Handrails.

"Why are all handrails roughly the diameter of a penis?" Kevin asked me once.

"Because that's the size a hand goes around," I said, very sensibly.

Every time I have to stand on the bus, I think of that conversaton.

Skinny bimbos.

I showed Alan the (awesome) Honky-Tonk Badonkadonk video.

"Eugh," he said. "Now I'll have nightmares of skinny white girls shaking their asses in my face all night."
"Most boys wouldn't call that a nightmare," I said.
"No, really," he said. "That's just not my type."

For some reason, that conversation felt enlightening. I'd always thought of my body as kind of a second choice. As though all men really wanted the exact same thin white D-cup bimbo, and all women were trying to approximate that archetype, and my body was just a particularly poor approximation.

The idea that someone could actually like my body, rather than only liking it inasmuch as it sort of resembled an ideal body, was embarassingly revelatory. (Alan's the sort of guy who says what comes to mind, he's not much given to diplomacy, so I don't think it was a "not as pretty as you, honey" sort of thing.)

And the ironic thing is that I don't like the archetypal male body at all. My ideal man isn't an 18-year-old lifeguard, and I actually think overdefined muscles are kind of a turnoff. I go for more wiry strength and worn features. I like a guy who looks a little older than his age, who's got a couple scars, and I'm utterly indifferent to belly size as long as he can keep up with me.

I don't go for perfection, so it's pretty damn sexist of me to think that all men would.

Back to Front.

One of my favorite positions to be in (actually having sex or just messin' around) is back to front. It's a selfish thing; I can't do anything for the guy but wiggle against him a little, and his hands can do anything to me. And it's a power thing. They teach you in martial arts that the worst position you can get into is facedown on the ground. If you're grappling and someone gets on top when you're faceup you've got a shot at bucking them, but if they get on your back you're fucked.

I like that feeling. Especially when a guy's not afraid to put his weight on me, even so much that it's a little hard to breathe. Especially when he's got my hands, stretched out in front or pulled tight behind my back like in COPS.

I need to lose weight. I feel like sexuality has no legitimacy unless you're hot. If you're hot it's sexy, if you're ugly it's just ridiculous. (By "you" here, I mean "me"; I'm being insecure, not assholish.) I would like to lose so much weight that a photo of me naked becomes a filthy picture. I would like to become so hot that I could videotape myself having sex and then enjoy watching it.

And, um, I'd also like a pony.

Yom Kippur Festivities.

It's Yom Kippur, a day on which I should not have eaten, drunk, worn leather, bathed, or had sex. Oops?

Alan and I did it four times. The third we finished with a blowjob and the fourth he couldn't finish, but we certainly got to it four times at least. Two on the sofa, one in the bed, one on the floor. Extremely fun (if soul-crushingly vanilla), and I didn't feel guilty because I'm an atheist at the moment.

I'm a little worried that in the future when my atheism has gone the way of my relativism, socialism, nihilism, and every other goofy ism trapping of liberal-arts-kid thinking, I'll feel bad about it. But what the hell, if that ever happens I'll have to start with bacon and the fact that Alan is not technically my husband and the Yom Kippur thing will just be icing on that guilt cake.


While I was having my bad-Jew sex, I had a spasm in my right hip so bad I almost had to stop. (A message from the Almighty?) This has happened to me masturbating the last couple days too. I'm not quite sure what's going on. My right hip does have a history of sucking; I dislocated it as a teenager and it's been prone to transient limps and pains ever since. But the sex thing is new. And scary! I'm way too young to be going "oh, sorry, honey, not tonight, my hip is acting up again with the rheumaty."

History of Fantasy, Part 4.

It gets even goofier.

Because on the top floor of the sex tower, there is no horsefucking, no double fistrape, no cumbaths, just a little goofy sci-fi headset. Put it on, and you're in a five-sense ultra-realistic shared simulation... you're in the Matrix, okay? The Sex Matrix.

The benefits of the Sex Matrix are multifold. Lucky little Janelle can prostitute herself to anyone, anywhere, and be watched by everyone, everywhere. Nothing can harm her body. Scenarios can shift without logic.

And, more grimly than I intended, she can never truly get out. She can think she's taking off the headset, but... the headset can simulate that. As the world's first and most prolific virtual prostitute, she's far too lucrative to the tower's owners to be allowed to leave.

So this, bizarrely and almost not my idea, is what I fantasize about almost every night: a woman trapped in the Sex Matrix, forever subjected to bondage and torment and rape by utterly nondescript "clients", handsomely paid for it but unable to ever collect.

It's not that thinking about sweeter and more normal things wouldn't get me off; it's that I can't do it. My mind goes to the strange creepy Matrix butt-rape scenes and won't come back until it's good and satisfied. I don't seem to control it.

I shouldn't whine too much though. It does get me off good. It's just ludicrous to share.

History of Fantasy, Part 3.

Around age 15, I started the story that I'm still continuing today. It is hilariously geeky but grows progressively darker; I actually set it up so that it could.

The story starts with a street prostitute (Janelle, a name chosen because I don't know anyone with that name; her image in my mind is tailored to not look like anyone I know) entering the doors of a skyscraper. This place is the biggest, strangest brothel on Earth, and the higher up you go the worse it gets. The ground floor is just a strip club, and a pretty cheerful and chummy one at that. Girls dance around in bikinis and chat with the boys, there's not even a Champagne Room, it's all in good sweet fun. On the second floor the girls will get a little nakeder, and the clientele is a little rougher. Few floors above that, they'll fuck you, or have sex on stage. Few floors above that, they'll do it up the butt or let you spank them a bit.

Around the thirtieth floor, girls are being locked in boxes with a hole in the back so they can't see who's fucking them and they can't stop it. Around the fortieth, electrodes are being used so the pain will make the girl involuntarily squeeze her muscles around the guy who's fucking her at the time. Around the fiftieth, there are dildos that make forearms look like foreplay, and no, you're not expected to take them consensually.

The men are always very anonymous and generic in my mind. The women being violated get all the focus.

I never numbered out exactly how many floors there are and exactly what happens on each one. Sheesh, that just would be weird. But I did have one thing figured out from the start. The top floor is said to be unspeakable.

Janelle was, of course, a trooper. Over the course of my late adolescence, in ten to forty minute installments, she made her way up the tower. I was 18, I think, when she reached the top floor.

History of Fantasy, Part 2.

Right around puberty, when I realized that "sex with yourself" and "that thing I do" were the same thing, my fantasies took their only plunge into vanilla. They did, however, stay sci-fi.

My fantasies have always been a continuous story, more or less, updated with about a half-hour of new content every night. I'm not one to go all anthology-style with anything that strikes me sexy; I write novels in my head, dammit, albeit incoherently lurid ones.

The first story was about a couple who can go between parallel universes. They spent a little time in places like The Universe Where Everybody Fucks Like It's a Handshake, The Universe With No Girls (until now!), The Universe Where People Have Sex Long-Distance Like Fish, and so on. Eventually, though, they settled on a universe that was just a big house, with perfect privacy, that they could change according to their whims. They called the place Alibi. Mispronounced Aleebee and I seriously have no idea why. I guess I thought it sounded exotic?

But during ages thirteen and fourteen or so, the stories from Alibi were gentle. The couple had lots of sex, but the variations were tame--oral sex, oh my, sex on the floor, how risqué, sex in the pool, ooh la la. Always fundamentally sweet and painless, never anal, never rough, just... the kind of thing I think you're supposed to fantasize about your whole life.

I got bored of it around fifteen.

History of Fantasy, Part 1.

The earliest quasi-sexual fantasy I can remember having was when I was maybe seven or eight years old. I loved the scenes in Saturday morning cartoons where the heroes got tied up and tortured. I'd fantasize about Ninja Turtles or Batman chained spreadeagle and shocked by the bad guys. I was also fascinated by a book of myths I had, which had stories like Loki chained in the underworld with burning poison dripping in his ear, or Prometheus on the rock with an eagle tearing his liver out. At the time I didn't think there was anything sexual about it. Just... fascinating to think about. Repeatedly. And somehow I knew I oughtn't share these thoughts with anyone else.

Of course, it also took me years to realize that when I touched myself in the place that made me feel good, that was masturbation. I knew what I did and I knew the word, it just took me forever to connect the two. "Well, sure I'm touching my vagina, and sure that's what masturbation is, but I'm not doing it like that, I'm just doing it because it feels good!"

I think I was about thirteen when I caught on.

Or am I fooling myself because I like it?

"Am I doing this because I'm a little bit messed up?" is a separate question from "Does that make it wrong?"

Even Mr. Rogers!

When I was a kid I was always amazed to think that men had penises under their clothes at all times. Walking down the street, playing football, anchoring a newscast, teaching Sunday school... they had those things hidden on them all the time. It struck me as incredibly naughty and profound.

Perspective.

Both boys are busy. I won't get any all weekend!

When you've been five whole entire days without sex and you come to the crushing realization that it might be as much as a week until you get more, you don't have a lot of people to complain to.

Wasn't long ago at all that I went two years between. I'm not bragging because I'm a hottie who can get it whenever she wants, I'm bragging because suddenly, almost inexplicably, after really five years (since my last actual boyfriend) of loneliness and frustration, I'm having actual sexual relationships again. What the fuck happened in the middle?

What the fuck happened just now?

Between now and my death I don't want to have another year without sex. Really I don't want another day without it.

Well, I dunno, maybe the day my dad dies.

Hard Limit.

There are a lot of things I won't do, sexually. They fall into a few categories:

-Things I've never tried and know I never will--24/7 submission (does that freaking exist? I have such doubts), bestiality, erotic asphyxiation. The ludicrous, the stupid, the really exceptionally painful.

-Things I've never tried, and wouldn't do if you asked now, but know I will--anal sex, piercing, play parties, simu-rape. I'm working up to these. Unless I get hit by a bus in the next ten years I have little doubt that I'll experience each of them.

-Things I've tried and hate worse than everything and will never do again and will safeword and break your restraints and kill you if you try. There is one thing in this category. Tickling.

Don't ever tickle me.

Feet.

Possibly the most innocuous fetish in the world. About a third of people (well, of people who tell me their fetishes, which is an awfully biased sample) seem to like 'em. Brandon and Jon both do. I'm okay with 'em. I don't really lust for feet, or for things to be done to my feet. Doesn't gross me out either. Few things do.

But the great thing about a foot fetish is that even if you don't have one, it's still fun to indulge someone with one. All you have to do is lie back and receive some really enthusiastic footrubs. No embarassment, no pain, no grossout, no risk, no hard work, no fancy costumes. Although I have picked up some deliciously impractical shoes.

The only more convenient fetish I've ever run into was, sadly, a one-night stand. He had a cunnilingus fetish.

God I miss him.

Switching.

Benny and I switch. He's probably a little better at topping than me, and I'm a bit more comfortable bottoming. We're really both switches though. It's nice in a way because neither of us can take the Lord God King Master bullshit out of the bedroom and neither of us is in a position to embarass the other without being reminded of how goofy they looked with the panties in their mouth and the flogger handle up their ass.

(Man, do I hate it when I'm with a guy a while after sex and we're all dressed and eating dinner or watching TV or whatnot and he suddenly busts out with "hee hee hee, remember when you said you wanted to be my 'filthy cockslave'?" God dammit dude, you sure weren't laughing at the time, so shut your piehole dammit. Although I do admit that kind of thing can be a little titillating. A little.)

This is probably obvious to anyone who's into BDSM, but Jon and I agree that the person being submissive is the lucky one. Not that topping isn't sexyfun, but it's hard work and it can make you feel very insecure. "I'll do anything you command, mistress!" "Um... I order you to... um..." Bottoming is cake. To bottom is to be sexually serviced.

Even when his cock is in my mouth. Because, really, sucking cock isn't difficult. Being sure that I'm doing it when he wants and the way he wants is the hard part. Doing it under orders or force sure takes care of that. Unless your top is very demanding, plays weirder games than we're into, or into physically insane things, it's almost impossible to be an inadequate submissive.

As a frequently inadequate student, daughter, friend, employee, sister, and human being, I appreciate that certainty.

Another Side of Me.

Saturday night.


Monday morning.


Sometimes it feels strange to be two people. I wouldn't want to be either one of them full-time though.


(Interesting: Benny and I spent almost the whole weekend fucking, and yet we didn't have vaginal or anal intercourse once. And oral only briefly and not to completion. [The marks are from being bound in a kneeling position.] It was almost all hands. "Third base?" Handsex don't get no respect. But hands are very strong, not distracted by seeking their own pleasure, and are very... precise. It was quite satisfying.)

Healthy Flesh.

Last night, in between all-out bouts of sex (and America's Deadliest Women's Prisons), I looked over Alan's whole body. Creepily, probably. I like exploring things and feeling them out, on my own time, and it's rare that I get the chance to do that with a whole human body.

Well, no, it's not. I get to thoroughly examine naked, passive human bodies every single day. It's just that this is in the course of working in the ICU, and they're very, very sick bodies. And maybe this is sick, and maybe it's particular to me, but the fascinating thing about Brandon's body was how healthy it was. I see so many ways that flesh can rot away, whole flesh is not just beautiful but amazing.

"You're not like an ICU patient" is a terrible compliment. And so is everything in the following paragraph. It's the things I was observing last night.

Except for a birthmark (buttmark!) and a well-healed scar on his knee, his skin is unmarked. There's no lesions, no nonblanchable erythema or unhealed wounds or other horrible things. Just strong and smooth skin. And he has muscles! Squeeze his arm and you don't feel flabby tissue and then bone--there's a wonderful pleasing firmness, a feeling of strength even in stillness, a body that can defend itsef. And he has fat! A soft little pooch of it over his belly, neither so much that it overgrows and smothers the rest of his flesh nor so little that he has nothing to draw warmth and padding and resilience from. And everything is so deliciously clean.

(Also, he has a decent-sized flaccid penis. I hate to have noticed this, but all the male ICU patients have absolutely microscopic ones. I mean, basically a stubby little head coming straight out of their groin and no shaft at all. One guy doesn't even have that; his catheter tube just goes into this hole over his scrotum. Nothing traumatic, his cock is just that small. Does sickness make your dick that much smaller? They're lying on their backs, they're feeling crappy and often cold, and they're not getting any boners, but still...)

Is Alan a healthy man, really? Eh, not really. He smokes, he drinks, he doesn't do any really demanding sports and he doesn't have any amazing physical abilities. You wouldn't look at him and go "oh wow, what a specimen of vigorous humanity." But he's fantastically healthy in the deeper way, the way us younguns like to take for granted, which is just that his body works. It moves and breathes and heals itself. It's beautiful.

Not being terminally ill is pretty fucking hot.

Adventure!

The first time I showed Brandon my toy bag (it's a hospital logo tote. kinkay!) his response was "I thought you had to be married for ten years before you resorted to whips and chains." It was a reaction I hadn't anticipated--he wasn't grossed out by it, he just didn't understand why we "needed" it while vanilla was still exciting. Kink not as an alternative to vanilla, but as a higher dosage of the same thing. And like a higher dosage, only necessary when you've built up a tolerance.

I haven't been married for ten years, I'd fuck my husband every day if I were, and I do get off on plain ol' gentle kissy sex. But Brandon's a little right. I think I am kinky, at least in part, because I get bored so easily.

Or to put it more positively, because I'm an adventure-seeker. I've worked in fast-paced, intense jobs--first in the film industry, now in intensive-care nursing. I've traveled extensively and sometimes without much money. For fun after work I do Krav Maga: full-contact martial arts with men three times my size. Call me spoiled, but I just don't feel alive if nobody's screaming.

Kink is an adventure, then. It' novel and physically demanding and feels dangerous. It's not more sexually exciting than sex--it's more exciting exciting. If sex is eating a delicious meal, kink is eating a delicious meal on a Portaledge halfway up Half Dome.

Kink is not high-dose sex. It's a sex and adventure cocktail.

Shouldn't that be "ribbed for his or her pleasure"?

Every time I buy condoms, I get the ultra-thin Extra Sensation ones.

Every time a guy I sleep with has condoms, they're always the "ribbed for her pleasure" ones.

It's sort of sweet. Sort of neurotic.

Or maybe it's just because guys don't understand that I couldn't possibly feel those tiny things. I mean, I have a sensitive vagina, I like to think exquisitely so, but I can't read Braille with it, for chrissakes.

Silly.

The first time I touched a guy's penis, my first thought was "Oh! It's just skin!"

I don't know what the hell I'd expected it to feel like, but the whole concept had been so built up in fiction and rumor that I had no expectation that his cock would just be a natural part of his body.

Gang aft agley.

One of the fun parts of having a regular sex life (still a novelty to me! I had one at about 15-16, then a massive drought until a few months ago) is the planning.

"Hey Holly, want to hang out? Are you free Saturday afternoon?"
"Yep, totally. See you then!"

Hearing that on a Tuesday night (does that violate The Rules? I hope so, The Rules are an immature sexist game-playing manipulation manual.) gives me three days to think about it. That we willl fuck is a given. I'm always in the mood and so are the guys. It's only a question of how.

Maybe I'll catch him right at the door. Pleasantries and drinks can wait; I'll step right in and close the door by slamming him up against it, kissing him roughly, giving him only scant seconds to catch his breath before dropping to my knees and opening his fly, just the fly so we can still be fully clothed as I take his cock into my mouth. I'd try to do it right then and there, keep going until he was writhing back against the door and see if I can't make him have his first orgasm of the night (there are always more) right then and there on the threshold.

Or maybe I won't end it there, maybe he wouldn't finish fast enough for heat and surprise alone to carry us and then I'd still be in charge, I wouldn't say a thing but I'd take hold of his cock and lead him by his pecker to the bed, where I'd rip both our pants off--shirts can stay, there's something brutal and urgent about fucking in t-shirts--and crouch over his face only as long as necessary, only until I started craving something harder and more forceful. And then I'd move down his body and take it for myself, penetrate myself on his cock and lean forward so I can move my whole body in long lithe strokes over his.

And then, after we'd both come and we were soaked in sweat and stinking of sex, we could say hello, get a snack, listen to some music, you know, start the night.

You'll notice that except for getting aroused on cue, the man is totally passive in my scenarios. That's why I never get to actually carry out my detailed plans. The tricky little buggers always turn it around on me and take it their own way. Then again, I've never let a man have a night exactly the way he planned it. It always goes our way, a way that's always a delightful surprise to both of us even though we create it together.

What's better than living out your fantasy? Living something you couldn't even fantasize.

Holy of Holies.

(My real-life friends are NOT ALLOWED to click the links in this post, okay? Also med school admissions boards. Seriously, doctor-picker dudes/ladies, my real name's nowhere on this blog so if you found it you did some looking and that means it's your own damn fault. I've brought people back from the brink of asphyxiation and I've comforted crying old ladies and those matter more than the fact that I'm not asexual or willing to pretend I am, kay?)

Okay, now that the paranoia and defensiveness are out of the way, here's my pussy! And closeup. And the classic pornographic "spread."

I wasn't masturbating or turned on taking the photos (mostly doing ridiculous contortions to get decent light in there), it's just normally a little moist like that.

I know the stubble and ingrown hairs from hamfisted shaving are a little gruesome, but I hate being hairy. I shave even when I know I won't be getting laid, just because having hair there makes me feel all sweaty and itchy and gross.

Like everything else on my body it's not perfectly symmetrical.

I work in a hospital so I see other women's every day. Old worn women can have little tidy ones, and young healthy women big beefy ones. In general, though, they all look very similar; there's more difference between toes or necks than there is between vulvas. Except for sometimes losing hair, they don't show old age or poor health. (They certainly don't show "heavy use" in any way that I can perceive.)

Based on before and after photos mine is very close to the "after" result of plastic surgery, which makes me kind of happy. I guess that means I got a naturally cute one? Fuck, I have no freaking idea what defines a cute or uncute vulva. Do we really need to have societal standards for that? Well, if we do I seem to be a winner, so yay for me. I guess.

I never understood guys who talked about "finding the clitoris" as if it were elusive. It's right in the middle, right at the top, and you generally shouldn't mess directly with it anyway, that feels weird.

Gosh, just to look at it you'd never know what the big deal is. This is a major fascination and focus of Western Civilization? It's this dorky, awkwardly biological little pink thing. It's, at least to me, nothing at all to see. But to touch...

...Fire.

Early Experiences.

(I don't agree at all with the idea this conversation might imply; I think hitty-sex is perfectly normal and healthy. Mostly because I enjoy it. But this exchange actually happened today.)

Sitting in downtown Seattle's sculpture garden with a group of friends, enjoying the Labor Day freedom, talking about how our parents used to hit us.
"I never got spanked exactly; my mom would just slap me in the face."
"We had a willow tree out back."
"My grandma'd use the wire handle end of a flyswatter."
"We had a switch hanging from the laundry room door."

The conversation drifted for a bit.

"So hey, who wants to go check out that leather shop on Broadway? They've got tons of rubber and floggers and everything!"
"Ooh, me!"
"Me!"
"Me!"

The Girls.

The second most NWS part of my body.

They're different; the left one is bigger and the right one is pinker. They have areolae so white they're almost invisible. You can see a tiny mark on the left nipple from where Jon did something extremely mean and nasty to it. The first time a boy was mean to my breasts (at my request), they had little black scabs in all the cracks afterwards. It was terrible. That hasn't happened much since; I think I've toughened 'em up. It'll make breastfeeding easier someday.

I never know if they're pretty to other people or not. People sleeping with me say they are, but gosh, they would say that; people who aren't sleeping with me don't have social licence to comment.

And they're sensitive. I don't think you can make me come by playing with my breasts, but you can certainly make me enjoy life. Thrust your cock between them and I'll be moaning almost as good as you. Brush a fingertip across one and I'll shudder; grab one hard and rough and I'll gasp. I can show you how hard to squeeze the nipple to find that perfect edge between "ah, ow, ah" and "OW DAMMIT." And if you totally ignore me and go right past the dammit until you decide I've had enough, I might love you that much more.

If I'm on top during sex they're going to bounce everywhere. That embarasses me sometimes, because I'm stupid enough to think you wouldn't like that. They should stay perfectly fixed on my chest? That would be sexy? I think silly things sometimes.

Once I had to run down seven flights of stairs with no bra. That wasn't sexy at all.

Why is this man sexy?

(Besides linking to me twice in a week. That is very sexy but I was actually going to post about him before he went and did that. Honest! Pinkyswear!)



He goes by Figleaf, he has an amazingly intelligent sex blog and he photographs himself. But what gets me is how the photos always manage to smell so strongly of that thing he writes about, real (i.e., opposite of porn) sex.

He never shows his face. He only occasionally shows the goods. Frequently he's fully clothed. His body, although certainly nice and fit, isn't model-grade. So it's... the light? The poses? Why do those photos always look so damn touchable?

I think a lot of it is the setting and costume. The domesticity of the place--it's clearly some ordinary middle-class house, often with minor clutter and tchotchkes in the background--feels real, even as the cool streaming sunlight (does he use artificial lights to do that? I don't think so but it's hard to tell) gives it an oddly idyllic feel. And the clothing is always, always, soft and rumpled. There's deep shadows in the wrinkles and sometimes I want to touch his clothing more than I want to touch him.

(Are these silly comments? It's the house he lives in and the clothing he wears, I don't think he constructs every detail for effect. But the effect is pretty damn inviting anyway.)

And of course, as he frequently points out, it's so goddamn rare for an ordinary-looking, intelligent, photographically competent straight man to display his body for the enjoyment of straight women, any attempt is exceptional.

I wish I saw more bodies like his in beer ads. I'd drink more.

Losin' It.

This is the story of how I lost my virginity. Not how I first had intercourse; that was not really a life-changing event, just a minor milestone. But the first time I was sexual with another person was a very defined and momentous event. It happened while we were watching Red Dwarf.

I was fifteen, and had just started college. (I was a child prodigy. Long story.) I was fat and weird-looking and socially awkward, and I'd never had any romanantic interaction with a boy, not so much as a backrub or a slow dance. He was twenty, and we'd been friends for three years. Friends was all; never a date, never a kiss. We were in his parents' basement watching cheesy old British sci-fi, him lying on the couch, me sitting on the floor in front. We were sort of cuddling, bodies in contact, his arm hanging down loosely over my side, but not really more than friends would do.

He didn't say anything. His hand just started rubbing my ribs gently, and very slowly, tentatively came around to stroke my breast. I didn't say anything. He slipped his hand under my shirt, stroking me over my bra. I was thrilled and terrified. Not because I felt assaulted, just because it felt so damn good and yet so new and intimidating, and because in some strange idiotic way I was afraid of rejection, that he would be disatissfied with what he felt and never do it again.

He slipped his hand under my bra, caressing my nipples. I still didn't react, didn't resist, didn't grope him back, didn't say "hey do you know what you're doing there?" or whatever I should've said. I just sat there and liked it.

After a few minutes he stopped abruptly, in chagrin I think, and asked me "Are you okay?" I told him yes and he went upstairs and I lay down on the couch and fell asleep.

In the morning he apologized. I told him that I'd liked it. I had. I was scared as shit, too confused to be really enthusiastic, but... it felt good. It was the first time that I'd been horny for a person who was also horny for me, and known it. And even wrapped up in awkwardness and silence and statutory rape, that's a damn good feeling.

One of the best in the world, even now.

Abstinence.

An ad came on the radio from the Washington State Department of Health. It was a bunch of teenage voices saying things like "Because I don't want an STD." "Because I respect myself." "Because I don't want to get pregnant." "Because I make my own decisions." And at the end the announcer says "These are our reasons for not having sex. What's yours?"

(No one used the word "teenager" or "premarital" or anything of the sort. Maybe they don't think anyone should?)

And wow did that "make my own decisions" one bother me. How the hell is it your own decision if you're only supposed to decide not to?

Also bothering me: the way a lot of abstinence education aimed at girls focuses on how to say no to boys and peer pressure. And makes no mention at all of the idea that a girl might want to fuck because she's horny. I didn't lose my virginity when I was fifteen because my boyfriend wanted to; I did it because I wanted to. I knew how to say no; I just had no inclination to do so when he was so good with his hands and his cock was so big and his body so strong...

But most bothersome of all is the underlying assumption that teenage sex is a problem. It isn't. Teenage STDs and pregnancy are problems. But it seems like no one, even fairly liberal non-abstinence educators, will admit that two fifteen-year-olds having protected consensual sex are doing nothing wrong. I don't understand the harm but it seems almost to go without saying that there must be one. I guess people worry it'll mess kids up emotionally? Even if true, that's not a goddamn public health issue.

It's almost like pleasure itself is the enemy. And to what point and purpose...? Fucked if I know.

Bragging Right.

"I'm so edgy, my kinks are still in the DSM!"

This should be an essay, but I'm... concise.

You know when people talk about sex as a thing that women give to men? Or even more egregiously, a finite thing, so that if a woman gives too much of it away she won't have any sex left?

I don't like that.

Some drink to remember, some drink to forget.

I've never had sex drunk. Maybe tipsy? One or two glasses into the night. Never, even once, when I was beyond the legal driving limit. And not just because I usually have to drive home afterwards.

This is because, well, to use feminist jargon, I want to own my sexuality. I don't ever want to remove my inhibitions chemically; I want to attack them my own damn self. And some inhibitions are there for a damn good reason. If I, thinking my clearest, don't want to do something, the answer is not to think less clearly.

Also, thinking about the alcohol-sex connection always puts me on my guard when dates offer me drinks. Probably they're just being polite and trying to entertain, but it always crosses my mind that they might be doing it to "loosen me up", and... damn. That's pretty gross really. Not necessarily because I don't want to fuck you, but because I don't want to be tricked into fucking you. Let's you and me decide whether to have sex, dammit.

(I'm not talking about date-rape-drunk here; sex with a passed-out chick is so wrong it doesn't merit three paragraphs, just one sentence. A prison sentence. Hurr. But what I'm talking about here is merely stupid-drunk, capable of saying "no" but less likely to do it.)

Fist Up To The Wrist

So here's a (extremely NWS and surrounded by obnoxious porn ads) fun video:

Rockbitch in concert!

Wow, they... uh, they sure went quickly. Not a lot of warmup there, yanno? And onstage in front of an audience, and with no chance for communication and no graceful way to chicken out, geez. I am very seriously impressed by that bent-over young lady. I guess she's... experienced? Brave? Huh. Wow.

An account of Rockbitch's stage show.

Huh. Wow.