just want to perpetuate the myth that one must look perfect to have anything to share with others.
Know what? He is, always was, and always will be, flat-out wrong.
Because I’m not perfect, because I’ve never been perfect, because I never will be perfect… what I have to share is as authentic as the day is long. Sometimes, authentic is all you can really hope for. And it’s what I got.
A Few Thoughts on Comments, And Sugasm 142
Despite stupidity rearing its head last night in the form of yet another asshole comment by yet another asshole, and the rise of a would-be stalker, for the time being I’m going to hold off on comment moderation despite my first instinct to start regulating them.
Why? Well, for starters, I really love the dialogue that takes place in comments sometimes. It’s exciting to see people argue each other about something I’ve read, or pat me on the back, whatever. I have a life and don’t want to have to have the stress of checking for comments and publishing them, because that messes with the flow of it all, and when posts only really have a shelf-life of a few days, that gets in the way of the flow, no?
Besides, I believe strongly in free speech. I’ll let you have your say, but don’t think I’m going to bend over and take it when I think you’re out of line, or just plain stupid and mean like the guy from last night. And I’m not going to be polite about it.
I must have been drunk when I said I was going to be a kinder, gentler Steff. Oh, right, I was drunk. That explains that. No, you know what I’m going to be? Myself. For all the good and bad of it, I’m going to be myself. With all my swear words, all my attitude, and all my humour, I’m gonna be myself and just say what comes to mind. That should be fun. So say what you want, but know I’m not shy about responding.
After all, while I think some mouths are better off left shut, mine is not one of them. Why? Because it’s MY blog. Duh. 😛
Here, eat some Sugasm. You’ll feel better. I’m behind the game by two weeks with Sugasm, so here’s a truncated list for #142, and the full juicy 143 will be up in the next few days.
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.
This Week’s Picks
Interludes – part 3
“He winds the rope around his hands, smoothing the kinks, and I stand there, breathing a little faster, conscious of all those eyes upon me.”
Hurts So Good
“I want you to wear the badges of sweet distress for days.”
Shower fantasy
“You don’t want to admit it, but you want me.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor’s Choice
Why I haven’t blogged about the Mosley case
More Sugasm
Holy Return of the Libido, Batman!
Sex. It’s been a while. Honestly? It’s been two years.
As I’ve written about at length, I went on anti-depressants the summer of ’06, after birth control pills messed my body up something fierce, at the tail end of a relationship that turned to shit in record time, while getting laid off of multiple jobs in a short period with no EI remaining. Oh, good times.
The meds were a necessary evil and I knew I needed ’em to get my body sorted out along with my life — both of which I’ve been accomplishing somethin’ fab. Since the new year I’ve been gradually decreasing the dose (with my doc’s guidance of course) and I’ve been off now entirely for 10 days.
Holy shit do I notice a difference. All of a sudden, like a wild fire in August, my libido’s back and raging. Like, oh, my god, is it back. ZING!
Must. Have. Sex. Orgasm! Now! YOU, SATISFY ME! Rowrr!
So, naturally, I posted myself a Craigslist ad. I posted two, one in the relationships section, and then the other in the casual encounters section, and now I don’t care about the LTR responses because I know I don’t want the complications of something serious yet. My casual encounters ad wasn’t entirely common, though. It began:
“Are you tired of stupid people? Are you tired of having to choose between routine sex and freaky sex, and nothing in between? Does the prospect of casual sex both appeal to you and frighten you? I mean, honestly, there are some skanky people out there. Some of these players have been around more than a 1966 RCA turntable, you get what I’m saying?…”
The responses have largely been of your “I’m a dedicated pussylickr!” type with pictures of penises and hairy bellies. [Delete] Or the most unappealing thong shot I’ve ever, ever seen. From front and back? That was really necessary? [Delete] Or riddled with spelling errors and the bad kind of non-sequiturs with nothing appealing. [Delete] Or obvious form letters that did nothing to address my 750 words. [Delete] Or very much older men with bad teeth and dirty leering looks and an almost palpable air of desperation. [Delete] Or cute guys with not much else to offer, the kind I’d always be smarter than. [Delete]
But there’s a bit of promise to be found. No, really. Like a crack of light at the bottom of a coal mine’s shaft: Surprising. Hopefully a good date looms in the next few days. And sex soon thereafter. Because that’s the whole point, no? Continue reading
My Dear, Dear Stalker
My would-be-stalker has fucked up.
See, if you ever think your email has been hacked, don’t just change the password — change the display name so that when someone receives an email from you, it says it’s from a new name.
Like, let’s say my emails would show up as being received from Smurfette Davies. Well, this morning, when I changed my password, I changed the display name.
Stalker wouldn’t know this.
So, when I got another email supposedly from my account today — but with my OLD display name showing — I had the proof I needed that he hadn’t hacked my account.
But instead went and broke the law. ‘Cause, faking emails is, like, illegal. Doh!
It’s a real shame, too, that I have his IP address and I know what ISP he uses in his wacky little town out there in the Valley. You grow corn, too, pal, like your neighbours? I even know what browser he uses. Konqueror, no? I guess you’d want to use that… since you need Linux to fake emails.
So, you reading me, Stalker?
Stalker fucked up twice. The second time was trying his stupid pony-show email-faking trick a second time more than nine hours after I changed my password and display name. But the first time he fucked up was by Googling me. I got a fucking stat counter, guy. I got the goods on you.
Whatever you might think of me, make sure “SMART” is at the top of the list. ‘Cos I’m all that, baby.
Cyber Stalker?
Someone replied to my personal ad last night and I normally would have just deleted the email, but I was bored and wrote a one-line thing back telling him to send a picture. You don’t need to know the volley that occurred, beyond that I was pissed off from the get-go and spoke my mind.
Trouble is, you can’t always tell when someone’s joking online, and this guy seemed like a smart-ass at best.
Until my email seemed to be hacked this morning and was filled with disconcerting 12-year-old type emails filled with name-calling and mild threatening tones… sent from myself to myself.
I’ve already changed my password, but since this whole thing has me a little unsettled and it’s so sudden, I’ve changed my comments on this blog so that I’ll be moderating them for a bit, since this guy’s figured out this blog’s mine too.
But I’m apparently a bad attitude bitch who’ll never land a man. Just so you know. Maybe you’re all assholes for reading my blog, since I’m so transparently a cunt with no redeeming qualities.
Blah. It’s a long and complicated story, and I’m not going to get into it because, a) the situation has unnerved me, and b) the details don’t matter.
My Spidey-sense? Usually quite unassailable. My Spidey-sense said “Shut up. This guy shows controlling qualities found in most abusive people” and did I? Nope, nope, nope.
So, you, dear reader, should learn from my sorry ass. If someone makes you go “Oh, that just ain’t right” then back the fuck off. Just walk away. Like I would have 355 nights of the year, but I was bored. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Whatever. Passwords have been changed, comments will be moderated. Colour me a little less naive today.
Oh, and given that this is a case of cyberstalking — but the emails have stopped since I quickly changed my password — and it’s a little freaky, if you want to leave me tips for how to proceed, feel free. I’ve undeleted the emails and put labels on ’em so I have them, should I require them for legal reasons at all or anything.
Some people, man. Here’s hoping he has a life and finds a new way to amuse himself quickly.
One of Those Dishwashing Epiphanies
So, there I am, washing up my kitchen, wishing I could have a barbecue later. My barbecue broke the other day. The valve thing just snapped right off. It confuses me. It looks like there should be a long pokey mount-thing but there’s nothing, so I wonder how it ever held together in the first place. This is the problem with letting men assemble shit: When it breaks, you need them to check it out ‘cos you never did it in the first place and you don’t know what to look for.
That’ll teach me for getting guys to do “guy” things that I know I’m capable of doing, eh? So now I’m all helpless femme (which is just disgusting, and I hate being) and I have to wait for GayBoy to come take a boo at it. If it really is broken, then I need to get in the headspace of chatting with Costco about getting a new one.
And, so, there I am, washing up, thinking “Ooh, I hope it’s fixable. I don’t want the hassle of having to sort it out with Costco. I hate conflict.”
That thought just stopped me in my tracks. I hate conflict? I hate conflict? And I thought about it for a moment. Yeah, you know, I do.
I do conflict very, very well. I argue my case very, very well. I tend to get what I want. I tend to do it without being cruel. I tend to be very shrewd at it, and very tactical.
Yet, I hate it. Like, I’ll avoid someone or something for a good long time, just because I hate to be in that position of needing a victory. I hate to have to do the arguing. I fear losing. Even though I seldom lose.
I was avoiding talking to the cute young guy who works for free on fixing my scooter, in exchange for my baked goods, ha, for instance. My poor wee scooter is still very unhappy. Funny, it goes like stink these days when you get it to the upper register speeds — like, 85 kilometres an hour with the slightest of declines and a tailwind. Crazy. But it’s a slug off the start line and takes blocks to get to a decent running speed. It’s embarrassing. I’m that chick who rides between lanes, has off-roaded with her scooter, and who knows what it’s like to do a 200-kilometre day touring a valley on it — I don’t do “slow” and “annoying. Fuck! When the people behind me are thinking “Move, bitch!” I am, too.
People are not patient. Nor am I. So, anyhow, mechanic boy’s this kid who’s trying to build the world’s fastest scooter and is test-riding his latest generation ride at the Bonneville Salt Flats down in Utah this September. He’s taken a special interest in my ass– err, my case– and is doing all he can to fix my bike for cheap, cheap, cheap. But all his tricks haven’t solved the like-a-slug starts (but sure as fuck increased the top end!) and it’s just killing me. Now we must start throwing money at it. For a few hundred dollars (sigh, ouch) it should be the meanest bitch on the south side, man. But… summer will be over.
And even though I knew what the kid’s answer would be, and I knew he’d be cool with helping me out, I was dreading having the chat. How stupid is that? It’s amazing what we do to ourselves just because there are conversations we’re not really keen to have. What stupid, stupid creatures we can be.
And I have another one of those conversations I dread coming up, even though I’m secretly 90% sure I’ll get what I want: The Money Chat at work. It’s time to show me the love, baby. And though I know I’ve a great argument, and I know I’m likely to get everything I ask for, I’m in a state of dread. (It’s one of those things of timing — the chat’s been in the offing for three months, but first work got slow and I thought it was bad timing, then work got busy, but the two owners have been on back-to-back holidays for going on two months now. The chat will be initiated in 10 days. The wait will kill me.)
Dreading these conversations is killing me, I tell ya. Having them, though, that’s what it’s all about. ‘Cos then results happen. Change occurs. One way or the other, you better know what you got to do, right?
Ahh, the healing power of conversation. Blessed be. Ten days to go. God help me. Of course, you can feel free to donate to my alcohol and foodie fund, to ease the paid of the wait, by clicking here. 🙂
Reader Says:He's Hated Giving Me Oral for 25 Years
Oh, dear, oh, dear. Ohh. Sigh.
So here’s a letter I received today–
We’ve been married 25 years, intercourse has always been great. Hubby has never learned to be good with his hands but orally he’s a dunce. I gave up many years ago. I have dropped 60 lbs and my libido went up, so has my old wish for good oral from him. I printed out “how to eat pussy” lessons I found on the net. He attacks the pussy like it’s diseased. Scrunches up his face and makes it look like he’s going to hate it. The lessons… well, he just couldn’t put it together.
He’s given me a list of “needs” to prepare for this.
1- must shave the area (fine with me, but he won’t assist.)2- must wash 10 minutes before doing act3- must be more than 5 days past period4- must be more than 5 days from getting period5- must be more than 3 days since last intercourse (we have sex 2 or 3 times a week, he ALWAYS cums inside)
He hates even looking at a vagina, and has had no clue in 26 years what a clit does. All the teaching I attempted in our early years was a waste as he just has no innate ability to figure out what to do, and won’t listen to my body. I am about ready to go man hunting for good oral.
SHOULD I GIVE UP ON HIM?
Shit. See, this is one of those “I’m not going to enjoy this” questions. It happens. Normally I’d remove more of the specifics, but it’s obvious he doesn’t read blogs like this. And even if he did, he deserves to recognize himself.
Reader, you need to say, “Look, I know YOU have a problem with this, but the majority of this country, men LOVE diving into snatch. YOU have a problem with it. YOU are the exception. YOU having a problem with it makes ME feel like YOU have a problem with MY snatch. This makes ME feel like a loser. This makes ME feel like maybe there’s someone out there, in the majority of the country, that feels differently about ME than YOU do. I’m tired of being rejected. It’s threatening our marriage. And the power is in your hands to change it. And if you don’t, I will.” Continue reading