Tuesday, June 30, 2009


I've heard the following argument many times, many places:

"Men can impregnate many women at once, which means that they'll be naturally driven to increase their evolutionary fitness by fucking around!"

The problem with this argument is that fitness isn't measured in conceptions. It's measured in descendants. Spreading your genes as widely as possible doesn't institute them in your species unless the carriers of those genes live to adulthood and produce grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Maybe you can impregnate and dump five single mothers in the time it would take to get your wife pregnant once, but if a single mother is ten times more likely to miscarry or have a child die or have the kid grow up too unhealthy to reproduce prolifically--the real stud is the one who stands by his woman. (And the smart woman, having some choice of her own in the matter, doesn't make babies with a man who doesn't seem like he plans to stick around.)

Or not. Maybe the single mom is pretty damn self-sufficient and she's only a little more likely to screw up. That would make it worthwhile for men to spread their seed. How much benefit fathering provides varies by species, and in humans it varies tremendously by era and culture. I don't really know which side of the equation early humans were on. My point is only that it isn't a given that causing the most pregnancies necessarily implies the most fitness. Many times, as in seahorses or wolves or penguins, the dad who stays and works spreads his seed further than the dad who just throws sperm around.

Also, whether fathering matters or not, having the most children doesn't always lead to the most fitness; having twenty kids miserably fighting for scraps of food may get you fewer grandchildren than raising five fat and happy little critters. A pregnancy isn't the determiner of fitness and neither is a baby. A great-great-great-great grandchild is.

This is all really theoretical. I haven't done the research. Maybe in humans (and more importantly, historical humans) fatherhood value is low and optimum family size is high, in which case spreading the seed really is the right strategy. (I doubt it, though; enough human civilizations seem to have independently developed and stuck to systems of faithful pair bonds that I'm guessing that's what's natural for people.)

But you know what? We're not strategizers. We're not slaves to instinct. We're fucking people.

Maybe you could raise sixteen children well enough for them to reproduce, but very likely you'd rather raise two or three with the resources for them to be happy and educated as well as fit. And maybe you could ditch a pregnant woman and breed again, but likely you'd rather find a woman you can love and be happy with. It might be an accident of evolution, as misguided as a bee fucking an orchid, but our brains are too big and our emotions to complicated to run on instinct.

We're lowering our fitness and increasing our humanity.

You has a flavor.

"Does my pussy taste good?"
"Uh... um... well, I mean... I wouldn't put it on my hamburger."

I am suave.

But I do hate the "does it taste good?" question, whether asked of pussy or come. Because, really? Crotch tastes like crotch. It's nothing personal, doesn't mean you're not a clean or sexy person, but if I wanted strawberries with crème fraîche I wouldn't be looking for it in anyone's genitals. The natural flavor of clean healthy groin is nothing to be ashamed of, but c'mon, it doesn't taste good.

So what? I still love to go down. Saying a pussy doesn't taste like delicious food is like saying that your Himalayan expedition didn't have portable DVD players--who cares, that's not what you came for. If I can lick and nibble your most sensitive places and make you moan and squirm, do you think I care what it tastes like?


I'm not sure if I'll ever write a Big Threesome Sexy Post. It's hard to be sexy when my own feelings are more on the "hmm, conflicted emotions" side than the "ooh baby hot tight wet" side. I liked the guy more than I should've and knew the girl less than I should've and although physically it was a kick in the pants, the part of me that thinks too much still thinks it was... weird.

Anyway! Random personal revelation time!

I have masturbated literally as far back as I can remember. I'm not sure if I had orgasms before puberty; the realization that "suddenly it feels real good for a second and then I want to stop and at the same time there's a bunch more wet stuff" was an unnervingly gradual one. As was the realization that I was masturbating at all; for a long time I knew what masturbation was and I knew that I moved in certain ways that felt good and helped me sleep, but I simply didn't connect the two. Masturbation was all dirty and desperate and what I did was just a simple little pleasure. But I've always done "what I did." I have memories of drinking warm milk from a bottle and masturbating.

I'm honestly not sure if that's normal. Most people I've talked to say they started at a double-digit age, but little kids do seem to mess around plenty. Maybe it depends what your definition of "masturbate" is. At any rate, whether I'm a freak or I have billions of cohorts in this, I've been a horny little bastard my whole life.

I'm proud of that.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Guest Post: Bruno!

Bruno here. I’ve been horny and lonely recently, and this memory keeps forcing its way to the surface. Holly liked it, and I hope you will too.

G and I had met briefly once before, but kept intermittent communication during the intervening months. I thought she was hot, and was looking forward to seeing her again during a weekend camping trip. After a day spent in the same small group, we ended up sitting next to each other around a bonfire. For a while it was loud and stupid, but when the sky threatened rain and everyone else went off to bed, G invited me back to her cabin to have another drink.

I didn’t know what to expect, but was happy to follow along. We walked over, and while she was in the bathroom I retrieved a couple bottles from the fridge and set two folding chairs facing each other on the gravel outside.

She came out and we talked for a while through intermittent waves of drizzle, but eventually I decided to kiss her. She seemed surprised but not disappointed. “So you’re a kisser,” she said.

She told me that she’s a bad girl, that I should avoid girls like her, that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I’m an adult, I said, and I can make my own decisions and take risks if I like.

G is fairly petite, and I’m fairly strong. When she sat back as if to deny me the chance to kiss her again, I plucked her from her chair and put her in my lap. We resumed kissing, and I used my new position to give her neck some attention,

The lights were on inside the cabin, and at least one person saw what we were up to. I decided not to care; the lights went out eventually, giving us what privacy we could have while outside in the dark.

Having received tacit approval for kissing her neck, I tried to kiss G’s breasts. “You’re not going to stop, are you?” she protested. I just grinned.

I wish I could remember more of what happened next, but I was drunk and it was hours past midnight. Somehow, G offered me a deal: If the drizzle became a real storm, we would make love in the rain. She held her arms over her head and closed her eyes as if lying back on a bed. “Because I’m a massive whore,” she said.

I should add that I didn’t really expect her to honor the offer. I thought we’d give up before the weather changed, there would be a discussion of whether the rain was sufficient, or she’d change her mind.

But the damp rustle in the leaves over us intensified until we had water running through our hair. It was my turn to be surprised when G turned to straddle me and began clenching her thighs against my hips as if trying to coax my cock from my shorts.

I took her shirt and bra off to play with her breasts, and she took my shirt off. Before long she had her pants off, and then she unzipped my shorts.

I had to set her down on the folding chair in order to get my shoes and shorts off, and that was the position we stayed in for most of the time. I’m fairly girthy and she’s small, so getting inside her was a bit of a challenge, but eventually I succeeded. G threw her head back and grunted appreciatively.

My last lay had come months earlier; it shouldn’t have been a surprise that I didn’t last long, but I was disappointed. I came on her stomach, then immediately went between her legs, nibbling her clit and massaging her g spot with two fingers. She writhed and sighed, and when she slowed down I stopped.

We stood on the gravel with rain pouring over us and kissed. I got aroused again almost immediately, which she encouraged by pumping my cock with her fist. Then she jumped into my arms and straddled me again. I picked her up and changed levels as we made out -- way off the ground to kiss her pussy, lower to get at her breasts, lowest to penetrate her again.

And then she was back in the folding chair. While I crouched over her and thrust, our damp skin slapping and her breasts wobbling, her areolas barely visible in the darkness, she dropped her head back until I couldn’t see her face and moaned more loudly.

After a few minutes, she pushed me away with her thighs and lay on the chair seat panting. I leaned over to kiss her while jacking myself off, but she encouraged me to relax and not force it. I wasn’t doing anything I was uncomfortable with, but I didn’t know how close I was to coming again, either.

We got dressed as best we could. G’s pants were too wet for her to get them on again, so she was only in her underwear when we went inside. The half-asleep guy on the couch may have noticed, but didn’t say much.

G found a dry pair of pants, and we cuddled on a more private couch for a while. She told me I was adorable and amazing, how much she’d missed sex; she wanted to visit me and show me some tricks. Eventually we went back to our separate beds.

In the morning we hugged goodbye. Since that, we’ve had almost no contact.

I’m disappointed, of course, but part of me can acknowledge that it would be futile to attempt to replicate that rainy night’s emotions. Locking them in time keeps them unique.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Sex Versus Death.

I don't know why people talk about infinity as terrifying and unfathomable. It's finity that blows my mind. The idea of something happening for the last time. Ever. I can't wrap my head around that. One day I'll go out in the rain and it'll be the last rain I feel. I'll watch a movie and it'll turn out that it was my last movie ever. The simplest sensations of being alive, the experience of seeing a color or hearing a sound, are things I won't have forever.

And that's why I love to fuck.

Because when I get fucked, and it's good, it's transcendent. When I'm with someone I like and everything's right and I come hard enough... if I can only be alive for so long, that's about as alive as I can be. It's the best thing my mind and body know. It's not just pleasurable, it is pleasure.

This is why anti-sex rhetoric, or the promotion of joyless sex, piss me off so much. Because sex isn't a minor thing; fucking up sex is fucking up joy. Fucking up life.

When Cosmo tells you a stupid sex tip that will ruin your night, when an ad makes you feel too ugly to fuck, when a teacher tells you premarital sex makes you a bad person, it's taking away something you'll never get back. It's a small thing, it's just one bad night out of maybe ten thousand potential sex nights, but ten thousand isn't that much when you consider it's all you'll ever get. There's no ten thousand and one. I want to make it count.

Around the fourth or fifth orgasm, sometimes I get stupid. My head gets fuzzy and my muscles get spazzy. I'm just that happy. I'm just that lucky. Some people die without ever being that happy.

I don't mean to say sex is the only way to get happy, or even the best way, and I don't mean to say that it's always best to have the most sex. Obviously.

What I mean to say is that when you only get so many minutes of life, joy matters. Joy, in one form or another, spiritual or intellectual or altruistic or received directly through the genital nerves, is the only thing that matters. Good sex brings a hell of a lot of joy. And that, ultimately, is why sex matters.

Fucking is a fine thing and worth fighting for.

Not Worth It.

(I should be blogging about that threesome. It was all sexy and shit. But I'm tired and sore and grouchy and would not do it justice. Sexiness later. Moping now.)

I think I've finally decided that CC is just not worth it. He's cute as fuck, he's exactly my physical and personality type and he makes me laugh my ass off all day, but... he's also kind of crazy. In ways that, while not friendship-killing, could make dating miserable.

He's over-sensitive and unpredictable. CC's psyche contains a myriad of Secret Sulk Buttons which are fucking invisible until you hit them, and when you do you're in for at least an hour of stony, averted-eyed "Hhmph. I'm fine. It's nothing. Hhmph." I'm an insensitive clod myself and have a bad habit of poking at known boundaries, even thick-skinned guys end up having to tell me "hey, that's really not an okay thing to joke about" a few times, but even if I weren't a jerk I don't think I could navigate CC's vast constellation of invisible shifting boundaries. And even if he weren't sensitive about random petty things, I don't want to date someone who goes into sulks instead of saying what the fuck's going on in his head.

Also, his reactions to me have crossed the line from "flirty" to "mixed messages," and then crossed a second, much thicker line into "batshit." It's okay to be huggy-jokey sometimes and want to keep it professional other times; it's not okay to decide these times at fucking random and freak the hell out when I guess wrong.

Don't get me wrong, the day we get unpartnered I'm still going to try to fuck him. I just don't think I have any interest in ever dating him.

Thank God, right? Wanting what you can't have is very romantic and titillating and all, but it's pretty dumb compared to plain old having.

...Although I do still need to work on that part.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

"Don't worry baby, it's less-lethal!"

Tommy stungunned me!

It actually wasn't the worst. On the ol' 0-10 pain scale, maybe a 5? Worse than a handslap, but not as bad as something that, y'know, hurts. I give the sound and sight perfect 10s for horribleness though. Hearing that *CRACKSNAP* and seeing GODDAMN LIGHTNING is way worse than the actual shock.

I wish I could say "yep, I just manned up and did it," but the truth is that right after declaring I wanted to do it, I came down with a pretty bad case of the cowards and had to be kinda coaxed into it. Fortunately Tommy is inhumanely patient and trustworthy in these matters and if you want the perfect man to hold your hand and run 300,000 volts through your ass, you couldn't do much better. (Why you would want this is a question I have never satisfactorily answered, but at this point I'm fairly comfortable with just accepting that I do.)

I'm really glad I did it. Even though the act itself was kind of pointless, the fact that I went back and faced something I feared, something I had regretted not doing, means a lot to me. I faced something I was terrified of and found that it's--not painless--but not an unfathomable pain. That's an important thing to learn symbolically and something I'm still working on. It's the difference between "if I fail, it's the worst thing ever" and "if I fail, it's bad, but the consequences are finite and I'll still be alive at the end."

Sometimes submitting can teach you how not to be life's bitch.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Posting in bed with Tommy and his girlfriend.

And all I can think to do (I mean, other than both of them) is play the Candyman game.

Eurosabra, Eurosabra, Eurosabra!

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Self control.

Sharing room with grandma tonight. Don't masturbate.


No, she is not "really asleep so it's okay." Don't masturbate.


Going into bathroom.

EDIT: Got up. Grandma was in bathroom. !!!

Saturday, June 20, 2009


The creepy part about staying in a hotel is the absolute certainty that someone has, at some point, engaged in some extremely body-fluid intensive perversions in this bed.

Of course, I have every intention of Paying It Forward, but still.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Sex toys in the backpack.

TSA guy: "Hey Bob, get a load of this!"

Bob and TSA guy: *hurr*

Me: Entertaining, ain't it, fellas?

In retrospect I should have burst out in tears. I don't really care, but it would have put them in a more entertaining position.


Tomorrow morning through Monday night, I'm flying out to Boston! Whee! This is partly a family thing and partly a Tommy thing--I'm not entirely sure what, if anything, will happen but I'm a little nervous either way and looking forward to it either way.

I'll almost certainly post from the road at some point, but my WiFi gadget has a really teensy keyboard so it's hard to get into in-depth analysis of anything, my thumbs cramp up. Wordiness will resume Tuesday.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Jersey Swap.

Sexy men in mainstream advertising always make me happy. I think I'm going to make it a category.

Somehow this feels wrong... (Sort of work-safe; PG but features manflesh and seedy porn music.)

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

My Birth Control Utopia.

In my benevolent-dictator utopia, a totally safe, dosage-unimportant, man and child safe, otherwise perfect birth control is in the water supply and fortified into basic foods. To be fertile, you have to take the antidote for a month or two.

The antidote is widely available over-the-counter for about a dollar per hundred pills. No questions asked, no licensing, no counseling, no credit check, no home visit, it's easier to get than Tylenol. But to get pregnant you have to actively, deliberately take the antidote and you have to stick to it for a little while.

I think this would improve the world tremendously.


Very often if I'm sitting around naked (which is basically any time I'm alone in my room) I'll touch myself. Not full-on masturbation, not trying for an orgasm, just kind of hanging onto my important parts, reminding myself that it's all there. Or even less than that, just twiddling my labia the way I'd twiddle a paperclip, something to keep my hands busy. It's not sexy, it's just comfortable.

And very often lately I'll do the same thing with my dildo. I'll have it in my lap or even strapped on and just idly... dick around with it. Stroke it, rub my thumb around the head, bend it around gently. I'm more tweaking it than jerking it off, but it's the very same feeling, of being glad to have it there.

It's funny, I'm utterly used to writing about hyper-personal "what did Holly put up her butt this week?" topics, but that last paragraph got me all embarrassed, because I'm really not sure if that's a normal thing to be doing. I'm not a dude, I don't want to have a dick per se, but having one now and then to mess around with feels good.

So yeah.... sometimes I strap on and jerk off.

(Yes, I can feel it, and not just through the magic simpatico I have with my dildo--having the big firm base strapped right over my clit means that jerking-off motions actually send a lot of nice diffuse pressure through my whole pubic area. I can't quite get off with it but the pleasure is quite real.)

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Oh Boi.

I'm not generally all that attracted to women. I mean, I know a sexy woman when I see one, and I certainly wouldn't mind having sex with a woman, but I don't really go for women as strongly as men, I'm a lot pickier and don't have quite the visceral reaction and the obsessions that I get with men.

(Complete digression: have you noticed how sometimes "sexy woman" really means "sexy packaging?" I was watching a movie with generic sexy-girls-as-backdrop, and I really looked at them, and no insult, but they were ordinary women. They were young and thin of course, but otherwise basically like anyone you'd see on the street. They were just ordinary women with ridiculous makeup and ridiculously skimpy little dresses, which work so well as visual shorthand for "sexy" that their actual faces and bodies barely read.)

The exception is butch lesbians and drag kings. Oh. My. God. A handsome woman with a boyish haircut and well-fit men's clothes can make me into a stammering, melting wreck in a way that not that many men can do. (Sometimes it's so bad that I worry that it comes off as homophobia. I need a card to hand out that says "Don't worry, I'm only being awkward because you're so hot.")

(Second digression: man, it's freakin' impossible to find flattering photos of manly women online. Am I the only person on earth with this attraction? There aren't any straight guys out there with a fetish for them? Millions of pictures of women popping balloons or stepping on gas pedals or whatever the fuck, and no one on Earth but me likes a lady in flannel?)

This probably makes me fundamentally straight. I'm just attracted to masculinity regardless of the gender underneath, and in a way, deliberately-masculine women do it far better than most men who just coast on their chromosomes. Whether through ironic flamboyance or just thinking it through more than a biological male has to, masculine women often seem hyper-masculine. In the best way.

And this may also have something to do with what I talked about in this post: what we call masculine often has less to do with being male than with being awesome. I like women who are awesome. Can you blame me?

Man, there's not much of a slot in the gender spectrum for being butch, female, and straight. Maybe in San Francisco? If it were a viable, non-social-life-killing option I'd take it. I used to be a lot manlier, used to have super-short hair and dress like a dude, and it just didn't work out. I loved how it felt, but people's reactions sucked: strangers would be jerks about it and guys told me they really weren't attracted. Now that I've got long lovely red hair and wear skirts and push-up bras and shit, life is better. I still love my flannel and my steel-toe boots and my power tools, but I don't have the patience or drive (or the she'd-be-hot-in-anything bone structure) to swim against the current on this. Part of attracting boys is wearing the "I'm attracted to boys" uniform, and, well, I know it's weak but I'd rather have the boys than be a Gender Revolutionary.

Monday, June 15, 2009


I'm not sure which is sexier: when a man receiving pleasure looks utterly enraptured into wild, unselfconscious grimaces, or when he looks utterly impassive. The former makes me think of my power; the latter, his. It makes the difference between feeling as if I'm controlling a man through his cock and feeling as if I'm simply servicing him. Very different thoughts and both wonderful.

Thursday, June 11, 2009


The hypnosis fetish is one of those weird little things I feel pretty neutral about, like a hair fetish or a wool fetish: not my thing, but hey, nothing wrong with it.

Lately I've been listening to hypnosis mp3s--not fetish hypnosis, just general guided relaxation that helps a little with reducing stress and getting to sleep. And it's the damndest thing, they make me horny. There's no sexual content, but somewhere between "you feel your muscles getting very loose" and "focus on your breathing, in and out," I just get suddenly ravenous for cock. (This also increases my impression that the mp3s work, because when I unpause and finish the recording again a few minutes later, boy am I more relaxed!)

It's possible that I have a secret hypnosis fetish that was in me all along, but this seems unlikely. I certainly do have a fetish for unnervingly calm, deep-voiced men telling me exactly what to do. More importantly, though, I think I walk around with a lot more stress than I realize and it affects my sex drive more than I realize. Simply going through the actions of methodically relaxing, of putting away the blood and sirens (okay, the barf and yelling) of the day and focusing on me and now wakes up my potential enormously.

So this quirk with the hypnosis mp3s lead me to to an important platitude for my "real", partnered sex life: relaxation matters. It's the difference between "well, my body's doing its thing, but what am I really doing here?" and "OH HOT DIGGITY YES." And sometimes the stress I'm under is invisible to me until it goes away. I can come when my mind's elsewhere, my vagina's reliable like that, but it's so much better if I can really be there when I come.

I don't really want to have sex with hypnosis, but I could definitely use some "not trying to go directly from work to sex and rush everything like crazy"pnosis.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Cover that body part, it's shameful!

I don't think there's much difference between our culture telling women to cover their breasts and other cultures telling them to cover their hair.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Old people sex, ewwww!

One of the things that scares me about getting old is the idea that a lot of old people lose their sexuality. Not sixty and seventy year olds, I know all about the shenanigans that go on in retirement homes, but eighty and ninety year olds. When you go from retirement home to nursing home.

There's not much sex in nursing homes. (Quick clarification: in this whole post "sex" means sexual intimacy in general, not necessarily intercourse.) For safety's sake, every door has to be open all the time. Most roommates are same-sex strangers; once in a blue moon a married couple is able to room together, but only an opposite-sex legally married couple and only rarely. I don't think many nurses or aides would be comfortable helping with sex in any way--say, helping two people into the same bed (they're all single beds of course) would almost certainly be refused as some sort of safety hazard.

I don't know what the ethics of dementia and sex are. Obviously having sex with someone who's a little forgetful is fine, and having sex with someone who can't understand what's happening is wrong, but where do you draw the line? Is there a single day when you realize it's no longer okay, or the day before they have to move out to a facility, and on that night... do you have the last sex of your life with your spouse? What is it like to knowingly have the last sex of your life?

The whole hospital setting, whether you're old or not, seems horrifyingly anti-sex, or rather just not considering sex as a concern; with nurses making rounds at night and privacy consisting of a curtain if you're lucky, I don't know how people who are in the hospital for courses of months even masturbate.

Healthcare institutions make at least some effort to provide physical and psychological comforts; they have massage and music therapists and therapy dogs and recreational therapy. Maybe by the time I'm old the "vibrator, porn, partner if you've got one, and a promise of 30 minutes of real privacy" therapy adjunct will exist. God I hope so.

The real problem here is I don't want to lose anything and I don't want to die. Not wanting sex to die is just another part of that.


(This is a lot more utopian than I usually swing, and I'm not entirely sure I agree with myself here or how implementation wouldn't be disastrous, but I thought the idea was interesting enough to share. Also, I'm not a Nazi or anything, I hope that at least is clear.)

We need white pride. We need male pride. We need straight pride.

Because the only way racism is going to go away is if white is just another race, with white culture and white events no more or less special than any other kind. When we have black and Latino culture but white things are just culture, we make white the default in a very unfortunate way. We should have White Entertainment Television, showing white-made programming aimed at white people, with news and politics of interest to whites, and ads for products popular among whites. Instead of just calling it "the major networks."

Likewise with other forms of discrimination and identity politics; while eliminating all divisions would be nice, given people's propensity to divide themselves and their (often perfectly reasonable) desire to stay true to their roots, another solution is to make the dominant group an identity too.

"Equal rights for women," by that standard, misses the point; it's too close to saying "women should be equal to people." Having a women's movement means that men are considered the default gender and being as good as men means you've got it made. How about equal rights for men and women? The distinction might be subtle in practice--it's not like we're going to have to raise men's wages to match women's very often--but important in philosophy. A man's right to wear a dress is just as important as a woman's right to wear pants; and a man's right to be respected in his relationships and safe from abuse can't be taken for granted. Because the only way for feminism to succeed is for women's issues to become people's issues, and the only way to do that is to treat men as a gender too.

And only when straight is just another spot on the continuum can we really have equality for gay people. When finding out that your son likes girls is an event worth noting. And when that son gets older, he can meet girls at straight bars. (Of course he can go to regular bars too, but he'll have to make some effort to look for girls who are acting stereotypically straight or who are giving him straight vibes, and there's always the chance he'll be wrong.)

Saying "but whites/men/straights already have so much privilege" is missing the point; I don't want us to have the dominant culture and White Day too, I want White Day to be a path to letting the dominant culture be truly mixed. I think there's a certain emptiness to being a generic white American these days, a feeling of not belonging to any groups, and it's that feeling that leads majority members to define "everyone, except when specified otherwise" as their group. Which frequently ends up sucking for the specified otherwise.

I really don't want to Balkanize the world further, I obviously don't think white/male/straight people should be separatists, but neither do I think they should be assumed as mainstream. I don't think their identity should go unspoken. Too often it seems like someone's race is either defined as either Black/Latino/Asian/etc. or raceless. So I'm in favor of white racial identity, because to respect other races we don't need to be apologetic, "politically correct," guilty-by-genetics; we need to be a race ourselves.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Ooh baby.

Today at the supermarket there was a woman ahead of me in line with a baby girl who looked about nine months or a year old. The kid was cute as a bunny, but something about her face seemed very strange. Her eyes and lips seemed too big and well-defined, her skin oddly colored. It took me a moment to realize what was going on.

The baby was wearing makeup.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

The Porn Myth.

Bruno sent me this article by Naomi Wolf on how porn may be changing sexuality. This is one of the rare cases where I can't go "fuck yeah sister" or "haha what a nut"; the article touches on real concerns before veering off into things I can't agree with.

Where Wolf touches a nerve is with the idea that porn (and sexy-ladies-as-decoration culture in general) is making humans look dumpy in comparison. I see pictures like this and this and think fuck, I'm a human being with muscles and fat and texture to my skin and hairs on my body, and even when I'm trying to be sexy I don't dress or pose like that--if you look at Gisele and then me I'm a complete troll. (This isn't just simple jealousy, because if you look at Gisele and then Gisele in the real world with no Photoshop and normal clothes, real Gisele might be no one's troll but she still pales in comparison.) Hyper-sexy images are the high-fructose corn syrup and monosodium glutamate of sex, and real food is bland beside them.

So I've got to admit I'm pretty enthused by the idea that in recent history
it was still pretty cool to be able to offer a young man the actual presence of a naked, willing young woman... If there was nothing actively alarming about you, you could get a pretty enthusiastic response by just showing up.
Of course men still do have fun with normal women all the time, but you do get a sense, sometimes, that they're settling. That they're thinking "eh, spotty and chunky, but she'll do." Whether that sense is a creation of modern synth-porn, or an age-old insecurity since the tribe had two women and you were the scruffy one, I'm too young to say.

What Wolf is pushing is low standards for female sexiness, and that's an appealing idea, because unmeetable standards leave real-world women and men unhappy. I don't know how it could be achieved, though. You can't tell pornographers and advertisers to stop using women who look too good because they're making it hard for the rest of us. Making women look good is their business, and in the last couple decades they've gotten good at it. Maybe the only hope for civilization is that the trend continues until the ideal Photoshopped woman is an inch thick with three-foot breasts and normal women are so obviously different that they're no longer compared. It's like when dog breeds split into show lines and working lines.

But then Wolf goes too far. In trying to say that vaginal missionary should still be a big deal, she makes it sound like women who do other things are always giving in rather than exploring for themselves.
Now you have to offer—or flirtatiously suggest—the lesbian scene, the ejaculate-in-the-face scene.
You have to consider the possibility that I like threesomes and come on my face, not that I'm reluctantly "offering" them because all I really want is mish and everything else is a compromise.

And then the weird part.
I will never forget a visit I made to Ilana, an old friend who had become an Orthodox Jew in Jerusalem. When I saw her again, she had abandoned her jeans and T-shirts for long skirts and a head scarf. I could not get over it. Ilana has waist-length, wild and curly golden-blonde hair. “Can’t I even see your hair?” I asked, trying to find my old friend in there. “No,” she demurred quietly. “Only my husband,” she said with a calm sexual confidence, “ever gets to see my hair.” ...And I thought: Our husbands see naked women all day—in Times Square if not on the Net. Her husband never even sees another woman’s hair.

She must feel, I thought, so hot.

Or so constrained. I have--or mostly had--Orthodox friends too, and the way they hide women away isn't sexy. I went to a Hasidic friend's Bar Mitzvah once and all the women in the congregation had to sit behind a screen, looking politely at a goddamn white sheet as the sounds of the service sort of drifted through. Being sexier in private (if that's even true) isn't worth that shit. It's humiliating. And when I'm asked to cover my hair, I don't think it's because my sexuality is special, it's because my sexuality needs hiding. My very identity--which is being treated as synonymous with my sexuality--needs hiding.


Gisele and her cohorts and their Photoshoppers may be unfair competition, but ultimately I can't ask them to hide their light under a bushel. I'm sure as fuck not hiding mine.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Cosmocking: July '09!

Pink cover! Lauren Conrad! The weird super-high-with-super-low-cutout shape of her neckline makes it looks like her boobs are down around her belly button! Which they clearly aren't, it's just a terrible neckline!

Hey, there's an article about how you can "have more than one soul mate." Oh wait, they don't mean at the same time. They just mean we shouldn't think that there's only one man in the world we could ever love. Uh, thanks, Cosmo. Next month, the shocking truth about the moon and green cheese?

We don't want you to beat yourself up--unless you're doing it for our benefit. "I was with a girl who had an epic freak-out--like relationship-ending stuff," says Jesse, 25. "But a few days later, she sent me an email, and instead of trying to explain away her behavior, she said she had thought about things from my perspective and was tortured about how she'd acted." Mustering up a few tears in the process also works wonders... but you didn't hear that from us.
Cosmopolitan magazine will teach you how to exhibit classic syndromes of borderline personality disorder including a manipulative abuse-apology cycle, all with a cutesy "it must be harmless, I'm just a silly girl" tee-hee... but you didn't hear that from me.

Apologizing is important, no question that "I fucked up, sorry" is better than "let me explain why I was right all along," but dramatized self-flagellation is just creepy.

["things guys wish you knew"] A lot of us are insecure about our bodies. Women look like beautiful, soft, gorgeous angels when they're naked. We look like hairy ogres or little scrawny trolls.
It's so nice that you're a heterosexual male! But I, personally, am not! Therefore, I am cursed with the illusion that certain ogre-trolls are attractive! Am I crazy for this? I guess so!

Also, if you don't think you're hot, why do you think women are sleeping with you? Answers range from the merely desexualizing ("my sense of humor?") to the depressingly inevitable ("money?").

Q: What can I say midbooty that isn't too tame or too raunchy?
A: "You make me so wet."

Well, god forbid I say something too raunchy, I'm only having sex here.

Q: What should I do after I tie him up?
A: Like your way from his neck to his ankles and then back again.

Ew? Licking is funtimes, yeah, but doing a methodical tongue bath seems like kind of an awkward, soggy waste of a tied man.

Q: What does a penis ring do, and will my boyfriend like one?
A: It constricts bloodflow and keeps him hard longer. It can be hard to remove, so steer clear.

Cock, Cosmo. COCK. It's a COCK RING.

But that doesn't matter, because all you need to know about pee-pee naughty-place rings is that they're way too risky for a little dear like you, don't you bother giving them a thought now. They don't make kinds with removable snaps or anything.

Q: How can I tell if I smell okay down there?
A: Touch yourself and smell your finger.

This is absolutely correct of course, it's just a hilarious mental image. And that someone had to ask.

Q: How can I get him to spank me?
A: Spank yourself and he'll follow suit.

You know, if you're incapable of human speech, you really ought to give some thought to learning sign language or at least keeping a notepad handy.

Q: Does it feel different getting it on with an uncircumcised guy?
A: No.

Um... yeah it does. At least sometimes. The foreskin slides back and forth inside you, you can feel it. This one isn't ideologically offensive or anything, but it's wrong, and I wonder why they bothered putting it in the article then.

Q: What does being inside me feel like for him?
A: Stick your finger in your mouth and suck and you'll get an idea.

In my mouth?

Your makeup may be off and your hair may be a bit messy, but taking one last second to primp can make you feel great. Keep a bottle of your favorite perfume on the nightstand, and spritz your body once before you crawl under the covers.
Why, is there someone I'm trying to impress hiding under there? Maybe it's just some fundamental difference in wiring, but having all the beauty shit off doesn't make me feel bad, it makes me feel free. I don't wear my work uniform to the beach, and I don't wear my date uniform to bed.

There's more, but Christ, it's like 500 degrees in here and I can't think. I'm taking a cold shower and going to bed. Maybe I'll write a Part II if my keyboard doesn't melt.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Embracing saddlebacking.

I don't know why the idea of kids having oral or anal sex to be "abstinent" and stay "virgins" is quite such a subject of derision. I mean, shit, they're having fun and they aren't getting pregnant. Works for me.

Although for safety's sake, we really need to add in to the abstinence-only classes that sometimes it's very important to use condoms and lube while you're being abstinent.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

CC Obsession Watch.

A fun thing to drop into casual conversation: "yeah, so apparently getting your cervix bumped is pretty unpleasant for women."

I believe CC's goal in life is to see me explode.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

When the good guys cross the line.

So there's a group in Washington State called WhoSigned.org that states it will publish the names, zip codes, and possibly addresses of everyone who signed petitions in favor of Referendum 71, an anti-gay-marriage initiative currently gathering signatures. Now I'm as pro-gay-marriage as I can be without actually marrying a girl, but this is creepy bullshit.

Petition signatures are public record in this state, and people should stand behind their beliefs. But publishing the names of people who didn't expect that when they signed is a screwjob, and threatening to publish names when the referendum doesn't yet have its quota is flat-out intimidation. It's also eerily reminiscent of what only the creepiest opponents of abortion do. Saying "we don't have to be nice because this cause is just so clear-cut and important" is scary no matter what the cause is.

I think what bothers me most is how little this has to do with gay rights. This tactic would work with any controversial and emotional issue. It's low, it's mean, and it doesn't make anyone look good.

This is a whole lot less "Gays: they deserve to have normal families" and a lot more "Gays: if you piss them off, they'll tell everyone where your kids go to school." And if you look beyond the individual referendum to the future of gay rights in this state, or to actually changing people's minds, that's not a strategy with much persuasive power.

By the by... Whosigned.org is being run by Brian Murphy, who lives at **21 BROADWAY E and has a home phone number of 206-***-6738, and I put those *'s in because I'm not an asshole and I wouldn't want him to be harassed or anything.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Disgusting sex toy story.

So I'm at the sex store to pick up some basic needs, and they've got a clearance rack with really, really cheap stuff.

Hey! Ben wa balls for two bucks! I always heard those were bullshit. But I also read an old sex manual once with a description of having them in your vagina and just rolling your hips and coming to orgasm after languid, easy orgasm. That kinda... grabbed me. It's probably bullshit, but hey, two bucks.

Alright, got home, let's try these puppies out. Slip them in, and... yeah, the hands-free thing is utter bullshit, but if I rub my clit and the outside of my pussy with them in... ooh. Not bad. I can feel them turning and sliding inside me. Mmmm. Spank me harder, invisible imagination man. Oh, you've got such strong arms. Harder. Oh. Oh yeah. OOOOOHHHHH.

Gosh, that was nice.

Well, now to get them out. First one just pops out. Second one... oh shit.

Oh Jesus. It's way in there. Every time I squeeze it goes higher not lower. I can't get a finger behind it.

Oh Jesus. All the emergency rooms in 50 miles know me. I'll have to drive to Yakima.

Alright, look around. Is there anything I can use? Forceps? Speculum? Dammit, if only I were more of a pervert, I'd have the tools I need right now. Maybe I can poke at it with a pen or a ruler or something... no, I'm going to hurt myself. Bad idea.

Okay Holly. Just focus. You can do this. Like giving birth to a tiny, spherical, metal baby. Focus. Deep breath. Puush. You can do it.


I am never using those fucking things ever again.

Sex blogger completely forgets mission statement, posts vacation slideshow

Out of 6 planned ghost towns, 2 were impossible to find, 1 was located on private property, and the 3 I visited were not properly "ghost" but still occupied either in the form of really really shitty towns or deliberate historical showcases. If this area contains truly empty towns with naught but a tumbleweed rolling down Main Street, I didn't have the time or information to find them. I did get some maps and good advice at Cashmere, so I might be able to do better sometime in the future.

Snoqualmie Pass, with busload of British tourists
Roslyn, WA
The Rosyln cemetery dates back to 1887
Liberty, WA
Liberty arrastra - water-powered stone-crushing mill
Mysterious cairns in Liberty
Campsite over the Wenatchee River
Swim at your own risk
Leavenworth, WA - a fake-ass "Bavarian" tourist town in some very real-ass mountains
It's like Disneyland, only in the middle of nowhere! And German for some reason!
Cashmere, WA
Church in Cashmere
Modern apartments
Mommy, I want to see the 10 deadliest snakes!
Feedin' time
Tortoise :)
Be nice to the tortoise :(

Your regularly scheduled horniness will resume later tonight; I've got a disgusting sex-toy story, a sexy fucking-outdoors story, and a Cosmocking coming up.