This morning Urban Gypsy, aka Tess, posted this ever-so-brief diatribe against The Museum of Sex and its fucking moronic public relations campaign featuring the ads found at this link. Thanks, Tess!
Where to start? Well, I guess it’s official, I’m unlikely to ever, ever be interested in the Museum of Sex if it’s going to be this misogynistic before I even put foot in the door. I mean, if there was a woman anywhere on this creative team, I’ll eat my bra. And it has an underwire!
But let’s go to the big issues first, shall we?
Bad sex is better than good sex with yourself? Is it, really?
Last bad sex I had, in August, outraged me, because it was casual, something I don’t typically do, and over in an instant. My thinking was, “If I’m going to risk STDs and whatever else you’re risking by sleeping with a casual partner, then a) it better be GOOD fucking, and b) it better last a long time. I mean, I better be SPENT after taking that chance.”
It’s the old adage, anything worth doing is worth doing well. I think that adage needs an asterisk from here on out, and a perma-footnote that reads especially sex. Continue reading
Category Archives: Sex
A 2009 Wish for Smut Writers
[Note: These opinions of mine are strong. Aren’t they always? But it should be said that I think it’s with irony, too, as the majority of sex bloggers I’ve followed on Twitter tend to speak of condoms as necessity, not options. I believe the sex blogging community is indeed having responsible sex more often than not; this posting isn’t about their personal practice, it’s about the image they’re portraying in their writing, which I would like to see more match their reality.]
I know the perception is that condoms aren’t sexy.
I know it fucks with the cadence in real life, stopping the action to fumble for protection, but putting on a condom CAN be hot. It CAN be incorporated into the play.
So why don’t smut writers include donning protection during casual sex scenes they write?
People are using less protection than they were 10 years ago. In fact, reports in the UK are that a staggering half of over-30 singles regularly have unsafe sex.
How fucking dumb are these people? Well, pretty dumb. If you’re having casual sex without a condom, I think you’re a fucking moron. Continue reading
My Clitoris & I Wrote My Toilet Paper Manufacturer
Dear Toilet Paper Manufacturer:
You lied.
You said your paper was soft and pure. It is, you claim, a “premium” paper.
Sadly, my clitoris disagrees.
I don’t know if you realize, but girl parts are sensitive. Nice soft fleshy bits, hypersensitive to touch and even sensation? Very?
My clitoris feels your product isn’t premium. That it, in fact, is cheap-ass. And scratchy. And turning Clitty into a very cranky, and raw, little thing. Poor Clitty.
At this point I would deem your product falls under FAIL. And I, too, fail for buying 36 rolls. And my clit fails for being an innocent bystander.
All I can now say is, Toughen up, Clitty. It’s gonna be a long, rough ride.
Thanks for nuthin’, not-so-premium paper company.
Regards,
A Girl and Her Clit
Sex-Toy Review: The Stubby G!
Let’s talk sex toys today. Specifically, I’ll be reviewing The Stubby G.
First, I want to explain how a few things work for all y’all, since I know sex-blog readers see these reviews all the time, and, personally, I see that 95% of them are positive, so I could understand how review-readers might skeptically dismiss us one and all as rabid sex-toy fans who love everything that comes our way.
What you need to understand is, there are a couple different ways sex toy companies operate. Some will contact bloggers and go, “Hey, want to review toys?” and when our broke asses reply, “Dude! Yeah! I need me some O’s!” they’ll send us a box of toys, it gets opened, and inside is a bunch of shit they couldn’t sell and now the poor sucker who opened the box is on the hook to review hundreds of dollars of piece-of-shit toys. I threw out the toys One Company To Remain Unnamed sent me a couple years back — they weren’t fit for my body, for reviews, for nothing.
Continue reading
When Fighting Gets Fun
I love wrestling with lovers. The not-so-grudge match.
And while I put up a hell of a fight, and even like to win sometimes, the truth is, losing ain’t so bad at all. You have to admit, this is one time that losing really isn’t losing.
There’s a little incentive to suddenly just not resisting anymore. Smirking as you issue the challenge: “You win. You’re on top. Now do something about it.”
Those are the losses I could stand a little more of in this life o’ mine.
I’m a loser, baby.
When We Were Kids: Thoughts on BDSM
Experts will tell you that who we are in life is defined by the age of seven. Our ethics, our play, our work habits, it’s all laid out as part of who we are, and will continue to be, by seven.
There are those who’ve taken this a step further and will tell you also that who you are sexually is defined, as well, by seven. But we often spend our lifetimes trying to make sense of that definition.
Take me, for instance. I’ve been out of the getting-laid world now for a couple of years. After not having had sex for 26 months (but have since) thanks to a totally disappearing libido because of meds I was on, and experiencing the incredible rush of libido-arising all of a sudden after such a long dormancy, I’ve found myself in some very, very new and different headspace.
After not having wanted sex at all, barely ever masturbating for months on end, I’ve suddenly found myself craving a different brand of sex. Something rougher, more primal. Perhaps even a little less democratic. Power plays. Teasing. Even a little pain. Certainly with discipline.
Not that I’ve ever sat around fantasizing about rose petals on the bed, silk sheets, and soft, feathery kisses and all. That’s never been my kind of imagery anyhow. I fantasize about sex on floors, against walls, in public places, getting rugburn, and always have. But this takes things to another level.
And with that comes the reckoning of how much of that is just “Fuck, I need me some” versus evolution of a new kind of desire. Continue reading
Celebrities & Smut: Mirren on Date-Rape, Duchovy on Sex Addiction
Late last night I put a cutesy “Helen Mirren rocks!” kind of posting up, and I woke up to see a message from Abby Dabby pointing out that Mirren has gone on record as saying date rape isn’t really something the courts should be involved in.
In an article coming out in the UK’s GQ, she’s said:
The actress also stated in the candid interview with British magazine GQ that it would be hard for women to press charges against someone they had planned on being sexually active with.She told the publication, “I was (date-raped), yes. A couple of times. Not with excessive violence, or being hit, but rather being locked in a room and made to have sex against my will.”
“I don’t think she (a female rape victim) can have that man into court under those circumstances.”
Every single time I have sex, it is a choice. Every single time I choose to be active, my partner’s receiving a gift from me. If I don’t say yes, it’s not a choice. If there’s no choice, it is arbitrary and a situation of force.
Force means rape. Continue reading
Struggles Between Sexuality and the Self
A reader, Dp, just happened to ask me to maybe touch on the difference between a person’s sexuality and the person. He and I sort of look at the equation differently, I suppose, but it’s something I’ve been considering a lot.
I’ve placed a sexual encounters personal of late, trying to find that elusive friends-with-benefit situation that encapsulates someone brilliant, someone my style, and someone who nurtures both the same high libido I do while still being a passionate and creative lover who’s not afraid to cross a few proverbial lines in the sand.
I have a tall order to be met. I know it will be a frustrating search. I’m already frustrated, but I’m resolved. I’ve had responses accusing me of being a “shopping list” woman who’s out there for a trophy man rather than reality guy. That’s so not the case. I’m a reciprocal woman. I bring to the table everything I’m seeking in a partner. Absofuckinglutely. I deplore hypocrisy, and I do not ask for anything I’m not willing to provide, or that I haven’t provided in the past.
I’m sure there are a lot of people out there who are comfortable separating the sex they have with the people they are, but I’m not. The sex I have is as much a part of who I am as the girl who loves to bake for her office coworkers. I mean, it’s part of my identity. As much as I am a generous woman, I am a sexual one with a big love for intimacy and passion. I’m given to doting on partners, and I love selfishly receiving. I’m keen on orgasms. But I’m also keen on taking all night to get there sometimes. I seek power almost only in sexual exchanges, though sometimes in my life; but certainly there’s a part of me that does seek that power. To deny that she exists, or to wrongly assert she’s just a “mode” I operate under, would be to blatantly ignore a core part of who I can be, and often am.
But just because I enjoy power exchanges as part of sex doesn’t mean I can do without the smothering, doting affection of old-school intimacy. Because I can’t. Affection and intimacy are as important to me as any other facet of sex, whether it’s taking a good hard shagging or practicing an evening of switchery.
Born and raised Catholic, much of my life has been spent trying to get past the “Satan is waiting for you if you engage in sex” bullshit taught by a church who seeks to shame practitioners away from sex. It’s taken my whole life to realize that who I am when I am a sexual being, someone who’s getting shagged frequently, is a better person than the moral, abstaining girl that life sometimes induces me to be. I’m better all the way around when I’m getting laid. Simple.
The hardest thing I’ve had to learn to be in my lifetime is that woman I am when I’m having sex. Realizing that she’s not a bad person just because she likes to take it the way she does, or domme a fellow when the urge strikes, or tease and taunt a fella to the brink.
I’ve learned slowly over the years that I need to get past that mind-body connection. Past that place that distinguishes the mind over the body, or vice versa, and instead uses them both together to transcend mind/matter, which some of us believe has to happen for real “sexual union” to occur between lovers. Complicated, huh?
It’s one of the reasons that getting vocal about sex wound up being a huge turning point for me in taking my sexual experience to another level. By being less concerned about my volume, just allowing that natural reaction to occur, I somehow got past another level of hang-ups, got more into the now, less into the thought side of it all. It was, and is, such a struggle to override the person I was raised to be as I try to embrace the person I’ve discovered I am, all the while trying not judging the latter just because I was raised as the former.
How each of us gets to that point where we stop segregating who we are sexually with who we think we are morally, and realizing they don’t have to be separate people, that we can (and often are) both, is a struggle I think some of us will be fighting for our whole lives. There will be no easy answer to how you get to that point of accepting the coexistence of your sexuality and your morality, and the realization that one need not cancel out the other.
But the only way I know to do it? Stop stopping at our comfort zones. Stop assuming that just because you’ve always thought one way about sexuality that your mindset is correct. Stop assuming you know how a sexual act will or will not make you feel. Don’t presuppose things like bondage will never appeal to you, because the odds are mighty strong that, like the majority of people out there, who you truly are sexually is something that will be shifting and changing with the rest of you throughout your life. Embrace it. Most importantly, explore it.
Of Dates, Diets, And Me
So, I’ve been dating more of late. Averaging one date a week these days, and it’s all right. Nobody has yet made me pitter-patter, but we’re getting better on the averages here.
My big sexual misadventure of a couple of weeks was the classic case of pulling the trigger way too soon (in more ways than one) largely because I stupidly gave in when instinct said “Stick to the script, girlie. Use the door.” Ultimately the blame lies with me because I’m the person who probably had better perspective that night, but hormones said “Get thee LAID.” Not what I had in mind, but.
Now, though, that’s not the problem. I’m not “going there” for the hell of it. Getting laid is nice, but I’m not doing it if anyone’s getting hurt, or if it’s just flat-out dishonest. And I just don’t feel taking advantage of situations for my hormones, either. It needs to be genuine, and the right thing for right then. As it turns out, I seem to be doing all the rejecting these days, which is new, which is good, but the guilt sort of sucks sometimes.
Like, Monday I had a date. To be brutally honest, I was disappointed to see he has a bigger weight problem than I thought, and that’s a big problem for me at this point in my life.
Here’s where I have to clarify: Hard bodies don’t interest me. Never have. Some are hot but in that “I’d fuck you but I’d never, ever trust you” kind of way. Is that bigoted toward excessively pretty people? Sure, but it’s going on the averages I’ve come to see in my own life. There are always exceptions, of course.
But like I told my date tonight, it’s about health and strength. I’m not strong enough to be around someone who loves food, and all the wrong kinds. I can’t. I’ve lost 50 pounds, gone from a 22 to a 16, and I can’t go back. Won’t. Dad almost died of diabetes. I was heading toward a future of heart disease and diabetes and premature death. I had the “This isn’t good” chat with the doc. I was filled with self-loathing and felt like I was out of the loop with life. I’m so much better than that now. I like this girl. I like her a lot.
And why wouldn’t I? I have changed everything.
So I had the decency to say I’d keep an open mind and if I saw him trending toward health and fitness, I’d develop an interest… most likely.* Which is true. He’s certainly of the “type” I gravitate toward. Very much so. But not at the price of putting myself around a life of excess, not anymore.
Bodywise, that “type” however tends to be guys just carrying a literal few extra pounds. Maybe 30, 40, 50 pounds overweight, depending on height and frame, just of the mildly “doughy” and comfy but nothing more than that. Kind of maybe at a max to the extent that I myself am presently overweight.
Cushion for the pushin’ and a little extra to soften the blow? Works for me.
But you got to know, I’m not keen on bones gnashing into me during sex. I dig madly the slap-slap-slap sound of flesh hitting flesh in the act. Thin-people sex doesn’t sound as fun. They need a little more slappin’. I really love skin, but more importantly, flesh. I’m all about the meat of it. Good firm meat, of course. Like firmness. Excessively jiggling meat, not so good.
But when I say “doughy”, I’m talking more in a Steven Page of Barenaked Ladies, not Jack Black. Geeky and softish but in proportion. What can I say? I’m that type, and I like that type. Says a lot about the light I see myself in, if anything, I guess.
Now, me, personally, I ain’t aiming to be slim and trim. Not in my goals at all, whatever you think of this weightloss quest. I see my ass being perfect at about a size 10-ish. Face it, in life and on this blog, my personality’s larger than life. “Slim” doesn’t compute when one throws it up against “Steff”. I mean, really? Foodie-sensualist-scooter-riding-feminist-geeky-sex-fiend girl? Thin? No.
I like myself a little on the soft side. Just not as much as I was. 🙂 That problem’s solved anyhow. Like I wrote yesterday, waxing about the new loveliness of my thighs. Smooth, firm. Lovely! I like this. Shaving is so much more fun. Yet, my ass is amply grabbable. S’all right.
If my proportion stays as good as it is, but I just slim up a little more, then I’ll have what I think is the perfect body. Fuck the media, fuck size two, fuck DDs, fuck it all. I’m cool with a B-cup 10. The ever-perfect 10.
But I’d feel like shit if I just slammed the door of possibility on this guy, who has a lot to offer, but lives a different lifestyle than me right now. I’ve been that person. A little faith would have done me some good.
And it’s like that bumper sticker. “I may be fat, but you’re ugly, and I can diet.” Exactly. He’s cute.
Good people are good people, whatever their size. But they say your social situation dictates your fitness. Hang with overweight folk? You’ll be overweight. Why? They eat fat food, don’t exercise. Hang with thin people? You’ll lose weight. Why? Because they tend to eat better, exercise. Nature, nurture?
It ain’t science, it’s just environment. And given how much a glutton I am when the lovin’s good, given my foodie-sensualist bent, I need to be a very careful girl these days. Let’s nibble wee bits of wonderful cheese and lots of fruit, maybe a crumb of excellent dark chocolate, but nix the pizza. Choice is a wonderful thing.
And that’s the way that low-fat cookie crumbles. As did my date. With whom I’ve vowed to stay in touch with, and get to know, either way, with an open mind. Since he aims to “prove it”. Because good people are good people.
*Steff note: I should add he says he’s up to my challenge and says I should stick around. I said sure. We’ll see.
Get to Know Yer Blogger #2:The Sex Edition
I did the first Get to Know Yer Blogger because I was too exhausted to think in linear fashion. But then I had fun doing it.
I figure, what the hell, let’s keep this wagon wheel rolling. I don’t live the wildest of lives, but it’s interesting enough. And writing these sorts of snippets all hodge-podged together is pretty fun for me.
Keep in mind, of course, of my sort-of policy of not revealing intimate particulars about my encounters. So, these are all very allusory — skimming the surfaces. You just don’t need to know, although I know you want to. But that’s the stuff I like to keep all secret to myself. What can I say?
The most recent stuff in my life is all variations of themes begun in the earlier years, so most of this is pretty distant from my world of now.
Without ado, skimming the surface of my sexual life…
• The best outdoor sex I’ve ever had? In the absolute pouring rain, middle of a stormy November night. My trench coat was lain down over a muddy patch (but the least wet in the area) under a gigantic elm tree by a river. It was after midnight, no one was around, we got soaked, somewhat dirty but mostly just really wet, and got through it in record time, but it was fucking fantastic. Or fantastic fucking. Both, really.
• One of the best nights ever with a lover was when we went out on a cliff, at the end of a forest path in the North Shore mountains, to catch the sunset… and when we tried to get back, it was too dark to find our way. We stayed until the sunrise, huddling together on a small jutting bit of cliff, conveniently flat, but barely larger than our two reclined bodies. Overlooking the Pacific, surrounded by rainforest. Got home six the next morning, snuck in before Mom awoke. Blissed right out. Until she “woke me up” at 7 to say Grandma had died. Weird. Highly memorable night on both counts. Really sore back. Great night.
• Longest ever stay-in-and-fuck “weekend” in which pretty much nothing else was accomplished? Five days. And thinking about it still makes me grin. I need me a chance to break that record sometime. Best thing ever, all-sex weekends.
• Most sex in a night? I don’t typically count. Six times that I know of, maybe more? Once is just wrong. Besides, it’s not about the number. It’s, can you handle more? Are you at the point where no amount of lube in the world is going to make this easy on ya? Then it’s probably a good time for a break.
• What ever happened to sex outdoors? Now that I have an apartment, I just never get around to outdoors sex anymore. Sex on floors, however. Shit, it’s been a decade. That totally sucks. Holy to-do list item, Batman.
• Sex under the stars. A lover had a rooftop patio in an apartment that was taller than the other buildings around. We’d pull the mattress out and shag ourselves silly out there, under meteor showers and anything else you can think of. If you’ve never had sex on top of an apartment building? That’s your to-do list item, then. Highly recommended. I should put a personal ad out for penthouse owners, seriously. I love the heavens.
• First time I ever had casual sex or, rather, sex I knew would be a fling at best? I was 27. He was a fella I’d met travelling in California. He’d had a girlfriend, but we spent the whole night talking at the Sacramento youth hostel. We wandered around the whole town, talking until five a.m., even happening upon the band Cake rehearsing for a show at 3 a.m. and we sat in the deserted street and listened to ’em and kept chatting. Awesome chemistry, but even though he was away from his gal, he wouldn’t cheat on her — which made me think he was even hotter. Kept in touch by emails after our travels, and when he became single, he booked the world’s fastest plane ticket. He was Mr. Five-Days-Indoors. Then I showed him a little of the town, then we shagged more. His visit was for 10 days. Never spoke again, for whatever reason. But no regrets. Not a one. Had a nasty UTI after all that sex, but like I say, not a regret.
• The older I get, the more aggressive a lover I become. Not sure why that is, but it is. I don’t mind, but the younger guys seem to. Silly.
• That said, my biggest fumble in bed? Just assuming everyone likes variety in sex. The men who can’t handle any agression at all make me want to bitchslap them and kick them out of my home. I’ll show you some fucking aggression, boy-o. Happens a little too often. My screening is becoming more intense. Men need to be fucking be honest when they say they’re looking for a woman unafraid to say or do what she likes, ‘cos I’m that woman. Such as the guy featured in my rant The Kid and the Long, Long Night.
• First time I ever played You-Show-Me-Yours– I was seven or eight and had no idea nudity was bad, since, as hung up about sex as my folks were, we always saw them naked. It was a neighbourhood boy and we were suitably in the forest before we dropped our drawers. He wanted to see how girls peed, too, but I took a pass on that. Thank goodness. I’m so not the golden showers type.
• My eyes get me noticed on here, I guess, ‘cos they’re that feisty green us Irish girls play off so well. But I think my lips are my best attribute. They’re full and soft. And strong. And they serve me well. My teeth have a gap in them, not in the centre, though, off to the side. But they’re clean and white. I wrote about what my face “means” in the art of “face-reading.”
• I’m deceptively shy when I meet a new guy the first time. Shy, but kind of confident. But once we’ve become acquainted, the hesitation and shyness goes right out the window.
• Sexiest thing a man has ever said? Probably “Thank you.” Lots of sexy things get said in the moment, and most of them are just “said in the moment”. But it’s geneuine appreciation or after-the-fact conversations that really stick in my mind. Once every blue moon there’s that sex that’s so awesome it feels like an out-of-the-world gift to you both? And a “thank you” after that, laying spent with each other, just blows my mind. Genuine gratitude and appreciation is so fucking hot. Sexiest thing I’ve ever said? Couldn’t tell you. Not a clue. I say a lot in the moment, and remember little of it after.
• I chipped my tooth. I was blindfolded and bound. A lover decided an ice cube of his really wanted to meet my clit. I spazzed and shot up in shock — unfortunately he was leaning in for a kiss. Our teeth collided. Mine chipped. We made sure we were both okay, and the sex took off from there. One of the top three sexual encounters in my life, but probably greatly romanticized because it was 15 years ago. I don’t mind. I love the memory.
• I’m an outted blogger working in an office where everyone knows I write about sex. In fact, every single person in my life knows I write this blog. Most of the reason I wanted to write it was to get past my sexual hang-ups. What better way to do that than being honest about your identity? So, yeah. It’s cost me a job or two in the past, but that’s not an issue anymore. Fuck ’em. I won’t work where it’ll be a problem. My life’s too short.
• Now, violence-free! I’ve never been assaulted, and have never hit anyone, in a relationship — or in life. I consider myself blessed. And intuitive about when to get the fuck out. Complacency kills, baby. Besides, I tend to take an even split in wrestling matches with lovers. I’m a strong, strong, tough gal. Just try me. No, really. 😉
• Most erogenous zones? A reader asked. My neck and inner thighs. Having kept my hair short for several years now, I think of it as an unwitting gift to men. I used to have really long hair and it annoyed me that, while men loved the hair, they focused on it and not my neck. My neck’s where the focus belongs, boys, believe me. Problem solved. But they now pass “go” that much quicker as a result. Inner thighs? Need I say more? Oh, well, let’s say this: I was on the couch last night in short shorts, and it occured to me that my thighs have never been this smooth and firm. They don’t even rub together when I walk anymore. I love these thighs! I want to show them off more.
• When I think of you, I touch myself. The first time I ever masturbated, George Michael was my inspiration. I wrote about it, too. You can read that here.
• I still have my Catholic school kilt. Better yet, I’m one or two sizes away from fitting it for the first time since ballooning up since I was 13. How exciting. In other sexual stereotypes: Along with being a former Catholic school girl, I’ve also been a leader in Guides, a bookseller, a candy-striper, and a librarian. Christ, I even sang in the choir. That said, I’m good enough to bring home to Mom, but bad enough to keep it all very, very interesting. Plus, that penchant for voyeur sex might just make Mom’s hall closet a good place to try playing. Just be very, very quiet.
• The older I get, the more my mind opens. Things I nixed only a couple years ago are now proving more and more intriguing to me. And this is why I judge nothing. Well, except golden showers and scat and stuff. Never going to happen. More thinking along the lines of advancing into BDSM and areas like that, really. Depends entirely on partners from here on out. Will they inspire exploration? That’d be nice. I’m sure you’ll hear, either way. (Here’s my Bondage for Beginners, if you’re interested.)