Saturday, October 30, 2010

Sick sex.

Rowdy came over, and although I am by no means better, we fucked. It was kind of awkward, definitely not one for the record books; we didn't kiss on the mouth because we didn't want to swap spit, and in my crappy physical condition I didn't get wet, didn't move around much, and didn't last super long.

But I was grinning like a lunatic all the way through this lousy sex, because it was just such a relief to be sexual again. There's few things more desexualizing than being a sick person; not only are you physically incapable, but the medical establishment makes it very clear that you have to focus on Important Things right now, and sex isn't possibly one of those.

I had gone a full week without an orgasm. A week! That may be a personal record, at least since puberty. Last Saturday morning I fucked Rowdy, and that evening I started feeling sick, and by Monday I was in the hospital, and after getting out I was just too exhausted and demoralized to even knock off a quick one. I was actually relatively subdued in my reactions (as I go), but the first time Rowdy got me off today, it was like a fucking dam breaking.

No. It was like coming home. Back to the place where I'm desirable, desiring, fuckable, fucking. Back to where pleasure matters. Back to where bodies are wonderful beautiful things for joy and exploration. Back to being a person.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

The People You Meet When You Write About Rape.

TRIGGER WARNING for rape and rape apologism.

Mr. What About The Men
"The real problem here is all these false rape accusations that are destroying our society! 90 million men are falsely accused of rape every second! A woman just has to sort of mumble a word starting with 'r' and a man instantly gets a life sentence! There are no instances on record of a woman actually being raped!"

Ms. Tough Girl
"If women would learn martial arts--70-year-olds and women with disabilities can do this if they put their minds to it, darnit--and carry weapons everywhere, no one would ever get raped! All you have to do is be ready to threaten your own friends and lovers with lethal force at any moment, any anyone who can't do that must be weak or something."

Mr. Model Victims Only Please
"The victim was no angel herself. If you look at her record, she's been arrested several times, she's a single mother, and she's living on welfare. So it's not like she was some innocent little virgin beforehand. None of this makes it right, but I'm just saying, let's not overreact like a good woman got ruined."

Ms. Fashion Police
"Did you hear what she was wearing? I'm sorry but that's just not common sense. If you go out looking like a piece of meat, you have to expect you'll get treated like a piece of meat."

Mr. I'm Not Blaming Her But It's Her Fault
"Rape is never the victim's fault, of course. But I just want people to admit that she has some responsibility. That she maybe played a part in it. That in an alternate universe where she'd done things differently and she lived in a steel Battlemech wearing a chastity belt, she wouldn't have gotten raped, and she did make the choice to not use a Battlemech. I just need people to acknowledge that."

Ms. Couples Therapy
"I dunno, seems to me like they both made mistakes. Maybe he just wasn't reading her signals, or maybe she wasn't communicating clearly to him. A lot can get caught up in an emotional moment like that and I bet they both feel really bad right now."

Mr. Offensive And/Or Baffling Metaphor
"Look, if you walk down a dark alley with a wallet stuffed full of money, sure it's still a crime when you get mugged, but what if the mugger is just trying to feed his family because he was laid off by an evil solicitor and the ghost showed him a lone crutch leaning in the corner?"

"If you put the pieces together, her story just doesn't wash. She claims that he ripped her pants off, but her pants have a button fly. Ha! And she waited a whole forty minutes after the supposed rape to call the police--who would do that?"

Mr. Troll
"lol bitch deserved it loooollll"

Ms. You Don't Just Get To Decide Whether You Consent
"She was seen earlier in the night drinking with this guy, talking to him, and even making out with him! And then she went up to his apartment! What did she think would happen? No one ever goes to a guy's apartment unless they're consenting to every sex act he could possibly want."

Mr. How Do I Not Rape Someone It Is So Difficult
"I just don't understand how to tell if someone is 'consenting' or not. What if she secretly decides she doesn't like it--am I a rapist then? What if she changes her mind midway through? Or afterwards? It's impossible to know what women want, so how am I supposed to know if they want to have sex with me or not?"

Ms. Traditional Values
"You know, back when women dressed modestly and simply didn't go out drinking with strangers or going home with people they'd just met, this sort of thing didn't happen."

Mr. This Wouldn't Happen If Women Would Just Fuck Me Already
"This sort of thing is inevitable when women constantly act as gatekeepers and doom beta males to a life of frustration and loneliness. Of course rape is horrible, but the pent-up rage felt by men cast aside just because they weren't billionaire underwear models has to express itself somehow."

Ms. Avoid The R-Word
"Wow, that is just not cool. Having sex under those circumstances--I mean, treating a girl like that--you know, being inappropriate with her--is a totally insensitive and downright mean thing to do."

This time I know I didn't nearly cover them all, but I have no energy (I've literally had to take mid-post naps) so this is what you get. If you want more, please send a fresh, healthy human liver, A+ or compatible, to my mailing address by certified overnight carrier.

Slow recovery.

Lying down: "This is ridiculous! I feel totally normal! I'm strong as a horse! I should get up and run!"

Standing up: "Ooog... I should lie down."

The Two Most Fatuous Conversations I Had In The Hospital.

Doctor: "I see you have this rash here, it looks like an allergic reaction."
Me: "I've had that on and off since I got sick."
Doctor: "Do you have any pets at home?"
Me: "I have guinea pigs. But I've had them for years and this rash started exactly the same time my fever did."
Doctor: "Look, I can't force you to get rid of your pets, I'm just saying..."

Nurse: "Any questions before we discharge you?"
Me: "How can I avoid giving this to my boyfriend?" [slight simplification of truth]
Nurse: "Stay away from him!"
Me: "Well yeah, but..."
Nurse: *laughing* "ABSTINENCE, GIRL!"
Me: "Forever?"
Nurse: "...Um, no. For about two weeks or til you feel better."

(Same nurse: "You're not working or going to school right now, right?" What, do I have a particularly unemployed-looking face?)

So at least the nurse eventually gave me useful information. I cannot say the same of that doctor. He's the same one who wanted to keep me in the hospital an extra day just so they could do another blood test, and it took considerable debating and heel-digging-in to point out that I could just come in and get my blood drawn without needing to spend the other 23.75 hours in storage for their convenience.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010


I am home. I am still sick. But at least I get to be sick in peace and on my own terms.

More than anything--more even than that shower that I really need right now--I just want to sleep. In the hospital there were so many nighttime tests and botherings that my sleep was terrible and I think that impairs healing worse than anything.

I'll shower in the morning. Afternoon. Whenever I get up. It's my own fucking decision for once.

I'm so glad to be home.


I don't know if I'll go home today or not. I desperately want to. The first night here I needed the hospital, I needed my fever and fluids and pain controlled continuously. And I was so sick and medicated that I wasn't all that aware of things anyway.

The second night was a maybe. I was still having a bit of pain, and one spike of fever.

But now I'm awake. I'm walking. I'm hydrated. I haven't had narcotics in 14 hours and my pain is entirely manageable. And I still don't know if I'm going home.

All the hospital is doing for me at this moment is running a very slow IV drip when I'm taking plenty by mouth, and making me spend most of my time in a bed that wasn't comfortable two days ago. Obviously I don't want to go home and get sicker, but I hate it here. I can't bend my right arm because of the IV and I have to drag the stupid pole everywhere and I can't wear normal-person clothes and they make me save all my piss and they keep doing painful things to me without even warning me and I can't fix my hair.

At least I have wonderful friends and lovers. Jack and Sprite and Rowdy came up last night and it made all the difference in the world. I was pretty strung out but I got to feel like a human being--emotions and sense of humor and outside life and all--for a couple hours. People dance the Macarena, they fold origami dinosaurs, they draw silly cartoons, they make filthy jokes, they bend the rules and they poke fun at each other. Instead of just having to sit in the back of my head like I was at a "while-U-wait" repair shop for my body.

I'm not 100% better. But I'm okay. I want this IV out of my arm. I want to wear jeans. I want to walk around on the street even if it hurts. I want to pet my guinea pigs. I want to fucking masturbate, for Chrissakes, I can't even get that done properly in here.

Maybe it'll be today. They're saying maybe. I'm really really hoping. I just want my body back.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010


I'm doing a lot better and will probably go home tomorrow. I still have some pain but it's no longer double-over-crying bad, and my fever is miraculously gone. Turns out the mono is complicated by hepatitis (not the ABCDEFG kind, the "the infection done monkeyed up your liver but good" kind) so I have these unsettling yellow eyes at the moment, but that'll go away too.

Thanks so much to everyone who sent their well-wishes; when I'm lying here feeling about 98 years old it makes a huge difference to know I have friends who care.

In other news, I made the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2010! I'm #54! Yay! *holds up extremely large and complicated foam hand* And huge congratulations to Quizzical Pussy for making #4 (holy crap) and everyone else on the list. Sexblogging isn't just typing, it's... typing about sex.

This is why you shouldn't write your acceptance speech while on intravenous narcotics.


So I have mono. I have it like bad--the fever has been going way out of control, I've been getting dehydrated despite being on my fifth liter of saline, and my liver function is all screwed up. I'm going to have to stay in the hospital at least one more night, and might be kinda crappy for a couple weeks.

Oh, uh, if you've exchanged saliva with me recently... I'm really sorry. If you feel sick in the next couple weeks you're probably gonna want to get tested for mono. (Most people have actually had it and didn't know, though, and you can't get it twice. It's one of those diseases that is less severe if you get it at a younger age. So odds are good that even if we've swapped spit you'll be okay.)

At least I have a good hospital room. It's private and shiny-new and there's a nice view. The nurses and doctors have been very kind to me too. Although a bit obfuscating; it's weird that when I'm at work I have instant access to a patient's lab results and med list and care plan and progress notes, and when I'm the patient I barely know what they're injecting into me right now. I've literally learned more about my condition by overhearing conversations about me than I've had directly addressed to me.

My cellphone is dead, so please email me to contact; I have a hospital phone number I'll give out by email. I'm mightily bored and would love visitors; the hospital is close to a T stop in Cambridge.

Monday, October 25, 2010


I went to the doctor and they sent me to the ER. It is (oh joy) Random Nonspecific Abdominal Pain, again, but this time the massive fever and bloody urine convinced them this was Srs Business. So now I get at least a few hours of Funtimes. Whoo.

My cell battery is low, so it's cool to text but I need to save my calls. I'll keep y'all updated.

This sucks such balls. :p

EDIT: no cell signal. Email me, I can get that.

EDIT: Dilaudid is proof of a loving God. I was just crying and crying as the pain got worse and now I feel like all the pain turned into a warm fuzzy blanket.

EDIT: I'm being admitted, maybe for a couple days. Whoo.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Good and Bad.

Good: Discovering that trading massages with Rowdy really is a "you mean I can have candy with every meal?" situation. (Except without the part where that would be kind of gross after two or three meals, and massages are perpetually awesome.)

Abruptly coming down with a massive fever on the way to a play party. I really really really wanted to go, I was actually at a train terminal halfway there, and *WHAM* my body informs me that I'll be lucky to stay upright. (This "wham" later clocked in at 103.8F. Damn.) I wussed out and went home alone. Ugh.

Friday, October 22, 2010

The best text message I've gotten today.

"Did you want some pretense, or just skip ahead to the sex?"

How to discuss gay rights like a reasonable adult.

Argument from Personal Responsibility
"If you choose to act in a certain way, you have to accept the consequences. For example, if you go walking and a bunch of thugs beat you up and steal your wallet, that's just the natural consequence of you going walking, so stop whining."

Argument from Lack Of Variety In My Entertainment
"Why do the gays have to keep bringing this up all the time?"

Argument from We Gave You The Vote And Everything
"Gay people are allowed out in public and we don't even lynch them that much anymore, and now they want more?"

Argument from Anal Sex
"I'm sorry, but I refuse to tolerate a group of people who get their kicks by grasping each other in a harsh, brutal kiss that turns suddenly tender, falling together into bed with their hands stroking all over each other's muscular, sweat-glistened bodies and working their way slowly, teasingly to each other's cocks, caressing each other to a state of delicious anticipation before one of these disgusting perverts gently slides first his lubricated fingers and then his huge rock-hard beautiful cock into the soft warm anus of the other."

Argument from Children Starving In India, New Millenium Edition
"Why are we even arguing about this when our economy is in the state it's in?"

Argument from Gays Starving In India
"Why are you worrying about some poorly chosen words when gay people still get beaten in other places?"

Argument from Blind Faith
"The number one, most important tenet of Christianity is to hate gay people. It's the entire foundation of my faith. Look at the first page of the Bible: "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth, and don't be a faggot."

Argument from Blind Smugness
"Look at these stupid christians (yes I spelled that lower-case, take note) who don't know that their entire religion is a scam lie for idiots and that Richard Dawkins has the real truth about your magical sky wizard. Try reading the Origin of Species morons!"

Argument from I Confused Myself With Wikipedia
"I don't want to pass judgement on anyone, so it's important that we keep a neutral point of view and respect everyone's opinion equally. You want to ostracize and persecute gay people, and he doesn't, and I think you both have valid points on this complex issue."

Argument from I Confused Myself With The United States Congress
"I don't think it's right to tell other people what to believe, so if someone believes that homosexuals should all be sent to re-education camps in Siberia, that's their First Amendment right."

Argument from I Won't Tolerate Your Intolerance Of My Intolerance
"For a bunch of people arguing for tolerance, you sure aren't very tolerant of my opinion that homosexuals are pervert scum."

Argument from Can I Interest You In Our Line Of Deluxe Closets
"Look, I don't care what someone does in their bedroom, but why do they have to go around announcing it to the world? My wife totally agrees with my opinion here, as do my mom and dad."

Argument from La La La Can't Hear You
"It doesn't matter what you say, this is just what I believe."

Argument from La La La Nobody Can Hear Anybody
"Well, that's just your opinion. Everyone has their own opinion."

Argument from I Walked To School In The Snow
"These whiners need to realize that life is tough for everyone. I got bullied in school too! Just man up and deal!"

Argument from Hate The Sin, Condescend To The Sinner
"I have nothing but love and respect for homosexual people, but I cannot approve of homosexual behavior."

Argument from The Children
"It's one thing if people want to be homosexuals, but I draw the line at exposing children to that kind of thing."

Argument from My Right To Be A Jerk Is Really Really Important
"We've had enough of this 'political correctness.' It's just one '-American' after another. First they told me to stop using racial slurs and now they're taking away my homophobic slurs? WHERE DOES IT END?"

Argument from It's Hard To Be White, Middle-Class, and Male, Yo
"The real victims here are the straight white male Christians that everyone demonizes and discriminates against!"

Argument from You're Already Allowed To Marry A Woman
"Why should gays get all these special privileges that normal people don't, like being allowed to marry and being allowed to serve in the military?"

Argument from Look Mom I'm Using Naughty Words
"Who gives a shit about some fucking faggot shitpackers and ugly bulldykes?"

Argument from What If We Gave Everyone Rights, What Then
"Next thing you know they'll be allowing polygamy because they are all 'consenting adults' too, right?"

Argument from Guh?
"Being gay is a choice, therefore it's wrong."

Argument from I'm So Fucking Funny
"Be careful not to drop the soap, or there'll be a whole Pride Parade swishing their limp wrists at you and calling you 'thexy!' "

Argument from Discrimination Justifies Discrimination
"If being gay is so great, why is it illegal for them to get married? You know homosexuality is harmful from how many gay youth are depressed or suicidal!"

Argument from Opposite Day
"If these heterophobes get their way, normal heterosexual marriage will be illegal and we'll all have to participate in their debauched lifestyle!"

Argument from Undertrained Gag Reflex
"I just don't want their deviant lifestyle shoved down my throat!"

Did I miss any?

The sad thing is I probably did.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Wrestling and model trains.

Last night Rowdy and Sprite and I went to a class on takedown and restraint--basically, how to use wrestling moves (and institutional restraint methods that, hilariously, I already knew from work) to take someone down and hold them down with your bare hands.

It was stupidly fun. Some in the kinky "now we could torment you or fuck you and what could you do?" sense, and some just in the "fun play wrestling" sense. A lot of kink has that overlap for me, between what's a hot sticky turn-on and what's just fun. Even if I had no intrinsic desire for violent sex, I'd still want a partner I could wrassle with on occasion.

But if I weren't a pervert, I wouldn't have been in that class in the first place. The class was organized by a kinky group, advertised on a kinky website, taught by a kinkster, and held in a kinky playspace. It would be damn difficult for a vanilla person to find out that class existed. Vanilla couples who wish to wrestle each other--and they do, right?--must do it without the benefit of professional instruction on how to to the Sexy Full Nelson and Sexy Armbar. (And yes, the Sexy CPI Control Position.)

It all reminds me of Bruno's spectacularly on-the-money quote about model trains:
Kinky sex is a hobby like model train building -- people labor for years in their basements to get good at it, and though most people don't want to hear about it, other aficionados happily visit to check out their work. Vanilla sex is like running -- it doesn't take much equipment, it's supposed to come naturally, it gets harder as we age, and it's socially approved, but few people really work at it.

Where do people who don't have any freaky fetishes go for sexual education and community? I guess the answer really is, nowhere. (I guess swingers' clubs come close, but they're focused on non-monogamy, not just sex in general.) If you're an ordinary average person, you don't really have a venue for talking about sex the way kinksters do. It's just sort of taken for granted.

I guess the problem is that it's hard to organize a club that could include practically everyone. It's like trying to hold a meeting of the People With Feet Society. If you're unlucky some hardcore foot freaks show up first and scare off everyone else; if you're lucky you just have a giant unruly mob with little in common and no set agenda. Most attempts at sexual community centers seem to be unlucky, and they become de facto kinky community centers.

I would like to teach ordinary people how to sexy-wrestle. I think they'd enjoy it, and it would make their home sexy-wrestling safer and more creative. But I don't know where to advertise the class and I don't know where to hold it.

Then again, I would also like to teach ordinary people how to use a singletail and how to do suspension bondage, because I really honestly think they'd enjoy it how could anyone not? so maybe my concept of "ordinary" needs work.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010


I'm wearing a purple ribbon today. (I didn't own any purple clothing.) I'm wearing it for Tyler Clementi, Asher Brown, Seth Walsh, Justin Aaberg, Raymond Chase, Billy Lucas, Cody J. Barker, for kids who didn't make the news but suffered just as much. I'm wearing it because I pass for straight and could get away with silence but I don't want to. I'm wearing it because It Gets Better, but there's no excuse for it being so bad in the first place. I'm wearing it because JESUS FUCKING CHRIST PEOPLE, IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LOVING A MAN AND LOVING A WOMAN WORTH FUCKING HOUNDING SOMEONE TO DEATH OVER SERIOUSLY WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

I'm wearing it because I'm pissed off and a little scared. After a few small steps toward equality, it seems like "Gay people: are we just going to let them get away with that?" articles and debates are becoming more prevalent in the media than they were last election cycle.

I'm also wearing it because the degree of cost, effort, and risk rounds down to just about zero. "Hooray," queer and gender-nonconformist youth around the world will exclaim, "some doofus put on a ribbon."

But so often the flip side of slactivism isn't activism but helplessness. I'm wearing a ribbon; I'm doing something. I'm reminding myself to donate to pro-equality causes. I'm reminding myself that tolerating and participating in casual homophobia and "that's so gay" and "I've got this ribbon but I want you all to know that I'm normal" are actions with consequences. I'm reminding myself that thinking good thoughts isn't much use unless you do something.

More than anything, I'm wearing a ribbon today because thousands of other people are wearing ribbons today, and every one of us is on the same side. One person with a ribbon is a slacktivist; thousands are a protest.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Cosmocking: October '10!

More from the backlog! Pink cover! Really pink! A woman in a pink dress on a pink background with a pink title! PIIINK! Lauren Conrad! "Own His Orgasm!" I prefer to borrow my orgasms, and give them back when I'm done! "Is He STD-Free? How to Check!" Oh no Cosmo no Cosmo no!

A new study from the University of Texas at Austin found that women begin to crave more adventurous sex starting at age 27 (and continue to crave it until age 45). Why? Our bods want us to get pregnant before we hit menopause.
Apparently having children before age 27 confers no evolutionary advantage. Also, the social and psychological effects of aging--the reduction in youthful inhibitions, added life and sex experience, the probability that you're in a long-term relationship--are unworthy of consideration. But most importantly, always remember to never draw any lines between your data and the part where you just make stuff up.

A new study from the University of Holly at Somerville found that women who bathe with soap have less body odor than women who bathe with cheese. Why? Cavewomen produced a counter-odor to attract cavemen after they'd bathed in cavecheese.

SEXY: Couples who swim together
SKANKY: Couples who swim together

Yes, it says this. I don't even... I assume it's a typo... or it's just too darn subtle for me? I don't even know.

Guys used to be the providers and protectors, but now, more women than men are graduating from college, which leads to women earning more, having more confidence, and demanding more from a boyfriend. In other words, just footing the bill doesn't fly these days. Women want an emotional partner and are encouraging guys to talk feelings... which can leave men insecure, since they have no guidelines or role models to look to.
You know what would make me insecure? Knowing that my partner was only with me because she depended on me for her quality of life or even survival. I would always wonder if she even liked me or if I was just a tolerable meal ticket. Dating someone who doesn't need me is a wonderful reassurance that they want me.

Also I am having difficulty with the statement that when men are asked to be emotional, this is so new and terrifying that it upsets their emotions.

If you need to vent your worries, blab to [friends and family] or a professional, and take a pass on turning your guy into your therapist because, as ["sexpert"] says, "you shouldn't look for your partner to fix you."
Yes, no one who loves you and shares their life with you would want to be bothered with your annoying little emotions. Don't bring your petty little woman troubles to him when he has important business on his mind, like Sputnik and Eisenhower and how to make cars that look even more like gigantic shiny rocketships.

How Not To Marry The Wrong Guy
Ooh, ooh, I know this one! The answer is not to make your life into a single-minded quest to find The One who will Complete You and get him to Commit and work out a strict timeline for reaching--nay, achieving--the Happiest Day Of Your Life!

...that's not the answer, is it.

You should not be asking yourself or your friends "How do I know he's The One?" because it's kind of like an orgasm: If you're not sure that you had one, you didn't.
Well, except orgasms exist.

Don't get me wrong; I believe in love. Love is joyous, beautiful, sustaining, magical. Love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops. But you know the other cool thing about love? Love is abundant. There's no The One; there's thousands of people you might come to love and who might come to love you, and that love is no less true. Every potential lover is imperfect and different and many of them are wonderful.

Maybe true love is like an orgasm, in the sense that you know it when you've got it, if not in the sense that I once had one just from having my ear licked. But the idea that there's a The One out there is less likely than vampire unicorns.

Easy Ways to Feel More Aroused
[...]Wake up 10 minutes early so you have time to put away your hair dryer and makeup, hang up any rejected outfits that usually end up on the bedroom floor, and make your bed.


I also like how even my clutter is painfully stereotypically feminine. Because ladies don't do anything all day but lady around. Also apparently I routinely try on and reject outfits, even though they're my own outfits that I already had in my closet? Huh.

Men appreciate personal info like we appreciate perfume: a whiff is all we need. TMI and we're choking on the stench.
In the early days, you were full of intriguing secrets. We loved discovering your likes, dislikes, idiosyncrasies. Passion thrives on mystery, so don't show us all your cards.

Apparently passion thrives on me not being a complete human being, or at least not where my partner can see. I always thought my "personal info" was what made me interesting--I'm pretty drab-looking until you hear about how I live my life--but apparently that's out of keeping with this issue's theme of "Don't Bother Your Man With Your Boring Ol' Humanity."

Q: My boyfriend says he's not into receiving oral sex, but I thought guys loved it. Is he lying because he thinks I'm bad at it?
A: The best thing you can do is reassure him that you do get pleasure from going down on him by moaning and telling him how good he feels in your mouth or how much it turns you on to taste him. [...]say that you'd love to change his mind about oral sex, and suggest he whisper directives like harder/softer, faster/slower, and more/less pressure until it feels just right.

Well, whatever you do, for God's sake don't listen to him and believe him and respect his preferences. You're sleeping with "guys," right, not this particular guy, so it's important not to let him step out of line.

Q: My guy is convinced that most women are physically incapable of orgasming every time. I finish about half the time, but he seems to think he has no control over the situation and it just happens randomly. I've tried telling him that I could orgasm more if we worked on it, but he won't. What can I do to get him to start worrying about pleasing me?
A: You can help with this, but you're not going to do it by suggesting the two of you "work" on it. That is a word that turns guys on as much as "castration" or "Mom." Instead, you need to show him that you could orgasm more and that he'll have a hell of a lot of fun making it happen. The best way to do that may be to masturbate in front of him.

The problem with your asshole boyfriend, you see, is that you just aren't coddling him enough. How dare you. If you must have needs of your own (you selfish castrating mother harpy), at least make sure you only express them by providing even more smiling undemanding sexual entertainment for him.

Forget that paper seat cover in a public bathroom and squat instead ([burns] 5 calories).
I work, as I've mentioned, in an emergency room. I use the patient bathrooms. I sit on the goddamn toilet seats. These toilet seats can be reasonably assumed to have Ebola, anthrax, and the Black Plague, and you know what? Nothing bad happens to me, because my ass has intact skin and an immune system. Seriously people.

Also, 5 calories is equivalent to 0.023 ounces of body fat. SQUAT YOURSELF THIN.

"I found out that my boyfriend of more than a year was cheating on me with a girl he'd met on Facebook. He'd logged in on my laptop a few times, and his password was automatically saved on my computer. I signed into his account and changed the word "women" to "penises" in his favorite Dumb and Dumber quote: "Where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano..."
Wow! Take that! You really showed him! He'll be totally reeling from that totally ballsy crazy revenge scheme! Talk about getting even!

Self control.

Have you ever been hynotized? I was, once. It wasn't what I expected. It wasn't like being asleep or absent from my body or made into an automaton. It wasn't like the hypnotist said "take off your shirt" and my hands moved without me, or I felt compelled to do it.

It was like I was totally awake and in control of myself, and I freely decided that taking off my shirt was a thing I wanted to do.

Sometimes I have that same feeling during sex. I'm a totally rational and free mind, and if I so chose I could be totally stil and silent and unmoved. I just decide to thrash and clench and moan and scream, is all. To some small exent this is true--when my roommate is home I rediscover my volume control, and although I'm not exactly silent I do manage to hold in the more unholy howls. Although other times I want to be quiet and the best I can do is clasp a hand over my own screaming mouth. Like it's someone else's.

The strangest is when I have those hyper-orgasms, the ones that knock me flat so I can't move or speak right for a few minutes afterwards. During that time, when I'm crashed out quivering and babbling, I'm completely aware of myself and a little chagrined how ridiculous I'm acting. I could just decide to pull myself together at any moment... I never fully understand why I don't.

Altered states are like that, though. They always seem real and ordinary when you're in them; a person with schizophrenia or tripping on hallucinogens, or even just dreaming, doesn't experience just images but the knowledge that those images exist and make sense.

(Or maybe all of existence is like that. Right now, I have the sensation that everything I'm experiencing is real and sensible and I'm in control of myself--and that proves what, exactly?)

Maybe the line between "the devil is talking to me through the rats" and "oh god fuck me fuck me fuck me" is a whole lot finer than I'd like to believe.

Sunday, October 17, 2010


Dear nurse:

The gentleman sitting with our patient, holding his hand and comforting him for hours in the middle of the night as he goes through a frightening and disabling illness, is not his "um, friend." He is his husband. Are you twelve years old, or what?

Next time we have a heterosexual couple in I'm going to smirk and blush and giggle and refer to them as "um, friends." Because I know we have policies to be polite about that sort of thing, but that kind of person puts penises in vaginas, and here they are just flaunting that.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

How good life can be.

I just spent this evening in bed with two wonderful people. There was a little fucking and a lot of snuggling and a whole big lot of laughter. I spent the day before with a whole bunch of wonderful friends, with almost as much snuggling and even more laughter.

Ten years ago, I was pretty sure I'd never have sex and I figured I'd never have too many friends, either. At the most I figured I'd stumble into some sort of dating relationship eventually, maybe, if I was lucky and I wasn't picky. I figured bullies and indifferent strangers would always surround me and I'd always be lonely inside.

And one year ago, although I certainly had established my sex and relationship bona fides by then, I still never dreamed I'd be this happy. Even then I never dreamed I'd have this many friends and lovers and that they'd be as awesome as they are.

My days are happy and my nights are wild and I'm never lonely anymore. Life is fast and crazy and good.

I can't say "well, good thing I didn't kill myself back when I was a sad-sack," because I'm just not made to ever consider that, but I can say that I'm glad I stuck it out. I'm glad I didn't give up or settle. I'm glad I kept chasing joy. Because I've motherfuckin' caught it.

There's a story behind this picture.

I have this friend who's awesome. Sadly he's moved out of town so I only see him every couple months, but he's one of the most awesome people I know. He's exceptionally smart and funny, but far more importantly, he just has the kind of effortless self-confidence you can't buy in stores. I'm hesitant to describe him in too much detail because he knows basically everyone including famous people and all my friends including the ones I met in completely different ways, but he's the kind of guy who can walk down the street in a floral dress and diving mask with a live weasel on his head and elicit only admiration. And he's the kind of guy who would.

Let's call him PJ.

This morning, PJ was in town, and he called me up to accompany him on a little project. PJ had to repay a debt to a friend. This friend had loaned PJ a couple thousand bucks when PJ was going through hard times, and now that PJ was going through easy times, he wanted to repay the loan in style.

Our first stop was at the Bank of America. "I want to withdraw $2600," PJ said, "in one-dollar bills." We'd thought we might have to go to a few branches and maybe some fast-talking to accomplish this, but no, they had 2600 dollar bills on hand. They gave PJ 6 stacks of $100 and 2 fat plastic-wrapped bricks of $1000 without raising an eyebrow.

I should mention that PJ's friend is getting married tomorrow. Part of PJ's dream is that the friend and his new wife will now be able to fuck on a giant pile of money on their wedding night.

Our second stop was a luggage store. PJ bought a nice leather briefcase--crisp classic lines, rectangular profile, built-in combination lock.

Our third stop was at a grocery store. PJ bought six pounds of powdered sugar and a box of plastic baggies.

We went back to PJ's apartment and set to work. PJ carefully stacked the bills in the suitcase while his roommates and I packaged "the shit" in securely wrapped bricks. They had a glass coffee table, so I rolled up a bill and did a few lines. It was pretty sweet stuff.

Once the briefcase was packed, we were taking pictures, and we (okay, probably I) decided that the pictures could use a little pizazz. A little showcasing. I took off my top. PJ loaned me his 1950s smoking jacket.

And that's the story behind this picture.


Monday, October 11, 2010

The Invisible Person.

Happy National Coming Out Day! I'm poly, bisexual, and kinky. You already knew that. My roommate, coworkers, and family still don't. Mostly because I feel like that if I told them, all they'd hear is "I'm a filthy horny freak and for some reason I'm sharing that, ewww." Which, well, it's partly true? And partly not.

In New York, we met up with a couple of Rowdy's family members. Sprite and I were his "friends," and while I appreciate that he didn't snub one of us by introducing us as "my girlfriend and my friend," it was rather awkward. (Moreso when they asked us where we were going afterwards, and because the real answer was "a fetish club," we panicked and lied and then they went "oh, we're going that way, wonderful, we'll walk together!" and our attempts to politely extricate ourselves reached teen-sex-comedy levels of awkwardness.)

It made me reflect on one of the real reasons it's important that people be able to come out, one of the reasons why "don't ask, don't tell" and "why can't you just keep your private life private" and "but why do you have to flaunt it" are bullshit. It's not just about sex and it's not even just about love. It's about the fact that being closeted requires you to hide an entire person--either completely, or at least in what they mean to you.

When Joe says "I'm gay, and Bob is my boyfriend," it may feel uncomfortable to people who prefer there be only one kind of relationship in the world, but the alternative is that Bob becomes invisible. Joe can't bring him along to social and family events, or if he does he can't talk to and touch him in their natural affectionate way. When everyone else at work is talking about their partners' weird habits, Joe can't chip in that Bob pulls all the cheese off pizza and eats it separately. When Joe is showing off his vacation photos, he has to edit out the ones where he's hugging Bob, if he was able to take any such photos in public in the first place.

Joe and Bob are going to feel like shit not because they can't talk about their sexual desires, but because they can't talk about each other.

And it's untenable. When people pry, lies of omission begin to require real lies, which when stacked up become impossible to maintain. Joe isn't just pretending to be "not gay" or "not anyone's business"; he's forced into actively pretending to be straight and single. (Unless he has a girlfriend who lives in Canada, in which case God help him.) Unless he excludes himself entirely from a huge number of innocent everyday small-talk conversations, Joe has to construct an entire mythical life just to not come out. It's a taxing, ridiculous, and precarious situation.

The problem with closeting isn't that LGBTQAetc folks can't talk about sex. (Actually, that's also a problem, but let's move on.) It's that they can't talk about people.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

How to have sex on the Brooklyn Bridge.

(Note: Do not have sex on the Brooklyn Bridge. This is illegal, and if you are witnessed by nonconsenting people unethical, and just a fucking sketchy thing to do. I am not responsible for your actions or how the NYPD might feel about them.)

1. Timing is important.
Sprite and Rowdy and I had just spent the night at a fetish party; they had jackets over their shiny black fetishwear, and I'd taken the vest off my Girl Scout uniform. It was 5 AM on a Sunday morning, clear but cool, and though the car traffic was as bustling as ever on the bridge, we had the raised pedestrian path all to ourselves. We walked up from the Manhattan side to the midpoint without seeing a soul.

2. Have accomplices.
We were supposed to be attending an event up there, but due to some sort of complicated miscommunication the only other people who showed up were a kinky couple we'd met at the weekend's parties. We hung out a bit, talked, and then the man got out his flogger and his partner bent over and he flogged her right on top of the Brooklyn Bridge.

At which point I leaned over the railing, hiked my skirt up, and asked if I could have a few swats myself. Oh, and I could, and it was lovely.

And then at some point, after a little more fooling around and some just sitting and talking, at about 5:30 when there weren't even joggers out yet, they brought up the idea of having sex on top of the Brooklyn Bridge, and started egging us on. It didn't take much egging. They gave us a condom and stood lookout. (Although they were mostly just looking at us, which is not technically "lookout." Lookin, more like.)

3. Dress for success.
I was wearing a skirt (in the official Girl Scout colors, naturally) that I'd pinned up to be short for the party, and I took out the safety pins. It was long enough that I could mount up on Rowdy and only look like I was committing a little bit of PDA to passerby. On the "whoa kids, get a room" level, certainly, but not on a "whoa, they are literally having intercourse right there" level. Not completely obviously.

4. Work fast, but have fun.
Rowdy sat on a bench, unzipped his fly, and took out his cock. I straddled him, spread my skirt out, pulled my panties aside, and we kissed and rolled the condom on and I slid down on him.

And I took it all in. Yeah, yeah, that's what she said, but I mean the whole scene. The cars rushing below us, the East River black and quiet far below us, the chill of the wind, and the million lights of New York City glowing all around us. The kinksters watching us and snapping pictures. And Rowdy's cock, deep inside me as I ground down on his lap, gasping in pleasure.

We switched positions and he did me from behind, bent over the railing, looking down at the traffic. It was too cold and too furtive for either of us to finish, but it was good. We stopped and kissed and cuddled on the bench.

5. Finish with bagels.
As the sun came up over Brooklyn, we ate bagels on the bridge. Yum.


Dear Internet,

Today I had sex at the midpoint of the Brooklyn Bridge.


Saturday, October 9, 2010

rawr means i love you in dinosaur

"I'm pretending Rowdy's dick is different dinosaurs." [performs penis puppetry] "Rarrr. He's a pleisiosaur."

"He's a please-you-til-you're-sore."

"He's a lick-a-lotta-puss."


I'm starting to believe that Rowdy is poly not just because of personal convictions, emotional makeup, or sexual proclivities, but because getting him off is literally shift work.

EDIT: I feel sort of obligated to add, for people who aren't familiar with the whole poly thing, that it's not another word for "unlimited three-way sex." There's actually a lot of two-way sex, and even more three-way dinners and naps and walks and museum visits and other such wild sexy adventures. Rowdy may have sex with two chicks, dudebro, but he also visited Times Square and saw the Statue of Liberty and discussed the role of Jesuits in the Catholic Church with two chicks, dudebro. Do dudebros care about that sort of thing?

I think their lives would be a whole lot richer and more beautiful--and more likely to involve two chicks, for that matter--if they did.

The limits of human endurance.

Four full days of touring, partying, and fucking our way through New York is an amazing yet daunting proposition.

TOO daunting, actually. Last night we got home after a lot of touristing and a visit to the Museum of Sex followed by a fetish party and the three of us got into bed and... passed out immediately. Sometimes that's all three naked perverts in a hotel room in a foreign city with no obligations can do.

Sometimes we can do more. I think they're doing it right now while I sit here hunched over my netbook like some kind of extreme megadork. Talk to you later, Internet.

Thursday, October 7, 2010


I'm off to New York with Sprite and Rowdy until Monday evening. We're going to the NYC Fetish Tribe Experience and to cause grief to hotel housekeeping staff. I'll keep you posted of course.

eeee this is gonna be so fun eeeeee

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

The male gaze.

I went to a sex shop with Sprite and Rowdy the other day. We got a couple of fun toys, a large quantity of the high-performance lubricants required to fit Rowdy inside a human, and we spent some quality time walking around the entire store in the Porn Trance, just gawking.

I couldn't help noticing an incredibly common theme: a naked woman means straight sex, while a naked man means gay sex. Lesbian sex--which only exists in porn, not in the toy aisle, where even strapons are marketed only as a "bend over boyfriend" item--is indicated by two naked women. It all makes sense if you assume that only men have eyes.

Being a woman sometimes makes me feel like a toaster that somehow gained sentience. People talk about toasters, they talk about what a toaster does and what a toaster should be, they may even be big fans of toasters, but they don't talk to them.

I see this even in women's magazines. The October issue of Cosmo is sitting on my desk right now and it's full of pictures of women. Not the people women would like to look like--the people women would like to be looked at like. Because only men have eyes.

And then a lot of the copy within Cosmo, as I point out each month, is about what women are like or what women should be like. As if I might not know, otherwise.

Walking around an adult toy store, where male masturbators are labeled with sexy women and clit stimulators are labeled with sexy women, I get the eerie feeling that I'm not supposed to exist. My body is, but me, the part that would rather look at men or butch women? Pfft. Men desire, women are desired, and looking at an idealized version of yourself through male eyes is the sexiest thing a woman can hope for.

Then again, maybe this is practicality. We were there for a couple hours, and the whole time, Sprite and I were the only women in the store. Maybe the demographic reality is that straight men are buying all the clit stimulators. Maybe it's a vicious cycle, or maybe most women wouldn't come into a sex shop anyway.

The small contingent of sex toys that are marketed to women--mostly the upmarket stuff, because the $10 made-in-China junk always has a naked lady--tend to have plain packaging. It's just colors and swirls, or abstract woman-goddess figures, that look more like tampon and douche packaging than like porn. I'm okay with this, actually. I don't need to look at sexy men to pick out a vibrator; I just find it disconcerting to face a giant wall of sexy women, each one of them screaming "this isn't for you, what are you doing here?" Sexy nobody, sexy "hey, you're a grownup, you already know what this is for" packaging suits me just fine.

And I'm waiting with bated breath for the first time I see soothing meaningless blue swirls on a male masturbation toy.

I have this theory.

I don't know if it's because men are built generally larger on average, or they have more free space in their pelvis, or if it's just that they aren't socialized to affect daintiness in such matters, or what, but it seems like most guys who are into ass-play can take way bigger things up their asses than most women can.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Gray Rain.

I didn't go back home after work this morning. I clocked out at 7, drove only as far as Concord, and figured that since I had no particular schedule I'd hang out in Minuteman Park until the rush hour traffic lightened up a bit.

I was still in my scrubs and warmup jacket. It was cold out, but not bitter cold, with a light gray rain falling, enough to feel, not enough to soak. The trees were just starting to turn , still green with only shades and flashes of yellow and red. Old stone walls lined empty fields and dirt paths. I walked a little ways into the park, far enough that I couldn't see roads or another person, and sat on a weathered granite bounder. A squirrel perched on a nearby branch, chattering loudly, staring at me with a level fearless gaze and chirping again before running off on important squirrel business.

I sat and thought. Sometimes I didn't think. Sometimes I meant to think but just looked, just took in the chilly air and the wavering leaves of the trees.

I thought about the two halves of my life. ER and BDSM. They're both characterized by secrets, by powerful sensation and emotion, by the human body. When you deal with people's bodies you deal with their whole lives, and what you see is as funny and sad and strange as people are. And yet in another way, people always hold back. Seeing a person in great pain or great pleasure, seeing them naked literally and metaphorically, shows you things you wouldn't otherwise see--but not everything. There are things people know, things people are, that cannot be wrenched out, that sometimes cannot even be given.

There was a tree with big diamond-shaped leaves across the field from me, its leaves yellowing at the edges but still a brilliant green at their core.

I've written about transcendence before. It's understandably hard to put in words. The closest I get is along the lines of "There's something more than... nnnuh. Than, you know. There's more than this." There's something more to people than bodies, and that's why I am so comfortable with and so fascinated by those bodies. Bodies have parts, they have insides, they're possible to take apart just like any other object. People, less so.

Before I had any experience healthcare or BDSM, I loved gory horror movies. My degree is in film, and I wrote my thesis on trashy horror films, then later worked as set decorator and propmaster on one. As far as I know there isn't a tremendous correlation between kinky people and horror fans, which surprises me. Then again, I haven't watched that much horror lately. I still enjoy it, but when I can get myself tied up and tortured and feel my own body being treated like a piece of meat... I don't crave it. There's comparisons to be made between the ER and horror movies too but I feel wrong making them.

A large brown bird swooped between trees, only a few feet away but without a sound. From the silence, I think it was an owl staying up late. I looked for it in the tree but it had disappeared among the branches. High overhead, from a different tree, I heard the cry of a hawk. Little sparrows flitted around close to the ground.

When I have to take care of a dead person, I always find myself talking to them. Not in a big emotional dramatic way, not offering grief or blessings. But not in a cavalier joking way either. I just talk to them the way I talk to patients, calm and nicey-nice and narrating what I'm doing. "'Scuse me ma'am, I gotta reach across you here for a second, thanks." It's just a habit.

I started to walk back to my car. The rain was still falling gently, the air filled with the cool smell of wet grass.

Sex and BDSM are the restorative factors in my own life. They don't take strength; they give me the strength that I can carry out into difficult situations, or the joy that lets me really enjoy the rest of the world. Life is better with a kiss still lingering on your lips, or a bruise just below the neckline of your scrubs. Life is easier.

Sitting on a rock out in the rain doesn't make life easier, but sometimes it makes it make a little more sense.

Monday, October 4, 2010

The Three Kinds of BDSM toys.

There are three kinds of BDSM toys in this world:

Serious Toys.
These are made out of genuine full-grain kangaroo leather by one guy named Buck who lives in a cabin in Maine and does all the crafting himself while his sub runs the website and mails out the orders.

Pros: The quality is almost always amazing. You're supporting your own community. Nothing else gives you more party cred.

Cons: It's usually insanely expensive. If you're new, don't have much money, or just looking for some casual bedroom play, choosing and buying toys from this kind of vendor can be intimidating and frankly overkill. Buck's e-commerce may be disorganized or nonexistent to the point where tracking him down in person at a convention is the only way to actually get his stuff.

These are sold at Home Depot. They think we're going to tie down packages with that rope or hang potted plants with those eyebolts. Tee hee.

Pros: This is the cheapest way to go. There's lots of room to improvise and experiment and play MacGuyver.

Cons: Can be unsafe if you don't know what you're doing. Not every kind of toy can be replicated with Home Depot materials. The MacGuyvering can be a lot of work and require some knowledge to do effectively.

Vanilla-Kinky Toys.
These are sold in regular sex shops. There's a slutty lady on the box and it's mass-produced in China or Mexico or something.

Pros: Far cheaper than the serious toys. Far less work than the pervertibles. Far easier to shop for than either. If you're not a mega-serious hardcore-BDSM player but just want to screw around in the bedroom, probably perfectly adequate.

Cons: You can lose cred with Master Raven Darkclaw types if they find out you got your sex toys at a *pfft* sex toy shop. The quality can be all over the map, from just as good as Buck's stuff to uselessly flimsy. The slutty box-ladies can really wear on you after a while.

Hm. Now that I've said you can't make everything at Home Depot, that feels like a challenge. I bet that between Home Depot and Michael's Crafts, at least... hm.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

The Slutadox.

When I was in high school, people made fun of me for being fat and awkward and unfashionable--I was never gonna get laid, haw haw.

When my little sister was in high school, people made fun of her for being pretty and outgoing and a fashion plate--she's such a slut, haw haw.

This is the Slutadox: if a woman isn't sexy and doesn't have sex, that's terrible. But if a woman is sexy and has sex, that's terrible. It's a Madonna/whore dichotomy where being a Madonna is no good either. If you wear a long skirt you're a prude and if you wear a short one you're a slut, and sometimes you find there just aren't any lengths in between.

I never understood the problem with being a slut, to be honest. It's very weird to get insulted with "you get laid a lot!" Um... thanks? But my secret theory is that this isn't the patriarchal possessiveness thing it appears to be. My secret theory is that men hate sluts because sluts are heartbreakers. You think you're really special and worthy for a girl to sleep with you, and then you find out that she sleeps with lots of people, and it diminishes your specialness. If sex is a meaningful thing for you, finding out that it was meaningless for your partner is painful--legitimately so, sometimes. But admitting that you wanted meaningful sex and that you're emotionally vulnerable is not manly, so instead guys just scream "SLUT!" like it's just intrinsically wrong for a woman to have an interesting sex life.

The temptation is to try and escape the Slutadox by appeasing it, by being extremely moderate. No makeup would make me ugly and too much makeup would make me slutty, so I'll perfect the art of subtle natural makeup. Not fucking dates until we have a relationship is prudish and fucking on the first date is whorish, so I'll fuck on the third date. But this appeasement always leaves you on a knife edge, always vulnerable to the people who think third-date sex is whorish, and completely shoves aside the question of how sexual you want to be. Not that there's one answer anyway. I've fucked guys the day I met them and I've fucked guys I'd been friends with for years, and I've had both go well because they were different people in different situations.

And the scariest thing about the Slutadox is that it crops up within feminism. Oh, I'm not one of those man-hating legs-not-shaving feminists! But I'm not one of those party-girl "sex-positive" fun-feminists either! Even within a movement of women's liberation, women are still expected to carefully calibrate their level of sexiness.

I don't know. Do I even have a sexiness level? I've had sex with approximately 26 people, I'm hyper-orgasmic and kinky and have a sex blog. And most days I don't wear any makeup and I shlump around the house watching "Mythbusters" while doing beadwork. I'm not sure I can stick a pin in one spot on a Madonna/whore continuum and go "yep, that's me."

At both ends, the Slutadox is really just about finding reasons to judge and hate people--well, women--for whatever they do. Don't participate in that crap. Whether a woman is sexy or unsexy or some of each or anywhere in between, going "god what a prude/slut" is pure cruelty and hypocrisy. And holding yourself to "mustn't be a prude, mustn't be a slut" standards--that's just self-hatred.

How sexual your behavior and self-expression are is your own business. It's all okay. End the Slutadox.

Cocky and Funny.

I love this xkcd.

And since someone asked for it in comments, here's some random PUA site!

As PUA concepts go, I actually don't disagree with "cocky and funny" in principle. I like guys who are confident and even jokingly arrogant, as long as they don't actually take themselves that seriously and they're able to show more vulnerability as we get closer. And of course I like funny guys. If you can make me laugh so hard I almost barf, you can pretty much have your way with me.

The problem with "cocky and funny" as a strategy, however, is that it's like suggesting a runner use the strategy "go fast." Cockiness and funnitude are talents, not traits that can be simply turned on. If you're not innately a confident and witty dude, and you don't have any particular knowledge or experience in the fields of self-esteem and comedy, but you just decide to put on your cockyfunny hat, the results can be... unfortunate.

Which brings us to the Top Ten Ways To Use Cocky And Funny!
#1 Perfect your delivery - You have to brush-up the way you deliver a comment. This includes eye contact, tone of voice and timing. They’re all important.
I said run fast, dammit. The speed with which your feet push off the ground? It's important.

#2 Joke about a point system - The idea here is to suggest that if she loses enough points, you may not want to see her again. If she likes broccoli and you hate it, she just lost a point.
This isn't terrible--I have friends who do this and it isn't weird--but you're not supposed to actually keep score. And when my friends do this, it doesn't make me think "oh god I better not lose more points because this one's a keeper"; it makes me think "man, that's the third time he's made a 'points' comment, he's really due to move on before this turns awkward."

#3 Jokingly express your doubts - This is a variation on the “you just lost a point” theme. Whenever she does something that suggests she could be a loser, a nerd or otherwise unworthy of your attention, tell her, “I don’t think this is going to work out.”
Again, not terrible on its own, but it's hard to imagine a woman so insecure and literal that she's consumed by terror that she's going to lose you (and consequently is willing to do anything to keep you, baby) because of your jerkish offhand comments.

#4 Use sarcasm - When a woman says something totally obvious, you can reply with “Really? Wow. That must be the most fascinating thing I’ve heard all week.” Say this with a sly smile!
Okay, now you're just a douche. A guy who's actually funny might be able to pull this off and not get worse than an "oh, you", but a guy who doesn't have the instincts and is going through the motions based on a top ten list is going to whip this one out as I tell him my grandpa died.

#5 Disqualify her by age - The idea here is to convey the notion that if she’s young, she’s not young enough, and if she’s older, she’s not old enough. What makes this interesting and different is that it’s the opposite of what most women would expect you to say.
"Haha! I'm a creep! Hilarious!"

#6 Guess her weight - Tell her you can guess her weight. Then do something silly that’s completely not related to her weight, like taking one of her fingers and examining it really closely to say that she ways about 500 pounds. But, remember to use this only on women who are very fit.
This entry lifted directly from Uncle Elmer's Rootin-Tootin Party Tricks for Barn Dances and Sock Hops. It's right after the one where you find a nickel in her nose.

#7 Be playfully mean - Say something that could be mean, but in a playful way.
"You are the most disgusting, physically repugnant, willfully idiotic, emotionally monstrous, and frankly malodorous human being it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. Ha ha!"

#8 Slap her hand - Next time she says anything that could be interpreted as “bad” or even “naughty,” ask her to give you her hand, take it, slowly turn it upside down, and gently slap the back of it.
See, this is one of those situations where I'm torn. On the one hand, I know guys who will slap me right across the face for something like that. On the other hand, this is happening in a kinky context and it's an understood joke/play thing between us, not something they just bust out on me.

#9 Give stupid answers to stupid questions - If a woman asks you a lame question such as, “Do you date a lot?”, reply with something cocky like, “Who me? No, never. I usually stay at home, locked in my room playing Nintendo, can’t you tell?”.
Yeah. I kinda can tell.

#10 Bust her on her jokes - If she tries to be funny in any way, let her finish and ask “I’m sorry, was that supposed to be funny?” Keep a straight face when you do this.
Okay, now this is the height of douchebaggery. I can forgive the 500-pound finger and all the "you're about to lose me, better jump on my cock quick" gambits, but what the fuck. Seriously. If there's a line between funny-mean and mean-mean, this is like twenty miles past that line. Funny guys are fun because they're engaging, and conversations turn into repartee. A guy who shuts a girl down with "no, no, this is my performance, no one cares what you say" is killing that repartee with a fucking sledgehammer. If you're so much better than me at everything, wouldn't you have more fun masturbating anyway? Jerk.

Ultimately, the reason this list is so creepy is that it isn't about being cocky and funny in the way that I understand them--as ways for someone to be amusing and fun to be around. It's about playing the "I'm too good for you, you're too bad for me, so if you don't blow me right now you'll wallow in loneliness forever" card. In a funny way! No wonder it isn't that much of a belly laugh.