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.
Monday, October 11, 2010
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.
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.
"I'M KING OF THE WOOOORLD!"
Dear Internet,
Today I had sex at the midpoint of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Love,
Holly
Today I had sex at the midpoint of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Love,
Holly
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."
"He's a please-you-til-you're-sore."
"He's a lick-a-lotta-puss."
Stamina.
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.
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.
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
NYC.
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
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 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.
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.
Pervertibles.
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.
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.
Pervertibles.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Cosmocking: September '10!
I'm baaaack! And Cosmo, well, Cosmo never left us! Blue cover! Jessica Alba! "Untamed Va-jay-jays" in very large font, I seriously can't believe they sell this thing at supermarkets! Also "GUY SEX," although technically they are only referring to guy-girl sex! Because Cosmo wants to be shocking and modern and stuff, but only for, you know, normal people!
A moment to talk about Spanx. Every issue of Cosmo mentions this stuff. In this one, they're taking the unbelievably depressing step of revealing that Jessica Alba wears Spanx, because just because you're Jessica Fucking Alba doesn't mean your body's good enough. What are Spanx? They're body shapers: hideous underwear designed to compress and conceal your problem areas. And Cosmo would like us to believe that we all should (actually, they usually talk with the assumption that we all do) wear Spanx at all times. Because we are all broken and we must all be fixed. Because sexy is something that you are, not something you do. Because wearing clothes that you can't fuck in--sometimes that you can't even go potty in--is necessary to be fuckable. Because you are sexiest when you look least like yourself. Because the idea that your raw glistening lusty humanity is the sexiest fucking thing about you would seriously endanger the hundred-dollar-hideous-underwear industry.
Even if you feel like you're not ready for marriage this minute, it's crucial at least to discuss the prospect of exchanging rings by the 18-month mark of a relationship [...] and then follow it up with a check-in every year to make sure that you both still see it happening.
Even if you don't want to get married, make sure he wants to get married. Because, really, you want to get married. Cosmo knows. Cosmo even has a timeline all planned out for you. Come on already and give Cosmo some grandchildren.
[on TV shows you should or shouldn't watch with him]
Man vs. Wild - Seeing the host gut a camel is badass, but hearing a girl whine about how disgusting it is ruins it.
It's not disgusting. It's fascinating, and ultimately this kind of carnage is where all meat comes from. I eat meat, so naturally I don't really mind... OH GOD WHERE DID MY VAGINA GO.
Mythbusters
Oh you did not just tell me not to watch "Mythbusters." We aren't friends anymore, Cosmo. (Actually, last time Rowdy was over, we watched "Mythbusters." The conclusion we reached: Kari yes, Grant probably, Tori yes, Adam yes, Jamie no. Not because Jamie isn't sexy, but because he has such hardcore kinks that he can't even play with anyone who isn't super experienced and battle-hardened. He'd completely use me up in thirty seconds.)
A Stanford University study revealed that the area of the brain associated with reward and addiction is more active in men than in women when playing video games. Dud. But what's surprising is that games that involve defending a place, like Halo, had the most powerful effect. Since men are instinctively territorial, fending off invaders is like crack for their inner Neanderthal.
I'd go "people aren't descended from Neanderthals!", but apparently people of Eurasian descent kind of are, so never mind. (I'd go "people aren't currently Neanderthals!", but ugh, we could be here all day.) Instead I'll just point out that Halo isn't a "defending a place" game; it's mostly about advancing through enemy territory. Maybe they were playing Capture The Flag instead of campaign mode. Neanderthals do love Capture The Flag.
Oh never fucking mind, they didn't actually play Halo at all. Although the researchers did themselves declare that "It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who historically are the conquerors and tyrants of our species—they’re the males.", so, you know, that's the only logical conclusion from determining who likes to play little clicky Flash games more.
They didn't compare a non-territory-control game like a platform puzzle or whatever, and they don't mention controlling for how much previous gaming experience the subjects had, and they don't seem to consider that men might feel more rewarded because they're better at the game rather than vice versa. But hey, you don't have to be a genius to figure out that 22 subjects and one clicky Flash game proves that the reason men were historically dominant is that they naturally deserved it, case closed.
[A guy goes on a three-day "juice cleanse" fast to empathize with the way his girlfriend diets.]
That's really the worst part of the cleanse. It's not the absence of food--though that part is fucking terrible--it's the interruption it causes in every aspect of your life. Anytime someone said something to me, I found myself taking a long-ass time to process it and respond.
[...]I lost 8 pounds in three days. But as soon as I finished, I pigged out and gained it all back.
I won't be trying another detox but I am glad I did it. It's taught me to appreciate what my girlfriend goes through. And from now on, I won't just tell her she's pretty. I'll tell her she's damn hot, because she is, and the stuff she goes through to feel good and healthy is hard.
You won't tell her, hey, don't go on diets so extreme you can't think normally, because that shit clearly isn't good for your health? "Oh honey, I found out that your behavior is really hurting you, and that makes me appreciate it so much more!"
(Hey! Cosmo printed "fuck"! Usually they're squeamish about that one.)
Now comes the fashion section, which I generally skim, but I couldn't help noticing that they're pushing $28 pantyhose. Am I the only one who finds pantyhose to be basically a single-use item? I get $5 hose because I just destroy it. I dunno, maybe the $28 variety is more durable, but I'd be really annoyed if I paid that and then it ripped in five minutes like they always do.
Aw man, the first sex article is just reprints from one of their sex-position books given different names. The same positions that they also repeated unaltered for their iPhone app. Cosmo's gotten a whole lotta mileage out of "The Stairway Sizzler."
When he's angry and you need to defuse a fight: place your hand on top of his shoulder, keeping your elbow straight.
Maybe this is paranoia, and I know they're talking about people who are intimate and who are just having a regular argument, but I wouldn't touch someone who was revving up to a fight. Laying hands on is an excellent way to set off a brewing explosion, or to escalate someone from verbal to physical. (Hopefully not abusively physical, but at least shoving your hand away and taking on a threatening stance while making the argument much more intense and emotional.) It's condescending to touch someone who's reasonably upset, and it's dangerous to touch someone who's unreasonably upset.
"It may make things hotter for her when she breaks out a bunch of devices or other sex toys, but if a girl does it too often, it makes me look down and think there's something wrong with my own equipment."
I'm sorry, honey, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings by implying that your penis doesn't vibrate. There, there. And I definitely didn't mean to put my sexual pleasure over your delicate, nay, diaphanous little ego.
Q: I've never been that turned on by breast stimulation. How can I get more pleasure?
Touch the places that do turn you on. (Needless to say, Cosmo just goes through a bunch of different ways she could stimulate her breasts, because accepting your body as it is--that way lies madness.)
[pickup line for women] "My bracelet fell off. Can you clasp it for me?"
"Why sure... hey... how exactly did you put this on at home?"
Make eye contact with a hot guy--it activates the brain's reward center. [...] Gazing at a photo of your significant other activates the part of your brain associated with intense reward.
Anything that feels good "activates the brain's reward center." In fact, activation of the brain's reward center is the experience of feeling good. It's a complete truism. I ate some chicken soup today and activated my brain's reward center, then scratched an itch and activated my brain's reward center, then watched this video (NWS) and activated my brain's reward center.
Your pain threshold is at its highest from 3 to 5 p.m., so it's an ideal time for an overdue pedicure.
A) Are pedicures supposed to hurt? I've never had one, but I thought they just prettied up your toenails and stuff. I didn't realize they required pain tolerance.
B) Whoever made that determination clearly didn't take 3 AM into account.
[On fixes for minor medical problems] Your heels hurt from wearing flats.
Whoa. I never even considered this possibility. I guess the Cosmo Girl is supposed to be so acclimated to heels that her tendons have actually shortened and she can no longer comfortably walk like a normal person? Whoa. That certainly brings harsh new meaning to the phrase "living Barbie."
Our walk tends to be stiffest when we ovulate. Fisher theorizes that our predecessors wanted to avoid continual pregnancy, so they would intuitively rein in their hips in an attempt to discourage advances.
Yeah, we wouldn't experience a dip in actual sex drive that would cause us to decide not to have sex, we just would make ourselves very subtly less sexy. Because, see above digression on Spanx, sex isn't a thing women do, it's a thing women look like. You wiggle your hips or not and the rest is all out of your hands.
Anyway, "continual" pregnancy is avoided mostly through lactational amenorrhea in societies without birth control.
I never planned to marry my stepbrother. Who does? But I couldn't imagine wanting anyone but Sam.
Oh no, Cosmo... oh no no no no.
Also, the "I couldn't imagine wanting anyone but you," rhetoric, while possibly true here because she doesn't have any other siblings, strikes me as sort of creepy. I'd say something more like "I want you a whole lot," because even if I were monogamous, I can still imagine being monogamous with someone else. I mean, there's a lot of dudes out there and some of them are really awesome, you know? Doesn't mean I'd necessarily cheat, just that I'm... realistic.
A Softer World is realistic too, and on some level I find that more romantic, not less.
A moment to talk about Spanx. Every issue of Cosmo mentions this stuff. In this one, they're taking the unbelievably depressing step of revealing that Jessica Alba wears Spanx, because just because you're Jessica Fucking Alba doesn't mean your body's good enough. What are Spanx? They're body shapers: hideous underwear designed to compress and conceal your problem areas. And Cosmo would like us to believe that we all should (actually, they usually talk with the assumption that we all do) wear Spanx at all times. Because we are all broken and we must all be fixed. Because sexy is something that you are, not something you do. Because wearing clothes that you can't fuck in--sometimes that you can't even go potty in--is necessary to be fuckable. Because you are sexiest when you look least like yourself. Because the idea that your raw glistening lusty humanity is the sexiest fucking thing about you would seriously endanger the hundred-dollar-hideous-underwear industry.
Even if you feel like you're not ready for marriage this minute, it's crucial at least to discuss the prospect of exchanging rings by the 18-month mark of a relationship [...] and then follow it up with a check-in every year to make sure that you both still see it happening.
Even if you don't want to get married, make sure he wants to get married. Because, really, you want to get married. Cosmo knows. Cosmo even has a timeline all planned out for you. Come on already and give Cosmo some grandchildren.
[on TV shows you should or shouldn't watch with him]
Man vs. Wild - Seeing the host gut a camel is badass, but hearing a girl whine about how disgusting it is ruins it.
It's not disgusting. It's fascinating, and ultimately this kind of carnage is where all meat comes from. I eat meat, so naturally I don't really mind... OH GOD WHERE DID MY VAGINA GO.
Mythbusters
Oh you did not just tell me not to watch "Mythbusters." We aren't friends anymore, Cosmo. (Actually, last time Rowdy was over, we watched "Mythbusters." The conclusion we reached: Kari yes, Grant probably, Tori yes, Adam yes, Jamie no. Not because Jamie isn't sexy, but because he has such hardcore kinks that he can't even play with anyone who isn't super experienced and battle-hardened. He'd completely use me up in thirty seconds.)
A Stanford University study revealed that the area of the brain associated with reward and addiction is more active in men than in women when playing video games. Dud. But what's surprising is that games that involve defending a place, like Halo, had the most powerful effect. Since men are instinctively territorial, fending off invaders is like crack for their inner Neanderthal.
I'd go "people aren't descended from Neanderthals!", but apparently people of Eurasian descent kind of are, so never mind. (I'd go "people aren't currently Neanderthals!", but ugh, we could be here all day.) Instead I'll just point out that Halo isn't a "defending a place" game; it's mostly about advancing through enemy territory. Maybe they were playing Capture The Flag instead of campaign mode. Neanderthals do love Capture The Flag.
Oh never fucking mind, they didn't actually play Halo at all. Although the researchers did themselves declare that "It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who historically are the conquerors and tyrants of our species—they’re the males.", so, you know, that's the only logical conclusion from determining who likes to play little clicky Flash games more.
They didn't compare a non-territory-control game like a platform puzzle or whatever, and they don't mention controlling for how much previous gaming experience the subjects had, and they don't seem to consider that men might feel more rewarded because they're better at the game rather than vice versa. But hey, you don't have to be a genius to figure out that 22 subjects and one clicky Flash game proves that the reason men were historically dominant is that they naturally deserved it, case closed.
[A guy goes on a three-day "juice cleanse" fast to empathize with the way his girlfriend diets.]
That's really the worst part of the cleanse. It's not the absence of food--though that part is fucking terrible--it's the interruption it causes in every aspect of your life. Anytime someone said something to me, I found myself taking a long-ass time to process it and respond.
[...]I lost 8 pounds in three days. But as soon as I finished, I pigged out and gained it all back.
I won't be trying another detox but I am glad I did it. It's taught me to appreciate what my girlfriend goes through. And from now on, I won't just tell her she's pretty. I'll tell her she's damn hot, because she is, and the stuff she goes through to feel good and healthy is hard.
You won't tell her, hey, don't go on diets so extreme you can't think normally, because that shit clearly isn't good for your health? "Oh honey, I found out that your behavior is really hurting you, and that makes me appreciate it so much more!"
(Hey! Cosmo printed "fuck"! Usually they're squeamish about that one.)
Now comes the fashion section, which I generally skim, but I couldn't help noticing that they're pushing $28 pantyhose. Am I the only one who finds pantyhose to be basically a single-use item? I get $5 hose because I just destroy it. I dunno, maybe the $28 variety is more durable, but I'd be really annoyed if I paid that and then it ripped in five minutes like they always do.
Aw man, the first sex article is just reprints from one of their sex-position books given different names. The same positions that they also repeated unaltered for their iPhone app. Cosmo's gotten a whole lotta mileage out of "The Stairway Sizzler."
When he's angry and you need to defuse a fight: place your hand on top of his shoulder, keeping your elbow straight.
Maybe this is paranoia, and I know they're talking about people who are intimate and who are just having a regular argument, but I wouldn't touch someone who was revving up to a fight. Laying hands on is an excellent way to set off a brewing explosion, or to escalate someone from verbal to physical. (Hopefully not abusively physical, but at least shoving your hand away and taking on a threatening stance while making the argument much more intense and emotional.) It's condescending to touch someone who's reasonably upset, and it's dangerous to touch someone who's unreasonably upset.
"It may make things hotter for her when she breaks out a bunch of devices or other sex toys, but if a girl does it too often, it makes me look down and think there's something wrong with my own equipment."
I'm sorry, honey, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings by implying that your penis doesn't vibrate. There, there. And I definitely didn't mean to put my sexual pleasure over your delicate, nay, diaphanous little ego.
Q: I've never been that turned on by breast stimulation. How can I get more pleasure?
Touch the places that do turn you on. (Needless to say, Cosmo just goes through a bunch of different ways she could stimulate her breasts, because accepting your body as it is--that way lies madness.)
[pickup line for women] "My bracelet fell off. Can you clasp it for me?"
"Why sure... hey... how exactly did you put this on at home?"
Make eye contact with a hot guy--it activates the brain's reward center. [...] Gazing at a photo of your significant other activates the part of your brain associated with intense reward.
Anything that feels good "activates the brain's reward center." In fact, activation of the brain's reward center is the experience of feeling good. It's a complete truism. I ate some chicken soup today and activated my brain's reward center, then scratched an itch and activated my brain's reward center, then watched this video (NWS) and activated my brain's reward center.
Your pain threshold is at its highest from 3 to 5 p.m., so it's an ideal time for an overdue pedicure.
A) Are pedicures supposed to hurt? I've never had one, but I thought they just prettied up your toenails and stuff. I didn't realize they required pain tolerance.
B) Whoever made that determination clearly didn't take 3 AM into account.
[On fixes for minor medical problems] Your heels hurt from wearing flats.
Whoa. I never even considered this possibility. I guess the Cosmo Girl is supposed to be so acclimated to heels that her tendons have actually shortened and she can no longer comfortably walk like a normal person? Whoa. That certainly brings harsh new meaning to the phrase "living Barbie."
Our walk tends to be stiffest when we ovulate. Fisher theorizes that our predecessors wanted to avoid continual pregnancy, so they would intuitively rein in their hips in an attempt to discourage advances.
Yeah, we wouldn't experience a dip in actual sex drive that would cause us to decide not to have sex, we just would make ourselves very subtly less sexy. Because, see above digression on Spanx, sex isn't a thing women do, it's a thing women look like. You wiggle your hips or not and the rest is all out of your hands.
Anyway, "continual" pregnancy is avoided mostly through lactational amenorrhea in societies without birth control.
I never planned to marry my stepbrother. Who does? But I couldn't imagine wanting anyone but Sam.
Oh no, Cosmo... oh no no no no.
Also, the "I couldn't imagine wanting anyone but you," rhetoric, while possibly true here because she doesn't have any other siblings, strikes me as sort of creepy. I'd say something more like "I want you a whole lot," because even if I were monogamous, I can still imagine being monogamous with someone else. I mean, there's a lot of dudes out there and some of them are really awesome, you know? Doesn't mean I'd necessarily cheat, just that I'm... realistic.
A Softer World is realistic too, and on some level I find that more romantic, not less.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
KEYBOARD!
I have a keyboard I have a keyboard I have a keyboard. Oh QWERTY you feel so good under my fingers. Home row, I'm home. After more than a month of blogging on an iPod, I cracked and got a cheapie netbook, and now I'm typing in blazing Actual-Typing-O-Vision instead of painfully picking out each letter like a butterfly in some kind of goddamn diving bell.
Unfortunately, I also have to work a double-back shift in the Emergency Pit in less than an hour, so I don't have time to really explore what's possible with a blog when you can fucking type, but I'm looking forward to getting around to everything I'd backlogged, from two full Cosmockings to some more serious essay-style posts and probably some good dirty stories too.
For the moment, I leave you with this vignette:
Rowdy and Sprite are fucking while I'm ordering dinner from Foodler.
Me: Do you guys want Thai food?
Rowdy: [thrust, thrust] Yeah, get me some phad thai.
Me: With the shrimp?
Rowdy: [thrust, thrust] Uh huh.
Me: Sprite, do you want anything?
Sprite: No thanks, I'm full.
Rowdy and me: [helpless laughter]
Unfortunately, I also have to work a double-back shift in the Emergency Pit in less than an hour, so I don't have time to really explore what's possible with a blog when you can fucking type, but I'm looking forward to getting around to everything I'd backlogged, from two full Cosmockings to some more serious essay-style posts and probably some good dirty stories too.
For the moment, I leave you with this vignette:
Rowdy and Sprite are fucking while I'm ordering dinner from Foodler.
Me: Do you guys want Thai food?
Rowdy: [thrust, thrust] Yeah, get me some phad thai.
Me: With the shrimp?
Rowdy: [thrust, thrust] Uh huh.
Me: Sprite, do you want anything?
Sprite: No thanks, I'm full.
Rowdy and me: [helpless laughter]
Sleeping Alone.
I slept alone last night. I didn't have to.
Rowdy came over and we hung out and cuddled and did the monkey thing and watched "Mythbusters" and did some things monkeys never even thought of. Then he headed back to his place to meet Sprite, and invited me along. I said no. I stayed home and read "Into the Wild" (conclusion: Chris McCandless was crazypants, but I really want to go hiking) and sprawled out over the whole bed and slept well and late.
I like sleeping with people, in both senses, but I also like having my own space. I've been booking myself densely recently, with almost every night either work or a social/sexual commitment, and just quietly sitting at home feels like a luxury. Not one I'd want all the time (I've had enough of that), but one I sometimes need. Sleeping with Rowdy and Sprite is wonderful and sexy and warmfuzzy, but sleeping alone makes me feel like I've really rested.
It's possible that my philosophical solitude could be replicated via a king size bed. Three people in a full is cute and cuddly and all, but it does kinda mean you've got someone's elbow in your face all night.
Rowdy came over and we hung out and cuddled and did the monkey thing and watched "Mythbusters" and did some things monkeys never even thought of. Then he headed back to his place to meet Sprite, and invited me along. I said no. I stayed home and read "Into the Wild" (conclusion: Chris McCandless was crazypants, but I really want to go hiking) and sprawled out over the whole bed and slept well and late.
I like sleeping with people, in both senses, but I also like having my own space. I've been booking myself densely recently, with almost every night either work or a social/sexual commitment, and just quietly sitting at home feels like a luxury. Not one I'd want all the time (I've had enough of that), but one I sometimes need. Sleeping with Rowdy and Sprite is wonderful and sexy and warmfuzzy, but sleeping alone makes me feel like I've really rested.
It's possible that my philosophical solitude could be replicated via a king size bed. Three people in a full is cute and cuddly and all, but it does kinda mean you've got someone's elbow in your face all night.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Good clean fun.
When guys picture sex with two women, they probably imagine a lot of what happened last night:
-Sprite and me, lying side by side on the bed masturbating as Rowdy watched and took pictures. (You can't see, sorry. Sprite and Rowdy are not quite as freely exhibitionistic as I am.)
-Rowdy fucking Sprite while fingering me, and fucking me while fingering her, and her fingering him while he fucked me, and vice versa, and every conceivable other confguration. Including him fingering me while fucking me. That was new and sort of amazing.
-Rowdy and I making an, er, Eiffel tower over Sprite, and Spirte and me making a slightly diffrent one over him.
-Me working all five fingers into Sprite--an experience that left me amazed at the sheer strength of her vagina, which seemed more likely to hurt my hand than vice versa. Vaginas are awesome.
But I don't know if they picture all the three-way cuddling and talking and joking that goes on. Things that might not be on your Threesome Bucket List:
-An a capella rendition of Green Day's "Time Of Your Life.
-Pillsbury Doughboy impressions.
-Me, just after fucking Sprite and bending down to kiss her: "That was amazing, baby. No homo."
-Just as we were drifting of to sleep in a big pile and a warm fuzzy haze, a wayyyyy too extensive discussion of everyone's pooping habits.
-Me in the bed with Rowdy and Sprite as they fucked, about 98% asleep and feeling... okay with it. I was neither impelled to engage with them nor ignore them, but just to let it happen and feel happy and calm about it. It's a wonderful and funny thing to be 6 inches away while two people you're attracted to are having sex, and feel neither awkward nor jealous nor really aroused, but cosy.
-Sprite and me, lying side by side on the bed masturbating as Rowdy watched and took pictures. (You can't see, sorry. Sprite and Rowdy are not quite as freely exhibitionistic as I am.)
-Rowdy fucking Sprite while fingering me, and fucking me while fingering her, and her fingering him while he fucked me, and vice versa, and every conceivable other confguration. Including him fingering me while fucking me. That was new and sort of amazing.
-Rowdy and I making an, er, Eiffel tower over Sprite, and Spirte and me making a slightly diffrent one over him.
-Me working all five fingers into Sprite--an experience that left me amazed at the sheer strength of her vagina, which seemed more likely to hurt my hand than vice versa. Vaginas are awesome.
But I don't know if they picture all the three-way cuddling and talking and joking that goes on. Things that might not be on your Threesome Bucket List:
-An a capella rendition of Green Day's "Time Of Your Life.
-Pillsbury Doughboy impressions.
-Me, just after fucking Sprite and bending down to kiss her: "That was amazing, baby. No homo."
-Just as we were drifting of to sleep in a big pile and a warm fuzzy haze, a wayyyyy too extensive discussion of everyone's pooping habits.
-Me in the bed with Rowdy and Sprite as they fucked, about 98% asleep and feeling... okay with it. I was neither impelled to engage with them nor ignore them, but just to let it happen and feel happy and calm about it. It's a wonderful and funny thing to be 6 inches away while two people you're attracted to are having sex, and feel neither awkward nor jealous nor really aroused, but cosy.
Ultimate Pleasure.
Last night I masturbated to orgasm while receiving a backrub.
I have the best possible life.
I have the best possible life.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The power of "Don't Like."
I don't like being touched on the clitoris. I don't like being spanked hard. I don't like being blindfolded. And my attitudes toward anal play and heavy bondage are guarded and tentative. (Hole-y is really just a vagina slut.)
I've always been a bit ashamed of these liabilities, feeling that along with my limited pain tolerance and tendency to fatigue, they make me a suboptimal fuck. A real sex kitten would like everything, right? No holes barred. And if she doesn't precisely like an act, she should at least be "good, giving, and game" enough to do it anyway. (I like a lot of what Dan Savage writes, but "GGG" annoys the piss out of me with its new-age-frat-boy "if you were really sex-positive you wouldn't have all these pesky limits!" logic.") So I've tried, on some unfortunate occasions, to downplay my limits and do it all anyway.
The result was some really shitty sex. My partners weren't idiots or rapists; when I was doing something I didn't like they picked up on it and they didn't enjoy it. When you get down to it, not many guys want to touch a girl's clit just because it's there; they want to touch it to give her pleasure and experience her reaction. So letting a guy touch my clit because I didn't want to be difficult, then gritting my teeth at the discomfort, wasn't really doing either of us any favors.
Food analogy time: telling someone you'd like to have "sex" is about as helpful as asking them to cook you "food." And then getting angry--or worse, choking it down in visible misery--when they serve you a steak and you're a vegetarian. No, a vegetarian isn't the optimal trouble-free diner, but you could have had a delicious tofusteak or whatever the hell vegetarians eat if you'd gone ahead and presented your "trouble" upfront.
Sharing your limits may feel like a buzzkill, but not sharing your limits is a recipe for disaster. Limits can actually make for great sex--this may sound like low standards, but just knowing that a guy won't do anything I dislike is a surprisingly good and powerful feeling. It's all dessert and no veggies. Sex without doing X really means that you'll be doing Y and Z all night, and OH FUCK are Y and Z so fucking good.
(Note: I can't count the number of times I've had the following conversation with a guy:
"So, what are your limits? Anything I should steer clear of?"
"Nope, I'm not real complicated, I just like everything."
"So can I put my finger in your ass?"
"NOOOOO!")
I've always been a bit ashamed of these liabilities, feeling that along with my limited pain tolerance and tendency to fatigue, they make me a suboptimal fuck. A real sex kitten would like everything, right? No holes barred. And if she doesn't precisely like an act, she should at least be "good, giving, and game" enough to do it anyway. (I like a lot of what Dan Savage writes, but "GGG" annoys the piss out of me with its new-age-frat-boy "if you were really sex-positive you wouldn't have all these pesky limits!" logic.") So I've tried, on some unfortunate occasions, to downplay my limits and do it all anyway.
The result was some really shitty sex. My partners weren't idiots or rapists; when I was doing something I didn't like they picked up on it and they didn't enjoy it. When you get down to it, not many guys want to touch a girl's clit just because it's there; they want to touch it to give her pleasure and experience her reaction. So letting a guy touch my clit because I didn't want to be difficult, then gritting my teeth at the discomfort, wasn't really doing either of us any favors.
Food analogy time: telling someone you'd like to have "sex" is about as helpful as asking them to cook you "food." And then getting angry--or worse, choking it down in visible misery--when they serve you a steak and you're a vegetarian. No, a vegetarian isn't the optimal trouble-free diner, but you could have had a delicious tofusteak or whatever the hell vegetarians eat if you'd gone ahead and presented your "trouble" upfront.
Sharing your limits may feel like a buzzkill, but not sharing your limits is a recipe for disaster. Limits can actually make for great sex--this may sound like low standards, but just knowing that a guy won't do anything I dislike is a surprisingly good and powerful feeling. It's all dessert and no veggies. Sex without doing X really means that you'll be doing Y and Z all night, and OH FUCK are Y and Z so fucking good.
(Note: I can't count the number of times I've had the following conversation with a guy:
"So, what are your limits? Anything I should steer clear of?"
"Nope, I'm not real complicated, I just like everything."
"So can I put my finger in your ass?"
"NOOOOO!")
Cramp.
I'm on my hands and knees, getting fucked. It's going great, even by my exacting standards--I've spent probably the last fifteen minutes riding between plateaus of "this is so good I don't even want to spoil it by coming" and peaks of "wait, yes I do." My friend is fucking me hard and deep and a little rough--earlier in the night we did some really sick nasty play and even though now we're just fucking regular, some of the erotic charge of the play is still with us.
Right now I'm at one of those peaks, or maybe a plateau of peaks. I'm just coming and coming. I'm screaming, moaning, sobbing, making these deep guttural noises that are probably intensely embarassing but I'm miles past caring. I don't even feel the fucking in my pussy anymore-it's my whole body that's getting fucked, his cock setting off decious little explosions way deep in my guts. I just keep coming and it's better than anything.
Then my right calf muscle cramps. Not mildly. It spasms into a rock-hard locked-shut knot and I can't move my leg and it's call-an-ambulance painful. Since I'm already in a mindset of enthusiastically verbalizing sensations, I outright scream in pain. Sex is done for the night. I massage out the lump and take Motrin and go home.
Balls.
Right now I'm at one of those peaks, or maybe a plateau of peaks. I'm just coming and coming. I'm screaming, moaning, sobbing, making these deep guttural noises that are probably intensely embarassing but I'm miles past caring. I don't even feel the fucking in my pussy anymore-it's my whole body that's getting fucked, his cock setting off decious little explosions way deep in my guts. I just keep coming and it's better than anything.
Then my right calf muscle cramps. Not mildly. It spasms into a rock-hard locked-shut knot and I can't move my leg and it's call-an-ambulance painful. Since I'm already in a mindset of enthusiastically verbalizing sensations, I outright scream in pain. Sex is done for the night. I massage out the lump and take Motrin and go home.
Balls.
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