Guest Post: What it's like to go to an STD clinic.

[I'm busy studying for finals. In the meantime, enjoy this guest post by Jack. I think it's important information for people who've learned testing is important but are unsure what to expect when they actually go through the process. -Holly]

A good friend of mine recently had an STD scare. I figured I might as well get a physical/emotional clean slate myself, and more importantly, go through the experience to support my friend, who has been distraught and has a horror of needles that rivals yours.

[Jack once stuck me with a play piercing needle because we were curious if I would like it. My reaction was a calm and level-headed "GET IT OUT GET OUT OH GOD GET IT OUT AUUUUGH." -Holly]

She did the basic research over the internet and phone; two places in Boston, Boston Medical Center and Mass General Hospital, offer free STD clinics. If you work normal day hours like me, expect to take a day off to get in to be tested – the late Wednesday hours are generally packed, they said. You have to give your name, address, and date of birth to book an appointment.

[I edited out some Boston-specific details here; after finals I'll put together a "Boston sexual health resources" page to accompany the kink resources. -Holly]

They take almost every insurance plan. They also do testing free if you have no insurance (and they’re a public health clinic, so they ask if you have insurance but don’t look into it – and don’t much care – if you say you don’t), but only if you are symptom-free. This struck me as kinda odd, and I wasn’t able to ascertain the reason behind it. They test for gonorrhea, chlamydia, syphilis, and HIV; they'll also test for hepatitis C if you request. They also offer the three-shot hepatitis A and B vaccines for free if you want them. This is a separate appointment from your STD testing.

So you walk in and take the elevator up to the clinic; when you walk up to the desk, the desk workers are rather apathetic. “You’re here for what? Huh? Oh. Fill out the form.” They have you fill out a basic form with name/address/phone number/do you have insurance/how did you hear about us, then call you in when it’s your turn.

You have to go in alone; it’s completely private – they wouldn’t let me go in with my friend, despite her and I asking if I could. The actual person who does the testing is polite, warm, and professional, very matter-of-fact but not cold. They explain that the HIV screening is a rapid reaction test with results in 20 minutes, and that the other results take a week or so to come back from the state lab – they do a pretty good job of calmly, simply walking you through everything, showing you lists of information and such, and answering your questions.

One big catch: If you come back positive for anything, you have to come back in to the clinic within a week of that call for more information and (free) treatment, or they turn your information over to the state, which will track you down as a public health risk. Aside from the threat-to-the-public good aspect, everything is 100% confidential regardless of age/status/etc. – apparently even if they have to track you down with the police it’s a private deal; the police bring you to a state doctor who works with you in private.

[Don't get too scared by this--it's actually pretty extraordinary for the cops to hunt someone down for medical treatment--but do be aware you take this risk if you get tested for anything you're not willing to be treated for. -Holly]


The physical part of the procedure is fairly simple: they do the standard spring-loaded finger prick for the HIV test; they put a very small needle (21 gauge) into your arm and draw two small tubes of blood (the needle’s in your arm for less than two minutes, I never even felt it); then they walk you down to the bathroom and hand you the urine cup (“half full, please”) and wait for you, then take it from you when you walk out. The whole thing is very private, very professional, standard doctor’s-office, alcohol-swab-and-stick routine. Your name is not written on the specimens; you're identified only by a number and barcode.

After that they send you back to the lobby (and give you juice and cookies, if you’re like my friend and look chalky-white and like you’re going to die after the needle stick). Within 20 minutes they call you in and tell you that your HIV test was negative (I’m not sure what they do if you’re positive – Bells and whistles? Herd of lemmings? Dunno), and that that roughly means that you aren’t positive, although if you were infected in the last few weeks it may not show up. The other tests take 48-72 hours; if they don't call you, after a few days you can call the phone number and and hear your results over the phone--but if you test positive, they will call you.

[What actually happens if you test positive for HIV is a lengthy meeting with a counselor to tell you "this does not mean you're dying, you can be healthy for many years after this, but we need to get you started on treatment ASAP and here's how that's going to work." They also retest you with a slower but more accurate method to make sure. -Holly]

They reiterate the we’ll-call-you-if-bad, you’ll-hear-a-few-days-later-if-it’s-good, feel-free-to-call-after-a-few-days-if-you-want-to routine, and then they wish you a good day. Other than the apathetic desk attendants it was professional and friendly friendly, anonymous, non-judgmental, and pretty low-key.

How I met Holly

[Guest post by Rowdy]
(a not-rape-culture narrative, and why we need more of them)

I’d seen her before, she’s in my group of friends - a bouncy-happy girl with a cherubic face and bright red hair. We were out for coffee with a group of friends, and we started talking. The conversation was easy and engaging, meandering through various topics in feminism, kink, and affirmative consent. It was getting late, and it was time for the coffee shop to close. We stood out in the brisk nighttime air as our friends said goodbye for the night while others made plans to meet at Denny’s.

“Yeah, I never quite know how to bring up my interest in a person," I said. "I’m not the best at reading people, so I don’t know if they’re into me, and I usually end up not saying anything. Sometimes I’ll find out later that they were into me, but they thought I wasn’t into them. It’s a conundrum.”
“Well, which way do you live?” she asked.
“Just up the road by the parkway, not too far.”
“Want to head back and have sex?”
“Absolutely.”

The conversation continued as we walked, turning to experiences of new partner sex and communicating interest. Then, standing in my room, the conversation continued a bit and then died down into an awkward moment, both of us caught in an instant of “um, what now?” We embraced and kissed, tentatively at first and then passionately.

She spoke up. “Ok, thing you should know. I really really don’t like direct clit stimulation; it’s so intense it’s unpleasant. Any things I should know about you?”
“Not that I can think of; if anything comes up I’ll let you know”, I said.
We wrassled each other’s clothes off, joking and laughing and touching and kissing the whole time. "So, how do you like to masturbate?” I asked.
“Usually indirect pressure, on the pubic mound.”
“Like this?” I asked as I pressed my hand just above her vulva and tried to imitate the motion she made.

Holly adjusted my hand a bit and it was clear to my neighbors I’d hit the spot. We fucked, cuddled, exchanged backrubs, and fucked some more into the wee hours of the morning. In Holly’s words:

It was by turns cuddly and athletic, and always... happy. I love happy sex. There was something so delightfully straightforward about it.

That’s how I met Holly a year ago last night. We had sex purely for fun; there was apprehension and passion, it had its awkward moments, but both of us wanted it, both of us communicated it, and look what disastrous things came of such casual and communicative sex! It’s been an amazing year filled with more love than I can put to words, and more good times than I can count. Dinosaurs and robots and hovercrafts and sex, lots of sex.



Stories like this are important: narratives are how we learn to interact and relate. When we don’t have the time or inclination to think critically about our actions, or when we’re looking for direction or affirmation, we look to the behavior of others to model our own actions after. If our sex-positive, affirmative consent, relationship self-deterministic culture is to gain traction in the mainstream, we need our narratives to get out there - for examples of how it’s done (even partially or imperfectly) to be readily at hand.

I’ll write more on narratives later. If you’ve got a narrative to share, I encourage you to do so: on your blog, in your feed, or in the comments.

Gloves are Great!

[Guest post by Match_Stick]

I love being sexual with lots of people. I love play parties with lots of people experiencing lots of pleasure. But I'm a safer slut. I want to experience the maximum pleasure with minimum risk. One of the risks I worry about is STI transmission from body fluids on hands. (1)

I want to share one of my favorite tools for safer sex – gloves. Latex or nitrile gloves are wonderful. They make play safer and simpler which for me means my play can be sluttier.

•I can slip a glove on, play, dispose of the glove and repeat with the next partner, without getting out of bed. This is important for a slut like me.
*Gloves work really well for certain kinds of sex. They reduce the chance of cutting or abrading tender skin with fingernails. They also don't absorb lube which means the genitals stay slicker longer.
•For those of us who associate gloves with hot sex putting them on is a part of foreplay. If I'm tied down and my partner puts on gloves and squirts lube into their hands, my dick gets hard with anticipation.
•I don’t have to worry about anything getting into any small cuts or abrasions on my own hands. (2)
•Fast cleanup means I get to stay and cuddle for aftercare without feeling like I need to immediately get up and wash my hands.
•I can slide my fingers into my partner’s ass, and then switch gloves if I want to finger their vagina. More holes – more fun. Urinary tract infection – less fun.
•Play parties are often held in places without easy access to washing sinks.
•They help you remember where your hands have been. At a recent party I was at I saw someone lend a hand to help balance a lady who was trying to gingerly step over a pile of naked people. Unfortunately the offered hand was covered in body fluids. Oops. Embarrassing.

I want to see more people use gloves in the scene, especially at parties. Risk awareness and risk management get more complicated with more people. But more people are more fun for a slut. I feel gloves are more important as more people are involved. If you go to parties or host parties I'd like you to consider the following:

•Make sure there are gloves available in every playroom at parties. Bring some to share!
•If possible make hand washing facilities available with plenty of soap and hand towels. If there are no sinks near the play area sanitary wipes or sanitizing hand gel are good options.
•Before using latex gloves make sure your partner doesn't have a latex allergy. The nitrile gloves these days are very good and even come in black to match your sexy outfit.
•Never tried using gloves? Go ahead and bust that cherry!
•If you don't want to or can't play with gloves please make an extra effort to wash your hands afterwards. Especially before you switch partners or head to the buffet for a post-play snack.

Keep it slutty and safer! Gloves are a great way to do it!

(1) The author doesn’t know of any studies that quantify risks, but there are several studies that suggest this is a possible infection method, most of them about women who have sex with women (WSW). For example:

“sexual practices involving digital-vaginal or digital-anal contact … such practices present a plausible means for STD transmission, presumably by transfer of infected cervicovaginal secretions” - Sexual Practices, Risk Perception and Knowledge Of Sexually Transmitted Disease Risk Among Lesbian and Bisexual Women

“indicates the need for methods to effectively prevent HPV transmission, such as the use of gloves, plastic barriers and condoms. The isolation of HPV from sexual fomites and from fingers of patients with genital warts adds to the idea that this virus can be sexually transmitted between women.” - Genital and oral human papillomavirus infection in a patient from the group of women who have sex with women

(2) It is commonly accepted in the medical profession that open cuts and abrasions make it easy to contract an infection. Many people have small cuts and abrasions, such as hangnails, on their hands and don’t even know it.

(3) Thanks to all my wonderful proofreaders!

My Polyamorous Heart.

[Guest post by Rowdy]

One of the typical assumptions about monogamy is that the heart is a defined quantity, to love more than one person is to divide it, to find a new love is to push the last completely out, and each person it's given to gets the same thing.

That’s never felt true for me, the way I experience love. When describing my heart, I’ve found this metaphor works pretty well:

I like to think of my polyamorous heart as a house with many rooms. It’s constructed by the people I love, and filled with warmth and memories. It grows as each person I love adds something to my house, maybe a decoration or boardgame, maybe an entire new room.

Many people enter my heart, friends and strangers, and hang around in the common spaces... sometimes just a short while, and sometimes much longer. They wear down the floors and scuff the walls, they throw parties and help me fix the place up.

Each new romantic love builds their own room, an addition onto my house. We work on it together and it grows over time, a special place filled with emotions, experiences, and memories. There is always space to add another room, and build additions onto the rooms already built - it only takes time and energy, the material provided by our lives. No two rooms are alike, each one shaped by the person who built it.

Some of those people may leave my life, but the room they built in my heart stays, like the bedroom of a child moved off to college, a place of growth, accomplishments, and warm memories - saved just for that person who made it their home for a while. Some people leave their room nicely as a place for fond memories, others trash the room on their way out, but the place they built in my heart stays.

They may come by occasionally, or they may make their life in other hearts and never return, but there will always be a place of happiness that they built in my heart, a place they are always welcome to visit.

Sometimes my house is a loud party, sometimes it is lonely and quiet; there are parts of it I visit every day, and others I haven’t visited in ages.

This is my poly heart. A house built by the people who’ve lived there, filled with the warmth of life, love, and memories.

Guest Blogger: Bruno!

[I'm still pretty overextended with moving and work, so here's a guest post from Bruno to pick up the slack. -Holly]

Women don’t like sex. They feign interest only to attract men and put up with it only to keep them or to get pregnant. They’d rather eat chocolate; when Lesbian couples dive, it’s into bags of Doritos.

It's absurd to recount that myth beside Holly Pervocracy’s detailed accounts of her gleefully perverted exploits, but it took me a long time to overcome it and deeply impacted me in the interim. I suspect many men are similarly affected. If women won’t give sex, men have to take it from them. If they can be tricked into offering it, men can learn legerdemain. If nice girls say no, nice guys won’t ask.

My parents didn’t give me a healthy view of sexuality. They rarely even kissed where I might see them, and when they did it was always a sterile peck on the lips. That became my benchmark for normalcy. When I saw my babysitter and her husband on top of each other on their couch after school one day, I ran to tell their kids. (“So?” was their response, in a tone that implied I might get hit.)

My dad did leave copies of Playboy around where I could find them, but although I knew my dad and I wanted to see naked women there was nothing to convey what those women or my mom wanted.

My other early source for information about sex was my parents’ copy of The Joy of Sex. Theoretically, it could have given me a realistic view of sexuality and a broad knowledge of sex practices. There were at least two obstacles to that.

One was that the book wasn’t exactly aimed at a curious kid. The line-drawn hippies didn’t look like anyone I knew and much of the material came across as alien. I think I would have preferred learning about erections before being confronted with armpit fucking.

The second obstacle was that the book wasn’t kept in a bedroom. I found it in a water-damaged cardboard box in the furnace room among disintegrating mimeographs, abandoned Tupperware, and broken desk accessories, so my parents presumably found it as useless and weird as I did.

But of course I read it thoroughly, hands shaking in fear of being discovered and eyes straining in the amber light of a bare 20-watt bulb.

By high school I’d encountered other sources of information, but they didn’t help dispel the myth either. I got pretty good sex ed, but of course it focused on the dangers of sex, not on why anyone would accept the risk, which I guess should have been self-evident to a teenager. The “letters to the editor,” I found in dirtier men’s magazines were written from the man’s point of view and based on factual inconsistencies and anatomical improbabilities I already suspected they were fiction.

High school also featured a few conversations about sex with girls, who also did nothing to dispel the myth. One friend insisted that she’d be a virgin on her wedding day, but that she wanted her husband to have some experience. Sex was like farting –of interest only to crude stinky boys.

College probably should have done more to convince me that women actually like and pursue sex, but apparently I was difficult to persuade, possibly because “women don’t like sex” was easier to digest than “women don’t like me.” I now had access to Internet porn, which meant actual fucking, but actresses’ moans weren’t always distinguishable from agony. Besides, I was soaking up the political correctness of the environment, and knew that all sex was rape unless every act received explicit, enthusiastic consent, and that pornography was inherently degrading to women. Women disliked sex and needed to be insulated from it.

There’s always been an important exception to the myth for procreative sex. A female college friend who was no doubt being sincere in her flattery regularly told me that I’d “be a good dad.” I’d yet to get laid, or even more than a truth-or-dare kiss, and never seen a naked woman in person, and here was my fate: For being a good person, women would reward me with diapers, not orgasms.

Eventually, someone liked me enough to proposition me. She scared the crap out of me, though, so it took a better friend and a couple rounds of propositioning to get me to second base. Then my first girlfriend found me, and eventually asked me to make love to her.

She never asked again, and after that relationship ended my second sex partner was completely passive. Eventually I felt rejected by and resentful toward both, and so the myth lived on.

Years later, I’ve had a few more experiences and may have finally integrated the truth into my mindset. Some of the credit goes to women like Holly who are willing to share their experiences. A lot of it is courtesy female friends who are honest about what they want, whether or not they seek it from me. Mostly, though, it’s about maturing beyond thinking of myself as aberrant.

But the myth still pops up. I ran into an immigrant friend while traveling to a bar to meet with mutual friends, and she complained about the amount of attention she gets from men. What a burden, to be desirable! My FWT (friend with tension) essentially propositioned me to be a sperm donor, albeit leaving the delivery mechanism ambiguous.

Most significantly, it’s exposed in the idea that women can get sex whenever they want, compared with the frustrated, lonely men. The 15th century Latin translates as “man proposes, God disposes,” but an equally popular philosophy is “man disposes, woman disposes.” Women are in control, and if they’ll condescend to fucking they’ll have limitless opportunities because not enough women want sex to satisfy the insatiable appetites of men.

Of course, women might have to settle for someone other than the hottie de jour. My FWT told me that for her birthday she wanted to “treat [herself] to some nookie,” and she got it. It was with a guy who’s older, fatter, balder, and dimmer than she’d presumably prefer, but yes, he’ll give her whatever she wants.

And what she wants includes orgasms.

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.

Guest Blogger: Bruno.

Hello. Bruno here. I seem to be the token straight vanilla guy around the Pervocracy, but I’ve been asked a few times to write something. So when Tommy set the example, I decided to follow it.

No, Holly’s not blowing me as I write this. I’m fully clothed and alone, actually, and nowhere near the Northwest. And this post is about stuff that happens while the clothes are still on. It’s decidedly non-filthy.

You’ve been warned.

I’m sometimes asked why I’m single. I try to take it as a compliment – it has to be better than obviously deserving to be single – but of course I would prefer not to be single at all. So I’ve given the question a fair amount of thought.

A complete answer would take an entire blog of its own to provide, and in the process would risk collapsing upon itself into a sphincter-shaped, snot-drenched pit of delusional adolescent wankery from which not even Internet hyperbole could escape. I’ll spare everyone.

Instead, I want to focus on one of the reasons I may not try harder not to be single.

The short version.

The long version:

At a school function years ago – a cocktail reception in an airy glassed-in pavilion just before sunset – I noticed a classmate. I’d seen her before in the hall. I’d thought she was kind of pretty, in an unusual way. She reminded me of royalty from a medieval tapestry. But something about the way I experienced her at that moment hit me in the chest like lightning.

It was intoxicating. It resonated in my head like turbulent flame. It hurt.

And I was hooked. I watched for her everywhere I went, tried to learn about her, and sought opportunities to interact with her. But I was shy, and she was shy, and our schedules didn’t match up well, so it took months before I even knew her name. Until I did, I referred to her as “cattle prod girl.”

Nothing ever happened between us. One drunken night not long before we all packed up and moved away from campus, I managed, in humiliatingly adolescent fashion, to tell her she was beautiful. I suppose I must have at least embarrassed her, because she walked away.

I never saw her again.

That electricity is the sensation I’m always hoping to recapture. Cattle prod girl isn’t the only woman who’s ever given it to me, and I can be attracted to a woman without it – otherwise I could never flirt, date, or have sex (thankfully Little Bruno’s not as picky as I am) – but it seems that even if I want to, I can’t fully commit unless I get that incapacitating, almost painful validation of my attraction.

Rationally, I understand that’s foolish. I also worry that it’s cruel, and that it proves I’m an insecure asswad. There are many, many wonderful women in the world. I even meet some of them from time to time, and not all of them are married/gay/incarcerated/etc. Sometimes I’ll even try to date them, but I’m usually unsuccessful. Maybe I give off insecure asswad vibes.

Of the handful of other women who’ve given me similar sensations – though none has ever been so strong – none has come any closer than cattle prod girl to dating me. I’ve never so much as kissed one of them. Some have rejected me and others have ultimately proven not to be anyone I’d want to date. Others disappeared before anything happened.

Remember that I’d seen cattle prod girl a few times before she gave me a heart attack. She was only one of the hundreds of attractive women around, and not even one who was heavily pursued or gossiped about. My experience seems to show that there’s no predicting which woman I’ve thought was attractive will suddenly electrocute me.

I suppose that leaves some hope that I can find it within a relationship rather than from a stranger.

But I can’t know which are the cattle prod girls or whether I’ll ever meet another one, and compatibility with cattle prod girls may be no more likely than with anyone else. It’s a recipe either for serial monogamy or for inaction, loneliness, and celibacy. I’ve taken the latter path: It’s no accident that I recently ended a two-year drought or that I’ve been single for over four years.

Those periods could, and perhaps should, have been longer. Despite being an insecure asswad (among other failings), I somehow seem to be able to attract women. And, perhaps because I’m an asswad, I don’t always reject them. I don’t know whether I’ve ever inspired anything near the same electricity, but of the five women who’ve gotten naked with me, only one was someone I pursued. The other four all pursued me, up to and including propositioning sex.

To be fair, I’ve tried to maintain relationships in most cases, and I’ve always been a generous lover. Yet knowing that I have experienced paralyzing magnetism – knowing that with no warning I might experience it again – makes long-term commitment feel impossible. Having to settle for a more mundane sense of attraction seems unfair.

Guest Blogger

Dear Pervocracy,

Holly's a little preoccupied right now. OK screw this, it's the Pervocracy so why mince words. Holly's sucking my dick for the 20th time this weekend(bless wireless keyboards. Bless 'em). We're awesome perverted geeks. So what the hell, let me toss off a couple of quick points here while I've got my hands free.

1) Ladies, whatever the magazines say, FUCK NO, USING TEETH DURING ORAL SEX IS NOT A GOOD IDEA. Holy crap, I feel better just having said it. Holly, honey, you're good about this one. Seriously. It doesn't feel good. I don't know how somebody got it into their heads that that's a good technique, but I don't think a guy came up with that one. Imagine some guy using teeth on your va-jay. It's not a pleasant idea, right?

2) People that whine about how much their partners aren't willing to have sex with them need to change something. Whether it's their partner, their arrangements, or their whinging, something's got to give.

3) People who waste time on Pick-Up Artist bullshit rather than oh, say, improving themselves as people, physically, mentally, and emotionally, are losers. There's no exception to this. I'm a geek from New Jersey, folks, I love Bon Jovi, Star Wars, and comic books, and I still get laid pretty frequently. Y'know why? Not because I'm some superstar catch physically(I'm not bad, but I'm not Brad Pitt), not because I make a ton of money, not because I have some super-sekrit(tm) way of putting women down in such a way that they'll sleep with me. Because I'm willing to better myself. Yes, Eurosabra, just so that I'm fucking crystal clear here, I'm talking to you. Go work out, get a job, and pull your head out of your ass.

Now, if you folks'll excuse me, I'm gonna go make this pretty lady cry (and come!) before I have to hop a plane back to the East Coast.

-Tommy