Funny thing: thrusting doesn't do that much for me. Oh, it's not bad, I wouldn't kick thrusting out of bed for eating crackers, but it's not my preferred penetrative movement. When I masturbate there really isn't any in-out, just in-deep-and-grind. The feeling of something sliding around inside me does a lot more than the feeling of something sliding in and out of me. Sometimes, if a guy is well hung or using a big toy or lot of fingers, I don't even really need him to move.
I get the impression, though, that the in-out is pretty central to male pleasure (a lot of guys won't even stay hard for long without it), so I don't expect sex to be nothing but grinding. Which is fine, and even gets me off--both physically and in the feeling of being used. There's a certain brutal cachet to being pounded that nothing else can match, but on the level of pure sensation, I don't want a cock pounding me. I want it way in there massaging me.
Showing posts with label bodytalk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bodytalk. Show all posts
Friday, September 17, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Penis proportions.
In my experience, guys almost always have penises that fit them. It's not that I can look at a guy and guess what his penis looks like, but once I see it, I can go "oh, that makes sense." Just as most people tend to have the right nose for their face, most guys have the right cock for their body.
Then again, the older I get, the less I care about anatomy at all. It's nice when it works well for me, certainly I do enjoy the PIV just a tiny bit, but a guy's ability to whisper really horrible things in my ear or find just that spot inside me matters so much more. As so often happens in my life, I knew the cliche but it took me years to really get it: it's the motion of the ocean, baby.
Even to the extent anatomy matters, I find that sheer bigness isn't it; I used to sleep with a guy of whom I always thought "gee, he has a really comfortable cock," and if this sounds like sort of a backhanded compliment, trust me, there are entire non-stop weekends that say it's not.
Then again, the older I get, the less I care about anatomy at all. It's nice when it works well for me, certainly I do enjoy the PIV just a tiny bit, but a guy's ability to whisper really horrible things in my ear or find just that spot inside me matters so much more. As so often happens in my life, I knew the cliche but it took me years to really get it: it's the motion of the ocean, baby.
Even to the extent anatomy matters, I find that sheer bigness isn't it; I used to sleep with a guy of whom I always thought "gee, he has a really comfortable cock," and if this sounds like sort of a backhanded compliment, trust me, there are entire non-stop weekends that say it's not.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Micro.
I saw a man with a micropenis a ways back. At first I thought he'd had it amputated or something (he had normal testicles), but no, it was there, just... not large. It wasn't the size of my pinky--it was the size of my pinky knuckle. He was married.
And I realized, when I thought about it, that their sex life is probably amazing. Something like that forces you to think and talk about sex. When your penis is half an inch long you just can't coast by on "I get on top and stick it in her and that's sex, right?"; you have to get good with your hands and mouth, with being open to using toys, and with communicating what gives you pleasure. It's possible that he has a really intense denial thing going on, or the just have a (happily or not) sexless marriage, but I'd lay better than even odds that having a half-inch penis makes a man great in bed.
And I realized, when I thought about it, that their sex life is probably amazing. Something like that forces you to think and talk about sex. When your penis is half an inch long you just can't coast by on "I get on top and stick it in her and that's sex, right?"; you have to get good with your hands and mouth, with being open to using toys, and with communicating what gives you pleasure. It's possible that he has a really intense denial thing going on, or the just have a (happily or not) sexless marriage, but I'd lay better than even odds that having a half-inch penis makes a man great in bed.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Squirt.
It amazes me that there is still a debate on whether female ejaculation exists. It's like hearing serious grown-ups intensely discuss the elusive cryptid known as the "mouse." Mice: are they real? The world may never know.
And "well, it doesn't taste like pee" is one of those arguments that you reveal a whole lot about yourself by making.
It's a little weird for me, actually, that I haven't ever ejaculated. I've certainly devoted enough love and affection to my G-spot, but the resultant fluid is more of a trickle than a gush. In my most paranoid moments I've wondered if maybe I've never really had an orgasm at all, but no, that is not even remotely possible. I've had times that I felt like I needed to pee during sex, but I'm pretty sure that I really needed to pee.
Maybe I just can't. Maybe it's genetic or something. Some people can't curl their tongue and I can't squirt. Considering the things I can so, I don't feel too inadequate about it. It's just strange.
P.S.: I know posting has kinda sucked lately. The problem is that with no computer, it's almost impossible for me to comment on anything outside, since tabbing around and copy-pasting is unbelievably difficult and unreliable on the iPod. It's also very difficult for me to edit my writing properly. And then there's the timesink of moving. Hopefully I'll have my computer back later this week and have more interesting things to say. For the next couple days, sucking may continue. :(
And "well, it doesn't taste like pee" is one of those arguments that you reveal a whole lot about yourself by making.
It's a little weird for me, actually, that I haven't ever ejaculated. I've certainly devoted enough love and affection to my G-spot, but the resultant fluid is more of a trickle than a gush. In my most paranoid moments I've wondered if maybe I've never really had an orgasm at all, but no, that is not even remotely possible. I've had times that I felt like I needed to pee during sex, but I'm pretty sure that I really needed to pee.
Maybe I just can't. Maybe it's genetic or something. Some people can't curl their tongue and I can't squirt. Considering the things I can so, I don't feel too inadequate about it. It's just strange.
P.S.: I know posting has kinda sucked lately. The problem is that with no computer, it's almost impossible for me to comment on anything outside, since tabbing around and copy-pasting is unbelievably difficult and unreliable on the iPod. It's also very difficult for me to edit my writing properly. And then there's the timesink of moving. Hopefully I'll have my computer back later this week and have more interesting things to say. For the next couple days, sucking may continue. :(
Friday, August 27, 2010
EtOH.
(I'm still computerless and painfully pecking these out on the iPod, but it's getting reduntant announcing it each time.)
Alcohol and I have a funny relationship. I don't drink all that often, or all that much. But when I do drink, two drinks are my absolute limit of rationality. I can hold one drink with dignity, and after two I'll be buzzed but coherent. After three (or sometimes two strong ones, honestly), "coherent" is not a word anyone would use. Particularly not me, because I won't be able to pronounce it.
I'm a cheery drunk, prone to a lot of giggling and not too much trouble-causing, but I am also a ragingly horny drunk. The slender thread of inhibition between me and rampant sexual advances on all my friends and a good number of strangers is dissolved. It's not a matter of me being unable to resist people "taking advantage of me"; I'm out there grabbing asses and taking names. Or occasionally forgetting to take names.
(I also tend to appear somewhat drunker than I am, both because my physical coordination is not much to begin with, and because I invariably start thinking it would be funny to "act drunk.")
Is it ethical to fuck me when I'm horny drunk? I think it is, and not just because I want it. Wait, no. I think it is, because I want it. I may be making different decisions than I would sober (although usually just the ones I wish I would), but I'm making decisions. To me that's consent. In some cases it may be wise to turn me down on a "no, that would be a really bad idea" level, but not on a "no, that would be rape" level. Rape is when a girl says "no" or says nothing or says "yes" under coercion, but I'm pretty sure it's not when a girl says "i'sh wanna fuck you, you shtud."
Because if you insist on waiting until I'm not under the influence, you'll be waiting a long time. I'm under the influence of society, of wanting attention and affection, of some seriously powerful hormones, of how long it's been since the last time, of feeling ugly or pretty or unsure, of a huge potent brew of totally unfair outside factors warping my thinking. If you want me to make a truly unimpeded decision, alcohol is the least of your concerns.
(I also--and this is just me--have a fairly laid-back approach to sexual regrets. If I have consensual, well-remembered sex with someone I really shouldn't have, my emotions don't go much beyond "well, I won't have sex with them again." I've never thought of it as some huge irreversible mistake.)
Drunk sex can be really good, too. I'm all giggly and tee-hee-I'm-so-vulnerable, I'm a bit less oversensitive than usual, and then there's the muscle relaxant effect...
Alcohol and I have a funny relationship. I don't drink all that often, or all that much. But when I do drink, two drinks are my absolute limit of rationality. I can hold one drink with dignity, and after two I'll be buzzed but coherent. After three (or sometimes two strong ones, honestly), "coherent" is not a word anyone would use. Particularly not me, because I won't be able to pronounce it.
I'm a cheery drunk, prone to a lot of giggling and not too much trouble-causing, but I am also a ragingly horny drunk. The slender thread of inhibition between me and rampant sexual advances on all my friends and a good number of strangers is dissolved. It's not a matter of me being unable to resist people "taking advantage of me"; I'm out there grabbing asses and taking names. Or occasionally forgetting to take names.
(I also tend to appear somewhat drunker than I am, both because my physical coordination is not much to begin with, and because I invariably start thinking it would be funny to "act drunk.")
Is it ethical to fuck me when I'm horny drunk? I think it is, and not just because I want it. Wait, no. I think it is, because I want it. I may be making different decisions than I would sober (although usually just the ones I wish I would), but I'm making decisions. To me that's consent. In some cases it may be wise to turn me down on a "no, that would be a really bad idea" level, but not on a "no, that would be rape" level. Rape is when a girl says "no" or says nothing or says "yes" under coercion, but I'm pretty sure it's not when a girl says "i'sh wanna fuck you, you shtud."
Because if you insist on waiting until I'm not under the influence, you'll be waiting a long time. I'm under the influence of society, of wanting attention and affection, of some seriously powerful hormones, of how long it's been since the last time, of feeling ugly or pretty or unsure, of a huge potent brew of totally unfair outside factors warping my thinking. If you want me to make a truly unimpeded decision, alcohol is the least of your concerns.
(I also--and this is just me--have a fairly laid-back approach to sexual regrets. If I have consensual, well-remembered sex with someone I really shouldn't have, my emotions don't go much beyond "well, I won't have sex with them again." I've never thought of it as some huge irreversible mistake.)
Drunk sex can be really good, too. I'm all giggly and tee-hee-I'm-so-vulnerable, I'm a bit less oversensitive than usual, and then there's the muscle relaxant effect...
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Short iPod Post: Overstimulated.
So last night I was having sex, as I am so wont to do, and it was going really well--I was coming my brains out and then some. And then too much. Sometime after the tenth orgasm I just couldn't take any more. I was in that state where every touch is amplified, only the touch in question was fast hard fucking. I had to stop. I couldn't take it.
For some reason I feel worse having any sexual inadequacies when it's in a kinky context. Like I was somehow misrepresenting myself as kinky if I can't perform at a certain level. I'm not kinky, I can't even get fucked properly and sometimes I only want to be beaten a little bit! If I was really kinky I'd have a vagina like a Fleshlight and an ass like leather. Instead some asshole went and put way too many nerves in them.
It's funny how I can have sex that involves knives and pee and being pounded with lead-filled sap gloves, then worry I just wasn't kinky enough.
Anyway, we took a break, he hit me a bit as my partners are so wont to do, and then we started fucking again. And this time I held back. Which kind of sucks--trying not to grind my hips against a guy or tighten my pussy around his cock is just wrong! But that meant I only came a couple times, so I was able to go the distance.
When a guy brags about having a huge cock and being able to go full throttle for hours, I don't think "wow, heavenly." I think, "wow, that's so much more than I need." When average sex is amazing for me, amazing sex is... just too damn much.
For some reason I feel worse having any sexual inadequacies when it's in a kinky context. Like I was somehow misrepresenting myself as kinky if I can't perform at a certain level. I'm not kinky, I can't even get fucked properly and sometimes I only want to be beaten a little bit! If I was really kinky I'd have a vagina like a Fleshlight and an ass like leather. Instead some asshole went and put way too many nerves in them.
It's funny how I can have sex that involves knives and pee and being pounded with lead-filled sap gloves, then worry I just wasn't kinky enough.
Anyway, we took a break, he hit me a bit as my partners are so wont to do, and then we started fucking again. And this time I held back. Which kind of sucks--trying not to grind my hips against a guy or tighten my pussy around his cock is just wrong! But that meant I only came a couple times, so I was able to go the distance.
When a guy brags about having a huge cock and being able to go full throttle for hours, I don't think "wow, heavenly." I think, "wow, that's so much more than I need." When average sex is amazing for me, amazing sex is... just too damn much.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Short iPod post: Sensitivity.
My first orgasm of the night (or day, or funeral service, courtroom session, what have you) actually takes some warmup. It's only the subsequent ones that are really "you just think about my vagina and there I go."
One downside of having a really sensitive vagina: if something happens to make me sore--even just one mis-thrust or fingernail scrape--I can never get over it; I'm sore for the rest of the night. Good thing I kinda get off on painful sex or this could be some sort of problem.
One downside of having a really sensitive vagina: if something happens to make me sore--even just one mis-thrust or fingernail scrape--I can never get over it; I'm sore for the rest of the night. Good thing I kinda get off on painful sex or this could be some sort of problem.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Male Orgasm Project.
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!
For all the emphasis we put on male attraction and titillation, male orgasm is often unexamined in our culture--dismissed as a joke, taken for granted, and not credited with the beauty and complexity of female orgasms. It's ignored via sexism, either by assuming that the male experience is default and thus need not be explored, or by worrying that to do so would be gaaaaay, or by brushing it off as comical or disgusting rather than erotic. I've had sex with enough men that I write a little tilde on the Planned Parenthood forms ("number of sexual partners: ~23") and I still don't really know.
I want to remedy this. I want to put together an essay on experiences of male orgasm. I want to do it to provide an educational resource for women, to learn about variation in men's experiences, and simply to honor male sexuality as a complex subject that goes far deeper than liking bikinis and blowjobs.
So this is an invitation for all male-identified people to tell me: what is it like to have an orgasm? Physically, emotionally, whatever it means to you. Use as many or as few words as you need. Your words may be reposted on this site but no identifying information will be used (unless you want to plug your blog or site, then I'll put in a link for you).
Email your description to pervocracy@gmail.com, or if you want to be completely anonymous, use the comments to this post. (I don't track IPs or anything of anonymous comments.)
For all the emphasis we put on male attraction and titillation, male orgasm is often unexamined in our culture--dismissed as a joke, taken for granted, and not credited with the beauty and complexity of female orgasms. It's ignored via sexism, either by assuming that the male experience is default and thus need not be explored, or by worrying that to do so would be gaaaaay, or by brushing it off as comical or disgusting rather than erotic. I've had sex with enough men that I write a little tilde on the Planned Parenthood forms ("number of sexual partners: ~23") and I still don't really know.
I want to remedy this. I want to put together an essay on experiences of male orgasm. I want to do it to provide an educational resource for women, to learn about variation in men's experiences, and simply to honor male sexuality as a complex subject that goes far deeper than liking bikinis and blowjobs.
So this is an invitation for all male-identified people to tell me: what is it like to have an orgasm? Physically, emotionally, whatever it means to you. Use as many or as few words as you need. Your words may be reposted on this site but no identifying information will be used (unless you want to plug your blog or site, then I'll put in a link for you).
Email your description to pervocracy@gmail.com, or if you want to be completely anonymous, use the comments to this post. (I don't track IPs or anything of anonymous comments.)
Thursday, August 12, 2010
What's it like to come?
Sex and kink... um, person? I'm not really sure what her title is, maybe "bigwig"--Midori has put out a call for women's descriptions of their orgasms.
(Male orgasms are not interesting, of course. Because women's orgasms are like intricate flowers blown in fierce waves under a sky of fireworks, and men's orgasms are like "splurt." Sigh. It's tough being a flower, but at least my sexuality isn't comic relief. Instead it's the experience of the Other and must be documented for the edification of humans. But anyway.)
For me, orgasms are all about losing control. From the moment I feel one building, until it has come and faded, I have no choice in what my mind and body do. I'm on ecstatic autopilot.
It starts with my hips. When I'm approaching orgasm they roll and thrust of their own accord, finding their own rhythm. Warm, delicious feelings build inside me--starting under my pubic mound and deep inside my pelvis, spreading to my breasts and asscheeks, and making my whole skin sensitive to pleasure.
Troubles go away. Minor discomforts don't matter. Pain is just "intensity," just another way to feel pleasure, and it sinks my mind and body even further into their trance. My capacity is still not bottomless, but I crave the pain that five minutes ago I could barely tolerate.
I get soaking fucking wet. I've never squirted, but I... ooze. Clear thin wetness, slippery and salty and hot, runs onto my thighs. My pussy relaxes, able to take bigger things and deeper. I want deep touch, hard touch, not necessarily fast but firm--I have no use for wispy little caresses. Touch is everything. I don't care what I see or hear.
I don't know what I look like when I come. I suspect it's not glamorous. I've been told that I tend to flush red, and that I make faces like I'm in pain. I do know that I make legendarily stupid noises. I moan, groan, pant, grunt, rant, babble, swear, cry, and scream. Loudly. And I've been accused of barking.
Then I actually come. It's an implosion. My muscles tighten in waves. It's so fucking good, and more than that, it's so fucking much. I am overwhelmed, I am made irrelevant, I am orgasm. It's a warm, hard contraction that begins in my cunt and asshole and goes through my whole body. It's overwhelming and exhausting and the best thing in the entire world. Sometimes it goes on for a few seconds, or chains right into the next one, and I can'tmovecan'tbreathecan'tthinkOH.MY.GOD.
Afterwards, I'm completely used up. I have no physical or mental capacity at all. The severity of this impairment ranges, from just being a little sleepy and subdued after masturbating, to being literally unable to stand up or speak after multiple orgasms in a BDSM scene. I'm very sensitive to touch during this time, and cuddling or continued sex is magnified a thousandfold.
By the time I've come all the way down from the high of coming, I'm just about ready to go again.
(Male orgasms are not interesting, of course. Because women's orgasms are like intricate flowers blown in fierce waves under a sky of fireworks, and men's orgasms are like "splurt." Sigh. It's tough being a flower, but at least my sexuality isn't comic relief. Instead it's the experience of the Other and must be documented for the edification of humans. But anyway.)
For me, orgasms are all about losing control. From the moment I feel one building, until it has come and faded, I have no choice in what my mind and body do. I'm on ecstatic autopilot.
It starts with my hips. When I'm approaching orgasm they roll and thrust of their own accord, finding their own rhythm. Warm, delicious feelings build inside me--starting under my pubic mound and deep inside my pelvis, spreading to my breasts and asscheeks, and making my whole skin sensitive to pleasure.
Troubles go away. Minor discomforts don't matter. Pain is just "intensity," just another way to feel pleasure, and it sinks my mind and body even further into their trance. My capacity is still not bottomless, but I crave the pain that five minutes ago I could barely tolerate.
I get soaking fucking wet. I've never squirted, but I... ooze. Clear thin wetness, slippery and salty and hot, runs onto my thighs. My pussy relaxes, able to take bigger things and deeper. I want deep touch, hard touch, not necessarily fast but firm--I have no use for wispy little caresses. Touch is everything. I don't care what I see or hear.
I don't know what I look like when I come. I suspect it's not glamorous. I've been told that I tend to flush red, and that I make faces like I'm in pain. I do know that I make legendarily stupid noises. I moan, groan, pant, grunt, rant, babble, swear, cry, and scream. Loudly. And I've been accused of barking.
Then I actually come. It's an implosion. My muscles tighten in waves. It's so fucking good, and more than that, it's so fucking much. I am overwhelmed, I am made irrelevant, I am orgasm. It's a warm, hard contraction that begins in my cunt and asshole and goes through my whole body. It's overwhelming and exhausting and the best thing in the entire world. Sometimes it goes on for a few seconds, or chains right into the next one, and I can'tmovecan'tbreathecan'tthinkOH.MY.GOD.
Afterwards, I'm completely used up. I have no physical or mental capacity at all. The severity of this impairment ranges, from just being a little sleepy and subdued after masturbating, to being literally unable to stand up or speak after multiple orgasms in a BDSM scene. I'm very sensitive to touch during this time, and cuddling or continued sex is magnified a thousandfold.
By the time I've come all the way down from the high of coming, I'm just about ready to go again.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Menstrual Miracle!
Holy shit, I got my period!
Why "holy shit"? Because I haven't had a period since April... 2008. They just stopped. I realize I should have gone to the doctor with "holy shit my ladyparts are broken" about two years ago, but, you know, why question a good thing? I just made sure to keep up on pregnancy tests and enjoyed it. (Thus adding "never has a period" to the hair-trigger vaginal orgasms and Etch-a-Sketch skin among reasons my physiology is clearly some sort of experiment by clandestine male-chauvinist biologists.)
And then this. For no reason, I just got a completely normal period! Jesus Christ, I'm a woman! I have a uterus and hormones! I'm possibly even fertile! It's amazing!
...Okay, this is really gross and uncomfortable. I get the picture, body, you're a woman, how lovely for you. Let's do this again in another two years.
Why "holy shit"? Because I haven't had a period since April... 2008. They just stopped. I realize I should have gone to the doctor with "holy shit my ladyparts are broken" about two years ago, but, you know, why question a good thing? I just made sure to keep up on pregnancy tests and enjoyed it. (Thus adding "never has a period" to the hair-trigger vaginal orgasms and Etch-a-Sketch skin among reasons my physiology is clearly some sort of experiment by clandestine male-chauvinist biologists.)
And then this. For no reason, I just got a completely normal period! Jesus Christ, I'm a woman! I have a uterus and hormones! I'm possibly even fertile! It's amazing!
...Okay, this is really gross and uncomfortable. I get the picture, body, you're a woman, how lovely for you. Let's do this again in another two years.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Done.
Although I wouldn't trade my sexual abilities for anything (maybe the lives of a busload of orphans? mayyybe? hm. nah.), in one sense I do kind of envy most men and some women--the ones who can have an orgasm and be done. It must be nice to have even five minutes post-orgasmically when you really can't go again and don't want to.
I don't really finish having sex. I just get sore, tired, out of time, or my partner gets done. (My hips used to be the first to tap out, but I've been getting more exercise lately so usually I can last until my vagina itself waves a tiny white flag.) I can't be satisfied.
I masturbated three times today. The only reasons it wasn't four were lingering soreness and the need to do other things with my day.
I'm honestly not sure if this is a whine or a brag, here. On the one hand, I'm awfully jealous of the ability to completely relax after an orgasm and truly be sated with sex for a few minutes of your life. It can be awkward when I'm supposed to be basking in afterglow and he's all relaxed and warmfuzzy and I'm lying there wishing he'd make me come just one more time. Just one more. Or two, you know, if you feel like it.
On the other hand, now and then I get into situations like a couple nights ago, completely sore and completely tapped out and yet... not just taking a man's fingers but fucking back on them and coming on them over and over and over. "You really can't help it, can you?" he asked, and the answer is I can't. It's frustrating and a little humiliating and it leads me into pain and it's awesome.
I don't really finish having sex. I just get sore, tired, out of time, or my partner gets done. (My hips used to be the first to tap out, but I've been getting more exercise lately so usually I can last until my vagina itself waves a tiny white flag.) I can't be satisfied.
I masturbated three times today. The only reasons it wasn't four were lingering soreness and the need to do other things with my day.
I'm honestly not sure if this is a whine or a brag, here. On the one hand, I'm awfully jealous of the ability to completely relax after an orgasm and truly be sated with sex for a few minutes of your life. It can be awkward when I'm supposed to be basking in afterglow and he's all relaxed and warmfuzzy and I'm lying there wishing he'd make me come just one more time. Just one more. Or two, you know, if you feel like it.
On the other hand, now and then I get into situations like a couple nights ago, completely sore and completely tapped out and yet... not just taking a man's fingers but fucking back on them and coming on them over and over and over. "You really can't help it, can you?" he asked, and the answer is I can't. It's frustrating and a little humiliating and it leads me into pain and it's awesome.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Aftershocks.
I'm finding that after I have a really intense orgasm--or series of orgasms--God I love my life--sometimes it's not over when it's over. There's a period of time afterwards when my brain is fried and I'm hypersensitive. In a sense I'm still coming, even if nothing is touching my vagina. I can't think; when I talk, it'll be either nonsensical babble or extremely specific directions on how to touch me. I have, I am consumed by, a tremendous drive to be touched. Everything touching my skin--everything, even the sheets beneath me--feels amplified a thousand times. Pain does not feel much like pain at all. I want to make out and I want to be struck.
I am not much use during this time. I don't have the energy to move; I probably won't be sucking or stroking your cock and I definitely won't be riding you. But I am tremendously, exquisitely reactive to anything you do. If you ever wanted to just stroke your finger across a girl's shoulder and have her moan and squirm like she's getting deep-dicked, this would be your chance. (Actual deep-dicking during this time may produce highly volatile results. Further experimentation is warranted.)
This seems to be a relatively recent thing; I don't remember it happening when I was younger. It doesn't happen every time, even if the sex was great, and it almost never happens when I'm alone. But as strange and amazing and wonderful experiences go... yeah, it's pretty awesome.
I am not much use during this time. I don't have the energy to move; I probably won't be sucking or stroking your cock and I definitely won't be riding you. But I am tremendously, exquisitely reactive to anything you do. If you ever wanted to just stroke your finger across a girl's shoulder and have her moan and squirm like she's getting deep-dicked, this would be your chance. (Actual deep-dicking during this time may produce highly volatile results. Further experimentation is warranted.)
This seems to be a relatively recent thing; I don't remember it happening when I was younger. It doesn't happen every time, even if the sex was great, and it almost never happens when I'm alone. But as strange and amazing and wonderful experiences go... yeah, it's pretty awesome.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Two minor incidents.
Since I live in a somewhat urban area, my bedroom window faces another house's windows with only about 20 feet in between. Since it is very hot out, I don't like to lower my shades, because that impedes airflow and the room turns into a pressure cooker in minutes. Since I'm me, I always sleep naked and like to lounge around naked as well. My bed is positioned so the neighbors can't see me in it, and I do try not to put on a show, but I'm sure I flash them all the time. And, since they didn't sign up for this, I feel a little bad about it. I constructed this entire neurotic fantasy world where the neighbors always saw me naked and always hated it and thought I was a horrible creep.
Today, I saw my neighbor walking around naked in front of his window. It was a tremendous relief.
---
A couple days ago, I was out with a female friend in a public square (because yeah, I now live in the kind of city that has public squares, rather than the kind of city that has "the Taco Bell across from the Wal-Mart") and we were talking about all manner of salacious and scandalous things. A guy came and sat down next to us, kitty-corner so that he was very close to us but angled so we couldn't make eye contact. Something in his demeanor made us think he was listening to our conversation, but he wasn't bothering us and there were lots of people around so it wasn't really a problem.
Somehow the conversation came around to STDs. I expressed my opinion that it's a shame when otherwise sex-positive people stigmatize STDs, like getting the clap is a huge moral failing rather than a medical problem. It seems like sometimes all the shame and judgement that sex-negative people put on sex itself, we put on any negative outcomes of sex--as if getting the clap were proof that you were doing sex-positivity wrong or making it look bad.
"But I don't have the clap," I clarified.
"I don't have the clap either!" my friend said. We high-fived.
At this moment, the guy very abruptly got up and walked away. He seemed a bit disgusted.
It left us baffled. I could understand losing interest if we had the clap, but we just said we didn't! Shouldn't that be a selling point?
Today, I saw my neighbor walking around naked in front of his window. It was a tremendous relief.
---
A couple days ago, I was out with a female friend in a public square (because yeah, I now live in the kind of city that has public squares, rather than the kind of city that has "the Taco Bell across from the Wal-Mart") and we were talking about all manner of salacious and scandalous things. A guy came and sat down next to us, kitty-corner so that he was very close to us but angled so we couldn't make eye contact. Something in his demeanor made us think he was listening to our conversation, but he wasn't bothering us and there were lots of people around so it wasn't really a problem.
Somehow the conversation came around to STDs. I expressed my opinion that it's a shame when otherwise sex-positive people stigmatize STDs, like getting the clap is a huge moral failing rather than a medical problem. It seems like sometimes all the shame and judgement that sex-negative people put on sex itself, we put on any negative outcomes of sex--as if getting the clap were proof that you were doing sex-positivity wrong or making it look bad.
"But I don't have the clap," I clarified.
"I don't have the clap either!" my friend said. We high-fived.
At this moment, the guy very abruptly got up and walked away. He seemed a bit disgusted.
It left us baffled. I could understand losing interest if we had the clap, but we just said we didn't! Shouldn't that be a selling point?
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Modesty.
When I was in middle and high school, I was neurotic about not exposing myself in the locker room. I'd go to the furthest darkest corner, face the wall, and do a complicated multi-step shimmy to take off one shirt as I was putting on the other, so exposure of my bra was absolutely minimized.
I know this sounds like yet another "Holly Pervocracy was a weird unpopular kid and that kind of explains a lot" post, but here's the funny part: I still do that. It's not as neurotic these days, but when I change in the locker room at work or a gym, I go out of my way to hide away and minimize my nudity.
I think this is, paradoxically, because I like being seen naked. Which I do; at play parties I'll take any excuse to walk around with my tits out. ("This is a play party" is sufficient excuse, really.) And of course I occasionally naked it up on the Internet. Being naked in front of people is both a sexual and a whee-fun thrill for me.
So my worry, in middle school and now, was never "they'll see my body and that's terrible." My worry was "they'll know that I like them seeing my body and that's terrible." It would both violate consent to use them for exhibitionism, and if I let up on my self-control--even just to act normally--I worried I would tip off my exhibitionism. The exposure of my tits was fine; the exposure of my sexuality is what I was desperate to hide.
("Exhibitionism" is a poor term here since I don't really have that fetish; I just sort of enjoy being seen by willing observers when I'm naked or having sex. I swear that's different. Somehow.)
Nudity is supposed to be okay in same-sex locker rooms because we've all got one, right? Well, we may all have the same body parts, but I still think I've got some things my co-undressers don't got, and that, not prudery, is why I still make a special point of wearing my biggest frumpiest underwear to work.
I know this sounds like yet another "Holly Pervocracy was a weird unpopular kid and that kind of explains a lot" post, but here's the funny part: I still do that. It's not as neurotic these days, but when I change in the locker room at work or a gym, I go out of my way to hide away and minimize my nudity.
I think this is, paradoxically, because I like being seen naked. Which I do; at play parties I'll take any excuse to walk around with my tits out. ("This is a play party" is sufficient excuse, really.) And of course I occasionally naked it up on the Internet. Being naked in front of people is both a sexual and a whee-fun thrill for me.
So my worry, in middle school and now, was never "they'll see my body and that's terrible." My worry was "they'll know that I like them seeing my body and that's terrible." It would both violate consent to use them for exhibitionism, and if I let up on my self-control--even just to act normally--I worried I would tip off my exhibitionism. The exposure of my tits was fine; the exposure of my sexuality is what I was desperate to hide.
("Exhibitionism" is a poor term here since I don't really have that fetish; I just sort of enjoy being seen by willing observers when I'm naked or having sex. I swear that's different. Somehow.)
Nudity is supposed to be okay in same-sex locker rooms because we've all got one, right? Well, we may all have the same body parts, but I still think I've got some things my co-undressers don't got, and that, not prudery, is why I still make a special point of wearing my biggest frumpiest underwear to work.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Real people.
Last night, I went to see a shadow-cast performance of Repo! The Genetic Opera. (It was freaking awesome and I am a geek.) Seeing the local cast of mostly non-professional actors contrasted against the movie's real cast, I couldn't help but notice how much sexier the humans were.
They were so much more different from each other. I know that's a weird comment since the characters in Repo are already pretty distinct-looking, but they seem like variations on just a couple models compared to the way real people are different. Real people have so many body types--and I don't just mean "real is fat!" although that's one part of it--real people have so many permutations in their fatness but also their muscularity and their proportions and their masculinity/femininity and their very skeletons. Real people have tattoos, they have blemishes, they have weird noses and they have cute haircuts.
In the movie, Amber Sweet has two bodyguards who are hunky male-fitness-model types with no body hair and ledgey haircuts. They look identical, perfect, and mostly uninteresting. In the shadow cast, one of the bodyguards was thin with buzzed hair and a goatee, and the other one was taller and bigger and had a little bit of hair on his belly. They were so much sexier that way.
It's the humanity, I guess. A person with flaws is a person with history, a person who exists when I'm not looking, a person who's had a stiff ankle since that bike accident and who eats their fries with mustard and has a total crush on that one barista with the fauxhawk. Idols are overrated; I want someone who always gets an itchy nose right after putting on gloves.
They were so much more different from each other. I know that's a weird comment since the characters in Repo are already pretty distinct-looking, but they seem like variations on just a couple models compared to the way real people are different. Real people have so many body types--and I don't just mean "real is fat!" although that's one part of it--real people have so many permutations in their fatness but also their muscularity and their proportions and their masculinity/femininity and their very skeletons. Real people have tattoos, they have blemishes, they have weird noses and they have cute haircuts.
In the movie, Amber Sweet has two bodyguards who are hunky male-fitness-model types with no body hair and ledgey haircuts. They look identical, perfect, and mostly uninteresting. In the shadow cast, one of the bodyguards was thin with buzzed hair and a goatee, and the other one was taller and bigger and had a little bit of hair on his belly. They were so much sexier that way.
It's the humanity, I guess. A person with flaws is a person with history, a person who exists when I'm not looking, a person who's had a stiff ankle since that bike accident and who eats their fries with mustard and has a total crush on that one barista with the fauxhawk. Idols are overrated; I want someone who always gets an itchy nose right after putting on gloves.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The 22YOBS.
The phrase "22-year-old blonde skinny chick," or variants thereof, has been getting tossed around a lot recently. It's a lazy shorthand for "conventionally sexy," with some unfortunate negative undertones--men and women will imply that only shallow men would want the 22YOBS, and women can be shockingly upfront about resenting the 22YOBS. Often there's an implication that she's doing it on purpose, she's selling out. That 22YOBS, her life must be so easy, but it's coming at the expense of real women.
All this is a little unfair to women who are young, blonde, and skinny, and actually look quite different from each other and have their own lives that may or may not involve being full-time sex symbols. Some of them you wouldn't even call conventionally sexy; some are conventionally sexy but aren't sexually active or have a relatively "boring" sex life; some even feel sexually deprived. And the ones who do get sex more easily than most, don't necessarily get other privileges along with it.
I can't be so easy on the guys who want a 22YOBS. Some of them, it's totally legitimate, it's just what they like. (Particularly if they're also 22.) Maybe they have or had a 22YOBS girlfriend and she was great; maybe there's a particular 22YOBS they know well; maybe they have just absorbed some social messages about the universal desirability of the 22YOBS. If you're not weird about it, hey, have fun with it, guys.
But other guys make it weird. Other guys talk about wanting a 22YOBS, but they're not really attracted to her. They're attracted to what she represents--the highest status, the best prize. She's the gold medal, and it doesn't matter if you personally think silver is prettier, it still doesn't mean winning. When the question is not "who do you want to wake up next to?" but "who do you want to show off to the other guys?", the answer is the 22YOBS.
And other guys, I think, want a 22YOBS because they don't know what they want. She's the "I'll have what he's having" of sexual preferences; the default if you've watched a lot of TV and haven't met a lot of women. There's nothing particularly attractive about a 22YOBS except for the way the camera always seems to linger over her and she's a lot more likely to take off her clothes. I think the more you get out in the world and the more women you get to know in person, the less you're drawn to any specific physical type because you see people much more as individuals and personalities.
I don't really have a conclusion for this post. I can't say "hey guys, stop liking 22YOBS!", because sometimes it really is a legitimate attraction. I can't say "real women have curves, real women aren't Barbie dolls!" because the 22YOBS is just as much a woman and a person. I guess all I can say is that 22YOBS isn't a synonym for "beautiful." It's just a body type.
(By the way, while I don't think this can all be reversed to apply to men, I am fascinated how often "Brad Pitt" is used as the shorthand for a male 22YOBS. He's like the official male celebrity for this kind of discussion. No one ever says "I'm no Ewan McGregor but..." Even though Ewan McGregor is damn fine.)
All this is a little unfair to women who are young, blonde, and skinny, and actually look quite different from each other and have their own lives that may or may not involve being full-time sex symbols. Some of them you wouldn't even call conventionally sexy; some are conventionally sexy but aren't sexually active or have a relatively "boring" sex life; some even feel sexually deprived. And the ones who do get sex more easily than most, don't necessarily get other privileges along with it.
I can't be so easy on the guys who want a 22YOBS. Some of them, it's totally legitimate, it's just what they like. (Particularly if they're also 22.) Maybe they have or had a 22YOBS girlfriend and she was great; maybe there's a particular 22YOBS they know well; maybe they have just absorbed some social messages about the universal desirability of the 22YOBS. If you're not weird about it, hey, have fun with it, guys.
But other guys make it weird. Other guys talk about wanting a 22YOBS, but they're not really attracted to her. They're attracted to what she represents--the highest status, the best prize. She's the gold medal, and it doesn't matter if you personally think silver is prettier, it still doesn't mean winning. When the question is not "who do you want to wake up next to?" but "who do you want to show off to the other guys?", the answer is the 22YOBS.
And other guys, I think, want a 22YOBS because they don't know what they want. She's the "I'll have what he's having" of sexual preferences; the default if you've watched a lot of TV and haven't met a lot of women. There's nothing particularly attractive about a 22YOBS except for the way the camera always seems to linger over her and she's a lot more likely to take off her clothes. I think the more you get out in the world and the more women you get to know in person, the less you're drawn to any specific physical type because you see people much more as individuals and personalities.
I don't really have a conclusion for this post. I can't say "hey guys, stop liking 22YOBS!", because sometimes it really is a legitimate attraction. I can't say "real women have curves, real women aren't Barbie dolls!" because the 22YOBS is just as much a woman and a person. I guess all I can say is that 22YOBS isn't a synonym for "beautiful." It's just a body type.
(By the way, while I don't think this can all be reversed to apply to men, I am fascinated how often "Brad Pitt" is used as the shorthand for a male 22YOBS. He's like the official male celebrity for this kind of discussion. No one ever says "I'm no Ewan McGregor but..." Even though Ewan McGregor is damn fine.)
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Nails.
Of all the arbitrary, labor-intensive, and mildly humiliating things considered markers of attractiveness in women, few baffle me more than long fingernails.
I understand the appeal of clean and smooth fingernails, of course, and painting nails isn't too shocking. That's just another form of makeup, or a very mild body decoration.
No, what I don't get is the long nails. For my job, my sex life, typing, and frankly my life in general, I find it much more comfortable to have very short nails. I once tried on long fake nails, and it was a miserable experience; I had to manipulate small objects with the nails rather than my finger pads, and I found myself prone to "levering" the nails painfully off my nailbeds. (Then I tore and nearly removed my real fingernails when I tried to take the damn things off. I was dripping blood from a couple of fingers. SEXY GLAMOROUS BEAUTY.)
The really weird thing about long nails, too, is that men don't seem to care. Men often mention noticing a woman's body and clothing, often her makeup and perfume. I've never heard a guy comment on a woman's nails. The phrase "she was a slim 34DDD with silky blonde hair and nails so long she couldn't do her damn zipper" does not appear in Literotica stories. But somehow the nails still seem to be considered "sexy," sometimes even "slutty," and porn stars and sex-symbol models and actresses have ridiculous manicures.
What's "sexy" never seems to have much to do with what's good for sex, but in the case of nails the problem is particularly obvious. I got fingered once by a chick with long fingernails. OW.
At least the nails aren't mandatory. Short nails, like flats, are one of those beauty areas where you can generally get away with being comfortable and still look traditionally feminine. As long as they're clean, very few women and very few men are ever going to go "oh my god, your nails are so short, ewww!"
But this just makes it even more baffling that some women do go to the trouble of doing the nail thing. I don't understand it at all.
I understand the appeal of clean and smooth fingernails, of course, and painting nails isn't too shocking. That's just another form of makeup, or a very mild body decoration.
No, what I don't get is the long nails. For my job, my sex life, typing, and frankly my life in general, I find it much more comfortable to have very short nails. I once tried on long fake nails, and it was a miserable experience; I had to manipulate small objects with the nails rather than my finger pads, and I found myself prone to "levering" the nails painfully off my nailbeds. (Then I tore and nearly removed my real fingernails when I tried to take the damn things off. I was dripping blood from a couple of fingers. SEXY GLAMOROUS BEAUTY.)
The really weird thing about long nails, too, is that men don't seem to care. Men often mention noticing a woman's body and clothing, often her makeup and perfume. I've never heard a guy comment on a woman's nails. The phrase "she was a slim 34DDD with silky blonde hair and nails so long she couldn't do her damn zipper" does not appear in Literotica stories. But somehow the nails still seem to be considered "sexy," sometimes even "slutty," and porn stars and sex-symbol models and actresses have ridiculous manicures.
What's "sexy" never seems to have much to do with what's good for sex, but in the case of nails the problem is particularly obvious. I got fingered once by a chick with long fingernails. OW.
At least the nails aren't mandatory. Short nails, like flats, are one of those beauty areas where you can generally get away with being comfortable and still look traditionally feminine. As long as they're clean, very few women and very few men are ever going to go "oh my god, your nails are so short, ewww!"
But this just makes it even more baffling that some women do go to the trouble of doing the nail thing. I don't understand it at all.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Leagues.
The concept of "out of your league" in dating is one of those areas where my ideals sometimes get muddled up with my real-life experience. On the one hand, it's absolutely not true that if you're physically different or just not conventionally beautiful you need to stick with your own ugly kind. All kinds of different people can and do come together. On the other hand, people who are very different-looking but insist on a swimsuit-model partner are being, if not hypocritical, at least unrealistic.
It's a sticky situation to talk about, since of course people are attracted to traits they don't have themselves. Lots of pretty people have ugly (er, frequently-socially-considered-ugly) partners, and then again lots of pretty and ugly people aren't attracted to ugly people and I'm not about to tell them that it's their civic duty to get attracted. But at the same time, our partner preferences aren't determined entirely by random dice-roll. When an ugly person is unhappily single because they will only consider gorgeous people as partners--well, they shouldn't date someone they don't schwing for, and it's certainly not impossible... but. But. You know? But. Sticky.
God, I wish I was an asshole blogger. I wouldn't be tying myself in knows with this shit about "it's not my place to tell anyone what to do" and "everyone's preferences are different" and "we shouldn't assume younger and thinner is prettier" and all these other things--that I do actually believe--that make it so damn hard to be blunt.
If I were an asshole blogger I could just come out and tell people that you've got no goddamn business saying "I'm fat and 50 and I'm only attracted to thin 20-year-olds," and no, that's not insensitivity to fat 50-year-olds, that's just the slightest connection to Planet Fucking Earth. And you're insensitive to fat 50-year-olds if you won't date one, jerk! And then I'd stick my tongue out. And fart.
Man, the other day I read a blog post saying you shouldn't use "stupid" as an insult because that's insensitive to mentally disabled people and to people who've had fewer educational opportunities. And the horrifying part was that I found myself going along with it for a bit, nodding in agreement because of course I don't want to hurt innocent people with my words--and then I realized how... how stupid it is to be so goddamn sensitive you can't say anything more opinionated than "I like bunnies." Now, I won't use "retarded" as an insult. I'm not committing myself to insensitivity as a lifestyle. But I can't walk on eggshells around everything that isn't bunnies.
It's a sticky situation to talk about, since of course people are attracted to traits they don't have themselves. Lots of pretty people have ugly (er, frequently-socially-considered-ugly) partners, and then again lots of pretty and ugly people aren't attracted to ugly people and I'm not about to tell them that it's their civic duty to get attracted. But at the same time, our partner preferences aren't determined entirely by random dice-roll. When an ugly person is unhappily single because they will only consider gorgeous people as partners--well, they shouldn't date someone they don't schwing for, and it's certainly not impossible... but. But. You know? But. Sticky.
God, I wish I was an asshole blogger. I wouldn't be tying myself in knows with this shit about "it's not my place to tell anyone what to do" and "everyone's preferences are different" and "we shouldn't assume younger and thinner is prettier" and all these other things--that I do actually believe--that make it so damn hard to be blunt.
If I were an asshole blogger I could just come out and tell people that you've got no goddamn business saying "I'm fat and 50 and I'm only attracted to thin 20-year-olds," and no, that's not insensitivity to fat 50-year-olds, that's just the slightest connection to Planet Fucking Earth. And you're insensitive to fat 50-year-olds if you won't date one, jerk! And then I'd stick my tongue out. And fart.
Man, the other day I read a blog post saying you shouldn't use "stupid" as an insult because that's insensitive to mentally disabled people and to people who've had fewer educational opportunities. And the horrifying part was that I found myself going along with it for a bit, nodding in agreement because of course I don't want to hurt innocent people with my words--and then I realized how... how stupid it is to be so goddamn sensitive you can't say anything more opinionated than "I like bunnies." Now, I won't use "retarded" as an insult. I'm not committing myself to insensitivity as a lifestyle. But I can't walk on eggshells around everything that isn't bunnies.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Epilator.
On the advice of a reader, I got an epilator. The good part is that it makes me totally, amazingly smooth without stubble, in a way shaving never did. The bad part is that it hurts like a red-hot cheese grater dipped in acid. I can only stand to use it for a minute or two before taking a Pain Break. This is worse than some minor surgeries. This is worse than the dentist.
But if it's easier in the future (I've never even waxed, so I'm attacking totally virgin follicles here), and it makes me super-smooth all the time, that's worth it. I really love the feeling of smooth. Even if I'm not totally keen on the feeling of AUGH IT BURNS.
But if it's easier in the future (I've never even waxed, so I'm attacking totally virgin follicles here), and it makes me super-smooth all the time, that's worth it. I really love the feeling of smooth. Even if I'm not totally keen on the feeling of AUGH IT BURNS.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Hairy.
Since I left the US, I haven't shaved anything. I didn't bother bringing razors, and I didn't bother getting them here. I'm not getting laid anyway, and while I usually shave just for comfort, I figured I'd try a brief experiment.
(I would post photos, but my camera died! The actual image sensor is busted, there's no saving it. Woe.)
The funny thing is that all I've learned is that I'm not hairy at all. My body hair gets long pretty fast, but it's just not dense; my hairy crotch looks less like fur and more like... well, a shaved crotch, if you're more than a couple feet away. The fur is pale and sparse. And you'd only know my legs and armpits were unshaved if you actually felt them; I can't even see the hair.
So if shaving makes me look prepubescent, well, shit, I was never going to hit puberty.
Then again, if shaving makes me feminine, I guess I'm already pretty feminine naturally. It's one of those feedback-effect things where most women are naturally less hairy than most men, so the beauty standard becomes that women should have no hair at all, lest they be even slightly masculine and thereby hideous.
But I'm still going to shave when I get home, because what shaving really does is make me soft. It makes it possible to glide a hand up the whole length of my leg without a hitch, to stroke my pussy and find it velvety and smooth. It means when I fuck a man who shaves, we can glide together, skin on skin. Shaving is ultimately not a vanity but a tactile luxury, a way for my skin to feel nicer and to feel more.
Also I itch pretty bad right now.
(I would post photos, but my camera died! The actual image sensor is busted, there's no saving it. Woe.)
The funny thing is that all I've learned is that I'm not hairy at all. My body hair gets long pretty fast, but it's just not dense; my hairy crotch looks less like fur and more like... well, a shaved crotch, if you're more than a couple feet away. The fur is pale and sparse. And you'd only know my legs and armpits were unshaved if you actually felt them; I can't even see the hair.
So if shaving makes me look prepubescent, well, shit, I was never going to hit puberty.
Then again, if shaving makes me feminine, I guess I'm already pretty feminine naturally. It's one of those feedback-effect things where most women are naturally less hairy than most men, so the beauty standard becomes that women should have no hair at all, lest they be even slightly masculine and thereby hideous.
But I'm still going to shave when I get home, because what shaving really does is make me soft. It makes it possible to glide a hand up the whole length of my leg without a hitch, to stroke my pussy and find it velvety and smooth. It means when I fuck a man who shaves, we can glide together, skin on skin. Shaving is ultimately not a vanity but a tactile luxury, a way for my skin to feel nicer and to feel more.
Also I itch pretty bad right now.
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