Moved.

The move is finished. My stuff is still a mess of boxes and piled-up junk, but it's in a new place. I can stay here. I can make it my own.

This move totaled 5 carloads that I moved myself, plus one vanload that my friends were VERY kind to help me with. I haven't slept in... a while. I can sleep now. I have a home. I'm lucky that way.

Squirt.

It amazes me that there is still a debate on whether female ejaculation exists. It's like hearing serious grown-ups intensely discuss the elusive cryptid known as the "mouse." Mice: are they real? The world may never know.

And "well, it doesn't taste like pee" is one of those arguments that you reveal a whole lot about yourself by making.

It's a little weird for me, actually, that I haven't ever ejaculated. I've certainly devoted enough love and affection to my G-spot, but the resultant fluid is more of a trickle than a gush. In my most paranoid moments I've wondered if maybe I've never really had an orgasm at all, but no, that is not even remotely possible. I've had times that I felt like I needed to pee during sex, but I'm pretty sure that I really needed to pee.

Maybe I just can't. Maybe it's genetic or something. Some people can't curl their tongue and I can't squirt. Considering the things I can so, I don't feel too inadequate about it. It's just strange.



P.S.: I know posting has kinda sucked lately. The problem is that with no computer, it's almost impossible for me to comment on anything outside, since tabbing around and copy-pasting is unbelievably difficult and unreliable on the iPod. It's also very difficult for me to edit my writing properly. And then there's the timesink of moving. Hopefully I'll have my computer back later this week and have more interesting things to say. For the next couple days, sucking may continue. :(

Moving.

For the third time in sixth months, I'm moving. This is the least painful move--it's less than a mile and my new place is on the first floor (which in Somerville is still up a flight of stairs, but only one; my current room is up three flights)--but it still hurts. I moved a ton of crap today and I still have a ton of crap left to move.

If you have a thing for sweaty, smelly, grouchy girls then I guess I'm going to be pretty sexy for the next couple days.

Unfit.

My cousin Sam is raising another man's child. His wife already had a young daughter when they met, and as Sam and his wife became closer and got married, the daughter gradually came under his care. Now she lives in his house and calls him Dad and pretty much adores him, and they're a happy little family. Sam is investing huge amounts of money and time into another man's daughter, giving up his chance to have any genetic children of his own, and he's happy about it.

My other cousin Lucy has a simpler story. She just doesn't have any children and never plans to have any.

So they're two out of millions of people who have voluntarily given up on evolutionary fitness. Sam and Lucy's genes are going nowhere because of the choices they've made. And they're what I think of when I read those "evolutionary psychology" articles about how everything humans do is all about maximizing our fitness and making sure our kids are ours and our seed is spread. (These articles, incidentally, and I'd provide links if I had a proper computer to type this on, have a charming tendency to think fitness consists of getting laid, rather than getting laid and conceiving a child and raising them to adulthood. Steps 2 and 3 there are actually pretty significant.) It seems ridiculous to me to suggest that Lucy is somehow subconciously attracted to men with good genes for her children, when she very consciously isn't using anyone's genes for anything. Or that Sam and his wife's relationship is based in ensuring the fatherhood of children, when they know damn well he's not the genetic father.

Obviously humans are evolved animals, and our history has selected for those who passed on their genes. But in our case selection has led us toward intelligence, and that complicates things. It means that human behavior really can't all be explained in terms of reproduction. It has to be seen in light of us being human.

Guilty pleasure.

Confession: this guy's stories get me off like nothing else.

It's terrible. His web design is worse than incomptent-some of those letters don't even have any stories, the story links aren't lined up with the titles and descriptions, and I think some of the stories are posted in .doc format. His writing is terrible and the grammar is bad, and the stories almost never have proper endings. And the content is incredibly offensive and misogynistic stories of violent rape.

These stories get me off. I don't even know why. But I read them and masturbate and they just work for me. I hate the writing, hate the guy, am annoyed with myself--and wet as all hell.

I would kind of like to find some replacement erotica with the same themes of protracted struggle and assfucked innocence, only written by a sane person who knows how to craft a story and a webpage and doesn't make me worry that they're a sex offender, but... so far I haven't found one that has quite the same effect on me.

Things you should know about my vagina.

Something you should know about my vagina: it is not fragile. It is a big, tough muscle, as capable of stretching and flexing and holding its own as a bicep or a thigh. My vagina can take a hit. Every part is tough, gristly, firmly attached; it would take a very deliberate or completely insane attack to truly damage it. I may be sensitive in this area, my nerves may complain, but mt flesh itself is nowhere near its breaking point.

Something else you should know about my vagina: it's mine. Not idealogically mine like my soul is; literally mine, like my car is. I have a vested interest in keeping my car running and undented, but sometimes I'll do donuts or drive offroad or through puddles that are just a little too deep, because my car is mine to play with.

And one last thing about my vagina: it's temporary. We build things, sometimes, with no clear idea that they will end; companies do not plan to go out of business eventually, houses are not built to only stand for a while, governments do not conduct business keeping in mind that their rule has to end sometime. But they will. And on my vagina the deadline is even more clear: it's got about sixty years left. Maximum. After that, everything I might do to preserve my vagina's pristine and dignified nature becomes an extremely moot point. So... smoke 'em if you got 'em.

I am not am accidental slut. I am a slut by way of philosophical conviction.

EtOH.

(I'm still computerless and painfully pecking these out on the iPod, but it's getting reduntant announcing it each time.)

Alcohol and I have a funny relationship. I don't drink all that often, or all that much. But when I do drink, two drinks are my absolute limit of rationality. I can hold one drink with dignity, and after two I'll be buzzed but coherent. After three (or sometimes two strong ones, honestly), "coherent" is not a word anyone would use. Particularly not me, because I won't be able to pronounce it.

I'm a cheery drunk, prone to a lot of giggling and not too much trouble-causing, but I am also a ragingly horny drunk. The slender thread of inhibition between me and rampant sexual advances on all my friends and a good number of strangers is dissolved. It's not a matter of me being unable to resist people "taking advantage of me"; I'm out there grabbing asses and taking names. Or occasionally forgetting to take names.

(I also tend to appear somewhat drunker than I am, both because my physical coordination is not much to begin with, and because I invariably start thinking it would be funny to "act drunk.")

Is it ethical to fuck me when I'm horny drunk? I think it is, and not just because I want it. Wait, no. I think it is, because I want it. I may be making different decisions than I would sober (although usually just the ones I wish I would), but I'm making decisions. To me that's consent. In some cases it may be wise to turn me down on a "no, that would be a really bad idea" level, but not on a "no, that would be rape" level. Rape is when a girl says "no" or says nothing or says "yes" under coercion, but I'm pretty sure it's not when a girl says "i'sh wanna fuck you, you shtud."

Because if you insist on waiting until I'm not under the influence, you'll be waiting a long time. I'm under the influence of society, of wanting attention and affection, of some seriously powerful hormones, of how long it's been since the last time, of feeling ugly or pretty or unsure, of a huge potent brew of totally unfair outside factors warping my thinking. If you want me to make a truly unimpeded decision, alcohol is the least of your concerns.

(I also--and this is just me--have a fairly laid-back approach to sexual regrets. If I have consensual, well-remembered sex with someone I really shouldn't have, my emotions don't go much beyond "well, I won't have sex with them again." I've never thought of it as some huge irreversible mistake.)

Drunk sex can be really good, too. I'm all giggly and tee-hee-I'm-so-vulnerable, I'm a bit less oversensitive than usual, and then there's the muscle relaxant effect...

Short iPod Post: Another silly Youtube link.

In the extremely unlikely eventuality that you haven't seen "Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury" yet, you really should.

(If I were going to fuck a classic sci-fi writer... Hmm. Heinlein seems like he'd be more fun, but Clarke deserves it more. Harlan Ellison would traumatize me for life but it might be worth it. Maybe I'd just go ahead and show Damon Knight how I serve man.)

Short iPod Post: Sum of the parts.

Sometimes I'm frustrated that I don't know exactly what I'm into. I have some general ideas on the physical stuff--biting yes please, paddling no thank you, clit stimulation no thank you, G-spot stimulation OHHH FUCK FUCCCKK AHHH--but a lot of the big questions are unanswered. Like, would I ever be okay with monogamy? Do I want a relationship with a for-reals power dynamic or just play? Do I ever want to be forced into things I really don't want, or do I want to keep it strictly on the "oh no, not the briar patch" level? Do I ultimately want to settle down with a house and kids and a picket fence? Do I enjoy switching ever? Would I enjoy performing purely nonsexual service? How serious a relationship do I want at this point in my life, or do I prefer being single?

And the answer is not, I think, that I need to navel-gaze until I answer these things. The answer is "well, with whom?" Because it's no use thinking too hard about what I'd do with a faceless gray box of a partner who dropped out of the sky on me. In reality, every relationship I've had has developed a different dynamic, and one that was different from all my partner's previous relationships as well. Chemistry isn't about the elements that just sit there; it's about the reactions, and I can never predict what those will be. (Which is why I flunked out of pre-med.) What I want in a relationship is a moot point--I won't know until I find out what I want in a relationship with Joe.

I feel like some people approach dating with an idea of what they want, and the question they want to answer is "how close is this person to what I'm looking for?" I don't. The only question I have is "do I like this person?", because the way in which I like them has to reach its own equilibrium.

Short iPod Post: Age.

(I am so very frustrated with my lack of a computer. Teeny tiny non-tactile buttons on a cracked screen with no flash and no tabbed browsing and cumbersome copy-paste sucks SO MUCH. Wahhhh.)

I saw an ad on TV the other day for a modeling show featuring women over 35. All the promo quotes were things like "after 35, I have no fear," and "I'm more beautiful now than ever." Well, no shit, lady, because you're barely middle-aged! You're not exactly a wise old silver fox enjoying her golden years at thirty-freaking-five. Hell, in Kinkland that's still TNG age! (The Next Generation, a group reserved for young kinksters to keep out the goddamn creepy old chickenhawks.) But in TV years that makes you older than Yoda. God knows what they think a 45-year old is. I'm guessing "someone with the majority of their sexually active years still ahead of them" isn't the answer.

It still gets to me sometimes that Britney Spears is only four years older than me. I'm just barely starting at life and she's widely considered to be completely used up. ...Is four more years of sexiness all I'm gonna get? Shit.

I saw an ad for porn featuring 18- and 19-year-olds, and I wasn't enthralled by the prospect. Not because of the "they're making a life mistake" concern, but because most 18-year-olds kinda suck at sex. At 18 I really didn't know how to move, didn't know how to communicate, had no self-confidence at all, and had probably 10% of the still-immature skillset I have these days. "Innocence" is just another word for incomptence.

It's not that older is always better, but I'm dismayed by the idea that older is sexless, and by just how low the "old" bar is set. Old is, like, 80. 40 is just an adult. And lemme tell ya, some of those adults really know what they're doing.

Short iPod Post: Overstimulated.

So last night I was having sex, as I am so wont to do, and it was going really well--I was coming my brains out and then some. And then too much. Sometime after the tenth orgasm I just couldn't take any more. I was in that state where every touch is amplified, only the touch in question was fast hard fucking. I had to stop. I couldn't take it.

For some reason I feel worse having any sexual inadequacies when it's in a kinky context. Like I was somehow misrepresenting myself as kinky if I can't perform at a certain level. I'm not kinky, I can't even get fucked properly and sometimes I only want to be beaten a little bit! If I was really kinky I'd have a vagina like a Fleshlight and an ass like leather. Instead some asshole went and put way too many nerves in them.

It's funny how I can have sex that involves knives and pee and being pounded with lead-filled sap gloves, then worry I just wasn't kinky enough.

Anyway, we took a break, he hit me a bit as my partners are so wont to do, and then we started fucking again. And this time I held back. Which kind of sucks--trying not to grind my hips against a guy or tighten my pussy around his cock is just wrong! But that meant I only came a couple times, so I was able to go the distance.

When a guy brags about having a huge cock and being able to go full throttle for hours, I don't think "wow, heavenly." I think, "wow, that's so much more than I need." When average sex is amazing for me, amazing sex is... just too damn much.

Short iPod Post: Turkey.

If you have not seen this video, you really should.

(No nudity or anything, but might be a bit hard to explain to coworkers. Especially when it makes you laugh 'till you pee.)

Short iPod Post: Anticipation.

No matter how experienced I get, sometimes I feel like there's no way to wrap my head around the concept "I will be tortured tonight. I better not be late!" I'm both eager and fearful, and I always question my own sanity a little. I think it's because that's the moment when I reflect how I don't have to do any of this. I could walk away. I could even just ask them not to hurt me. Why the hell am I presenting myself for something that will hurt me?

Before I sound too much like a self-punishing neurotic, I should point out that I have this problem on rollercoasters and waterslides too. Now, I love rollercoasters as pure speedy joy and they don't cause me pain or make me sick. But if they stopped it at the top, after that long racha-racha-racha climb and in sight of the sheer hugeness of the first drop, and offered to let me off if I wanted... well, I wouldn't do it, but I imagine the feeling I'd have saying "no" is a whole lot like this one.

(Rollercoasters are really the perfect kink metaphor. You're strapped in, you're scared but trust there will be no real harm, whether you enjoy them is part psychology and part physiology, and they look so different from the outside than they do when you're on it.)

Short iPod post: Free Porn.

An ex-roommate came by and gave me free porn. I'm somewhere between proud and dismayed that it holds no interest for me. I mean, I'll watch it, once I have a computer again, but it really will just be to see if I can get a blog post out of it.

Because... well, it's just people fucking. Whatever, you know? I'm not so jaded that I don't still like to be just fucked myself, but in the absence of any other context or activities it seems pointless.

Actually, come to think of it, I don't like to be just fucked, and the reason has less to do with being jaded and more to do with needing my real-life sex to be based in something more interesting than "hey! These parts interlock!" If I wouldn't want real sex from a random stranger who doesn't have anything interesting about them, why would I want to watch them fuck?

Short iPod post: Toothy Bruises.

I have indiscreetly placed obvious bitemarks. Not nibbles. Heavily bruised CHOMPS. I have work soon. I'm doing my best with clothes and makeup, but I'm still not certain whether "I was helping a friend move [his human jaw collection?]", "it's none of your business [that I'm being horribly abused?]" or "it's none of your business *wink* [ewwww?]."

Probably A. I don't like lying when I haven't even done anything wrong, but I also don't like long awkward job-endangering "no, actually things are going GREAT at home" conversations.

Short iPod post: Sensitivity.

My first orgasm of the night (or day, or funeral service, courtroom session, what have you) actually takes some warmup. It's only the subsequent ones that are really "you just think about my vagina and there I go."

One downside of having a really sensitive vagina: if something happens to make me sore--even just one mis-thrust or fingernail scrape--I can never get over it; I'm sore for the rest of the night. Good thing I kinda get off on painful sex or this could be some sort of problem.

Short iPod post: B/briar P/patch.

Sometimes I think I'd like to be forced to use Strict Capitalization Protocol, just because I hate it so much.

Short iPod post: Appearances.

I was watching some BDSM porn lately where a guy was verbally humiliating a girl as he fucked her. As she started getting up to her "gonnacomegonnacome" faces and noises, he really ramped it up--you're a worthless fucktoy, you're only good for getting fucked, you're just a hole for me to use.

And all I could think was "aw, what a sweet guy, he's really doing all he can to make it good for her."

Tragedy!

I spilled water on my laptop and now it won't start! Horror, sorrow. Typing this on iPod. Blogging will be impaired until computer dries or is replaced.

Tonight fun though. Many bite marks. Do so love the biting.

Cosmocking: "S&M"!

The new Cosmo is here! Joy! I don't have time to do a full Cosmocking before work! Sorrow!

So I'll just do one article, because, well. The title is "Whips, Chains, Cages... Whoa" and it's about "S&M" in the media. They say "S&M" many times and each one is like aluminum foil in my teeth.

Quick terminology lesson: weird mean sex is generically called "BDSM." (Or more expansively "kink", or various evasions like "What it is that we do.") This consists of:
-"B/D", which is "bondage and discipline" and the part of the acronym that no one ever uses.
-"D/s", which is "dominance and submission" and refers to psychological control and power exchange. (Note goofy capitalization convention. Because a Dominant gets the Big Important Letters, and a submissive is only worthy of tiny puny letters.)
-"S/M" or just "SM", which is "sadism and masochism" (or "sadomasochism") and refers to the painful stuff. This is pretty much never, ever, ever called "S&M" or "S and M" by anyone in the community.

So saying "S&M" has roughly the same effect on dedicated perverts as saying "Captain Kirk, from The Star Wars." Bear that in mind as I finally get to the actual article.

When Rihanna appeared on the cover of one of her singles wearing barbed wire, our first thought was just, "Huh, that's racy." But combined with Shakira's recent cage dancing and Christina Augilera throwing on a sex hood and caressing a bound chick in a music video, it all points to a troubling trend.
Yes, it is troubling when people half-assedly appropriate BDSM imagery without knowing what the fuck they're actually referencing. It simultaneously creates the conceptions in the public minds that "BDSM is totally crazy and dark and underground" and "BDSM is basically just sex only sexier." And worst of all, "BDSM is a costume and a set design, but all anyone actually does is sort of stand around and wiggle."

These stars are successful enough that they can call the shots when it comes to what they wear and what themes they explore. Why, suddenly, are they embracing S&M?
Because they don't "call the shots"--no one in commercial entertainment does. They can't say "I'd like to do this one in a comfy t-shirt and gym shorts," because that's not what the Marketing Oracles are favoring this week. They have to constantly get attention to keep making money, and dressing up in My First Dominatrix Costume is one way to do that.

That they're tying themselves up makes a difference. According to psychologist James Houran, PhD, bondage circles call this topping from the bottom, which means the person who's being submissive is really in control.
Okay, that's not remotely what "topping from the bottom" means. Topping from the bottom means being bossy and fussy while nominally on the bottom, and is generally considered obnoxious behavior.

Also, I can't even express how annoyed I am that they consulted a psychologist instead of, you know, a kinky person. We can speak for ourselves, assholes; we don't need you to send in an anthropologist in a pith helmet to study our quaint ways.

When stars pose in PVC or handcuffs, they're pushing our buttons, not the other way around.
Sure, because they're not really kinky. I can't speak to PVC because I don't have much interest in that fetish, but when I wear handcuffs, I sure as hell get my buttons pushed.

And that's a good thing. If I were wearing handcuffs and didn't give a crap, well, that's kind of sad, isn't it? There's this weird media ideal that the woman with no desire of her own is the master of men, but really, having sexual power shouldn't preclude experiencing pleasure yourself.

"Men like the fantasy of a submissive woman, while women feel powerful when they're wanted," he says.
In other words, men are all tops and women don't really have sexual desires but like to be pretty. Or maybe this is just rationalizing a way to say "kids, kids, you're both the top" rather than admit that sometimes submission does actually mean, you know, submitting. Because it would be so wrong if that happened.

"People are interested in eroticizing their fears, but hurting someone or wanting to be hurt is unhealthy, so S&M remains unacceptable to most people," says Christopher Ryan, PhD.
Man, I always thought PhDs required a lot of work and research, but apparently I could get one just studying my own Saturday nights.

Anyway, the question of what "unhealthy" really means or why this might or might not be true is a big complicated one, so let's just go back to our safe place of "it's okay to wear slutty black clothes, but not if you actually enjoy it." Women should be seen and not come.

Whether you realize it or not, you may indulge in some aspects of S&M yourself.
WHOA NO SHIT REALLY?

Just like how barely there hoo-ha hair came from porn, nose piercings, cutout dresses, and zip-up strappy heels got their start in S&M.
It really is just a fucking costume, huh?

The last time I indulged in some aspects of S&M, I was wearing a cotton sundress and my partner was in a geek-logo t-shirt and cargo shorts. It's too bad I left my zip-up strappy heels at home, because otherwise the way I was slapping and biting him could have been kinky or something!

Incorporating S&M into fashion is one way for us to show you're badass without venturing too far into taboo territory.
But you're not badass! I'm badass! I have been set on fire! (Actually not particularly painful with alcohol fuel. But still. It takes nerves of steel, if nothing else.) You want to be badass, go get set on fire and then wear your goddamn strappy heels.

There's nothing wrong with not being kinky. Most people aren't. It doesn't make your sex less interesting or less intense or less anything. But don't go putting on some goofy costume and telling me you're a super kinky "S&M" badass now. That's posing, it's insulting, and it's really really dumb.