Reading the signs: Does she want to do me or not?

You’re horny and amped, ready to go, and you’re trying to get close to your preferred shag. But are they really into it? Do they even want to fool around? Do they even like you? Are your advances wanted or unwanted?

All excellent questions to be asking yourself. I hope to shed a little light on this issue from personal experience.

For me, I’ve noticed that when I really want someone sexually, I’m a much more active participant in the whole scenario. I find myself grabbing for them, caressing them, kissing, touching, and so on. I can’t get enough of them; I want more of them.

This sort of business – zealously jumping into oral sex, and other such go-getter clues – may also be interpreted as a resounding YES!!!!!!

True, just because a woman is very interested in fooling around with you, she may not want P-to-V penetration. But it is a good sign, nonetheless.

My body also betrays a lot about my interest and intentions in bed. If I’m being fondled and I like it, my body will rise to meet the welcome touching. I may begin to make happy, aroused noises. This part gets a little tricky, as it is in fact, possible to get turned on by someone whose fondling was undesired. This doesn’t necessarily mean I want to have sex with you. It just means you were pushy enough to get this far, and possibly that my judgment is temporarily flawed (booze, etc) or I am otherwise incapacitated.

Signs that probably indicate a woman does NOT want to have sex with you:

1. Passive participant. I can’t stress this enough. Unless some kinky submissive game is in play, if your (potential) partner is just laying there, not touching you, not stroking you, not sucking you, not leaning in for kisses, they more than likely do not want you, at least not at the moment (or maybe you have bad breath). This might be a good time to stop making all the moves, and let them make some if they want (and/or brush your teeth).

2. Mentions someone else they are seeing or are interested in while in your company. This seems like a no-brainer to me, but you’d be surprised at the number of men who try something knowing that I am into/seeing someone else.

3. Expresses hesitation of any kind. Trepidation at your attempts to disrobe them? Or really any such hesitation, verbal, or non-verbal, can otherwise be interpreted as a “No” or at the very least an “I’m not sure.” The classy move here is to cease and desist. If she decides she is sure, then you can enjoy a romp with enthusiastic consent – it’ll be a lot more fun!

4. Look for the presence of enthusiastic consent in any form, rather than the absence of a “No!” Consent is a funny thing, and it looks and seems different ways to different people. How sure are you that your partner wholeheartedly consents to your current attempts to penetrate their nether regions? Be sure. Don’t be rapey.

I hope this helps to clear a few things up. If you are looking for these signs and are able to read them in others and potential partners, I think it can help to avoid a lot of awkward rejections, not to mention acquaintance rapes. Good luck out there, fellas!

One last time (or three)

Did I mention I’m moving? This is a big move, too – over 1,000 miles away.

Much to do! There’s all the packing, sorting, donations, running errands, tying up loose ends, garage sales, and of course, last chance shags.

The way I figure, if I’m not careful here, when I move, my number (of sexual partners) could easily skyrocket. This is because I won’t be able to partake of any repeat customers (note: they aren’t paying because I’m not charging; I use the word customer loosely). I will have to start all over from scratch, building a pool of available studs to satisfy me, because, well, I haven’t met the right one yet, and one not-right person usually can’t keep me satisfied, or it just doesn’t work out and I have to move on to the next, etc.

After some recent dating/sexual disasters in my personal life, I have to wonder if it is even a good idea to try and grab one last shag from an old favorite or two. Sometimes its really just not worth the hassle. I’m pretty sure I can masturbate without all this drama.

True, soon I’ll be gone, and won’t have the opportunity – may never have the opportunity again, in fact – but I worry. I worry it won’t be as good as I recalled, or could do more harm than good.

I also plan to get tested again before leaving town, so that I know I’m starting with a clean slate in my new state. So it’s probably not the best idea to go around town having sex with everyone, especially when I’ve accidentally had some sex recently I didn’t even want or  intend on.

Yep, maybe, in an uncharacteristic flip, I’ll just skip the last-chance screws and start anew.

Not All Sex Clubs Are Created Equal: Part 2

Part 1 of this story took us to a swinger’s club in Montreal that left a lot to be desired, so to speak.

Part deux begins with my return to Toronto, and to Oasis Aqua Lounge, for a clothing- and sex-optional clubbing experience that I knew would be great, since I’d been there previously and was impressed with the crowd, the staff, the atmosphere, and the way things were run.

I was immediately stoked to learn that my now-blue-haired original tour guide, Steve, was still on staff, there to keep the booze, the fresh towels, and the condoms flowing, and to chaperone in a sense, but in a totally non-creepy way.

Oasis typically does not allow men without a female companion into their establishment. A rule many men may think unfair, and I sympathize, believe me, but there is a distinct possibility creepy naked men that NO ONE wants to sleep with be allowed entry to a similar club and conduct themselves inappropriately. This type of scenario can drive women away, particularly single, unattached women such as myself.

You have to understand, it’s a vulnerable position we women put ourselves in at these sex clubs. We might go there with certain intentions, say, to sleep with our boyfriends, other women, or a man/men of our choosing. However, one might find herself in a situation where her back is turned, and she is otherwise already occupied in a sexual act or acts, and bystanders might feel it was okay to just jump into any available orifice without an invitation or permission. This is a seriously scary thought and a real possibility.

There’s just something more-legit-seeming about a fella visiting a swinger’s club with a ladyfriend – it’s as if the woman is vouching for her male companion by her presence at his side.

In any case, on this particular evening of my return, Oasis was hosting a special night when single men COULD attend without a female companion. (Pause for male readers’ cheers) 

In that sense, the evening could be expected to go much like my experience in Montreal, but Oasis is cooler than that. It’s just plain run better.

“Same same, but different,” as they say in Thailand – Both clubs had sex and nude people, both had single men - but Oasis had rules, and the staffing power to enforce them. The only rule I saw at L’Orage was about how we shouldn’t take our drinks beyond the bar area. Apparently the drinking rules are much more important than a sign that says, “Don’t grope any woman without her express and enthusiastic permission.”

As Oasis, male singles had free roam of the first floor bar, patio, heated pool, sauna, showers, lockers/bathrooms, hot tub, and steam room, as well as access to the stripper pole and dance floor. They were free to watch or participate (if invited) in all main-floor activities, sexy and otherwise.

But there was a catch – these male singles weren’t permitted to go upstairs to the playrooms (read: sex rooms – shaggin’ wagon, porn room, and dungeon) without a female accompanying them. Now, if you notice, I didn’t say they needed to come to the club with a woman. Sure, they could have gone stag. They just needed to be able to meet one woman and be cordial and non-creepy enough with her that she would be willing to go upstairs with them. This is key! It ensures that single men do, in fact, have a chance, but (hopefully) cuts way down on the number of creepers, and on the discomfort of female patrons.

If you recall, in Part 1, I spoke about how uncomfortable I felt as men groped me without my permission, or even speaking to me, while my back was turned – even sometimes, when we hadn’t yet met, locked eyes, or spoken. Some men may think this is a hot fantasy. For women it more closely resembles sexual assault, and not the sexy fantasy I’m-being-fake-raped-by-my-boyfriend kind.

But I digress. Back to Oasis!

I was having a great time, and marveling at all the differences in how the single-man factor was handled. I met an attractive guy with an unusual name – it was his first time visiting a sex club. We had a nice time chatting, and had a drink or two, but he obviously was feeling a little awkward and uncomfortable, and it showed, and I wasn’t really looking for a novice that evening. I did, however, walk him upstairs for a few minutes so he could satisfy his curiosity. Then I had to politely excuse myself so I could go meet some other people.

I was sitting out on the patio in the buff, surveying the scene, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from a sexy young couple boning on the patio chairs with such passion and intensity they were causing a stir. She had incredibly fair milky white skin, and a long, slender dancer’s body, and her hips undulated beautifully as she fervently rode her fit lover’s glistening pole.

I couldn’t help but watch them until they finished their lovemaking – it was lovely to see two hot passionate lovers go at it like that, with reckless abandon. On patio chairs in front of a live audience. I might have even applauded afterwards.

I simply had to go over and introduce myself to this fine young couple. Her fellow was just as striking, with his olive skin, sleek body, and very kissable face.

I told them how much I admired their looks, and their lovemaking, and was invited to sit with them and share a post-coital cocktail. Moments later, I was meeting all their friends and we were taking group treks to the pool and hot tub, and the hot couple and I were beginning to trade tentative caresses.

All of this in the midst of awesome, friendly staff, good music, a booty-shaking class, and a spa? I’m in heaven.

The couple eventually invited me upstairs and we had a fabulous time. Some other Oasis patrons stayed to watch the show, and it was a good one. We all got along so well that we arranged to meet up a few more times at Oasis before I headed back to the States…. But those adventures are for another story.

Please help my friend’s zombie foot!

Greetings, all!

Today’s post isn’t so comedic. For that I apologize. In all seriousness, a friend of mine needs your help.

She is a brilliant, scientific-minded, polyamorous, sex-positive soul, and she’s fallen on some hard times lately. To be more specific, a car fell very hard on her foot, and it keeps getting worse, turning into a zombie-like swollen and broken mass in need of amputation.

We met through the local sex positive scene and have become friends, and have done a bit of business together. She has always been extremely welcoming, straightforward, and kind.

This is the kind of woman that truly embraces diversity, and deeply admires those who overcome great obstacles in life. She values differentness and being yourself. Her entire collection of drinking glassware consists mostly of scientific beakers. Clearly, she is awesome, and a like-minded sexual aficionado.

This incredible gal is facing losing a limb, and she’s got such a positive attitude about it. She’s looking on the bright side, when others would see things as looking very bleak, and she’s making jokes about how she’ll get to be a cyborg. How cool is that?!

Porn is a huge industry. We spend billions on vibrators, spank books, sex toys, whips, cuffs, videos, etc. Why not jerk off old school tonight and donate a few bucks to help a fellow sex positive ally, if you’re in a position to do so?

For more on the story and why she needs your help, and a link to donate, please click here. 

Thanks in advance to any and all who can help!

Not All Sex Clubs Are Created Equal: Part 1

Last summer I was driving to Montreal to visit a friend and hang out for a week or so. I had scouted out the local sex club scene a bit online, and was trying to find a club that a single woman could attend (some venues/nights were couples only). I’d told my friend to expect me the following morning sometime, as I wasn’t quite sure how to bring up to him that I planned on going to a sex club that evening.

I figured it would be easiest to tack on this sex club visit to either the beginning or the end of my trip, to avoid awkwardness or potential plan conflicts.

I showed up a little too early at L’Orage and it was pretty empty. I had to pay an annual member fee of $25 CAD, although I wasn’t sure I’d be coming back to get my money’s worth. At least I got a swinger’s club membership card out of it…

The front room was a combination bar and dance floor, with a stripper pole for those who were feeling frisky. Although, I suppose everyone who comes there is feeling frisky…

I glanced around, wondering what the rules were in this joint. The only posted sign I saw said simply not to take any drinks beyond the bar area. So… anything else goes? It was curious to me that this was the ONLY rule in a sex club.. Especially in a club that allowed single males to attend…. I wonder how this will turn out?

I sat at the bar and had a few cocktails, and attempted to chat with some French Canadians who didn’t speak much English. My French sucks, but love is the universal language, right? 

Making sure to finish my drink first, I checked out the rest of the place. There were a number of beds/shagging areas on the main floor, with walls providing partial privacy, which was nullified by some cut-outs in the walls for voyeurs to watch through.

I meandered upstairs and found more of the same, plus a nice rooftop patio with a jacuzzi. I got to chatting with a few people – some were seasoned swingers, others seemed nervous about even being there, and weren’t sure what was going to happen, or what they even wanted to happen.

I relaxed in the hot tub and was hit on by a few guys, none of whom really piqued my interest. One guy didn’t seem to understand why I didn’t want to have sex with him. As if, by paying the entry fee, I have somehow entered into a binding agreement to have sex with whomever is present that night. I didn’t see it that way. If I met someone I felt like sleeping with, and it felt right (well, right for a sex club, I guess..), then I would probably go for it. But if I wasn’t feeling it, I wasn’t just going to shag whoever to get my money’s worth. 

In the hot tub a guy who I hadn’t yet spoken to started to fondle me. I politely asked him to stop, and at least say hello/ask permission first before touching me. Call me crazy, but just because I’m naked in a hot tub full of horny strangers doesn’t mean they can dispense with the pleasantries and all just have their way with me. This is real life, not fantasyland. 

The rest of the night went on much like this, with creepers fondling me while my back was turned or while I wasn’t looking/was distracted, and without even speaking to me or asking first.

This was really starting to piss me off, and did not put me in the mood at all. I almost punched out an old geezer who grabbed my ass without invitation. Getting out of the hot tub, I felt I needed to get dressed with my backside facing a corner of the patio, lest some Quebecer penetrate me while I wasn’t looking.

I met the owner, who was wandering around the club, but seemed more intent on watching couples shag than regulating unwanted advances. I had to give the man props though, in his own way. His Canadian Supreme Court battle won sex clubs legality and freedoms in the great, nude land. So, yes sir, thank you for that. Maybe that was back in his idealistic days, and now things have just changed; standards have been dropped. Or maybe it was always just a sleaze-fest. Who knows?

The old geezer’s caress was the straw that broke the swinger’s back. I alerted one of the bartenders, who proceeded to follow me around for a few minutes, but of course, no one accosted me while she was right there and it wasn’t much fun having a chaperone either. Feeling somewhat frustrated, I made friends with a nice Greek man who works in the porn industry in some capacity, and he was a gentlemanly companion for the evening, probably feeling a little bummed out about not getting laid in a sex club, but having spent some time hanging with a really cool naked chick.

He was kind enough to escort me back to my car. We said our farewells and I drove to my friend’s place and tried to decipher the french parking signs. I found a spot I could park my car until 8:00 AM, leaned my seat back, and had a snooze.

Feeling marginally rested, I went for an early morning walk around the neighborhood to get the lay of the land and called my friend at what I guessed was the earliest hour possible that wasn’t unreasonable. As it turns out, I didn’t wake my friend from sleep. I simply interrupted him masturbating!!

Slutmarch 2012

I ventured out on a blazing hot day to march in Slutwalk – a march against violence, discrimination, rape, slut-shaming, and sexual harassment, and a march FOR sluts, nudists, men, women, trans* & gender-benders.

What is slut shaming, you ask? It is a phenomenon in which people, generally women, who have sex, or even just seem sexy, are made to think of themselves as sluts, and they are told that this is a bad thing. Slut has long-since been used as a derogatory term, much like the ever-popular ‘whore’ – but I was always under the impression that the difference between sluts and whores is that sluts give it up for free. I’m all for free(dom).  

Now, just what is it exactly that makes it so bad to be a slut? The threat of disease, you say? Well, if one is careful and lucky, sexually transmitted diseases can be avoided altogether.

The often-feared permanent vaginal expansion or “looseness” that is supposed to accompany too much casual sex? Let me tell you, it just isn’t so. By these calculations my vagina should be a mile wide; a sultry cavern, but it still retains its kung-fu grip. 

Oh yes, and there’s the notion that men, at least the good ones anyway, won’t want you because, well, you’ve just had too much cock. I would like to believe that this is not the case, and I have evidence to support my theory.

So, long story short, slut-shaming blows. Let’s eradicate it and embrace the slutdom. It’s more fun that way.

Image courtesy of ksdk

Slutwalk was certainly full of good times – topless freaks everywhere (I say that with love), g-strings, pasties, jock-straps, messages written across breasts, backs, signs, asscheeks. Messages stating the seemingly obvious: “No means No!”

I wanted to walk around topless with electrical tape on my nipples. Had I not left my sharpie at home and arrived a bit late to the sign-making party, I’d have painted something snarky like, “Just cuz my tits are out, doesn’t mean I’m gonna fuck you.”

Ran into some friends on the march down the alleys – a strange route I thought. Who’s going to see us marching here? Are we taking back the alleys now instead of, or in addition to, the streets? Is it because we’re a bunch of half-naked weirdos?

I also saw my favorite professor from university on the walk, and he gave an inspiring speech at the end of the march about how men need to teach other men not to rape or endorse rape culture. He quoted human posters about how “Real men take NO for an answer” and helped us all to feel like we could do something about these issues and actually make a difference.

And he probably saw more of my tits than he cared to. Ha, awkward. 

I hope next year’s is even bigger and better, and that society starts to wise up in the coming year and get a little more free, get a lot more consent, and quit with the slut shaming already.

The Bathhouse, or Don’t Trust the Gypsies

On a recent trip to New York, a friend of mine was kind enough to gift me a Groupon visit she had to a Russian/Turkish Bathhouse in the East Village. I happily accepted, and trotted over there, looking forward to a hot steam and soak.

I found a sauna oasis inside, and tried each and every steamy option available. The aromatherapy sauna was a little overpowering, although all that mentho-lyptus sure did clean out my sinuses. The redwood sauna felt a little weak on the heat, but was nice for relaxing in. The steam room was, well, awfully steamy.

There was a frigid pool in the center of it all to shock your body back into temperature-regulated reality, but I could only stand it in there for a few seconds, my skin burning from the heat and cold even after I exited the pool. I feel like my father dunked me in those vats of ice water as a child in vain. His intent was to get me back to my Finnish roots, and ostensibly prepare my body for extreme cold, since, obviously, my infant skin would remember the numbing cold and be more resilient to it the next time. Naturally. 

The Russian sauna was boss. It was so flippin’ hot in there that you had to dump vats of cold water over the benches, and sit on a towel, and you’d still probably burn your ass. A couple of dudes were bogarting the best spots, adjacent to 2 water spigots that were constantly flowing with ice cold water into 5-gallon buckets that were scattered around so folks could dump cool water over their heads. Oh, what a feeling! 

While taking a break from the steamy goodness, I got talked into a mud treatment. At half price, how could I resist? A kind Russian lady slathered my body in mud and I was told to go up to the rooftop patio and bake in the sun for a few minutes. Before I could make it there, a burly staff man with a thick accent smeared a bunch of honey all over my face. It was dripping onto my lips. It was delicious. 

I stopped at the bar for a beer on my way up to the roof. The patio was lovely – a calm center in the hustle and bustle of the city, with lounge chairs and a few satisfied customers. I got to chatting with an older gentleman, and he was apparently enjoying my company so much that he gave me $50 cash. I felt a bit like a Geisha in 1940s Japan, being rewarded for my entertainment value. I totally took the cash though. It paid for my mud wrap. 

I went back downstairs to get my mud scrubbed off, then get rubbed down with salt and some other substance that’s escaping me right now.

A little steam later I found myself back up on the roof, chatting with another fellow in his 40s and my rich benefactor. The man in his 40s described himself as a Romanian Gypsy, and he kind of looked the part. He was friendly, and asked me if I wanted to grab a felafel and go for a stroll around the neighborhood. He also offered to give me a free massage at his place. This should have been my first warning sign. 

I obliged him in a walk and a felafel, being on my own for the day and kind of steamed out, He paid for the falafels, which was nice. We ate them at his place, where he told me Jimi Hendrix and the Mamas and the Papas used to hang out. A historic apartment of sorts, if I can believe him.

He then proceeded to undress me for my massage, actually taking off more clothes than I intended to or even wanted to remove. Dammit, what a terrible day to be wearing a thong. It just… gives the wrong impression in a situation like this. 

I found myself struggling to keep my clothes on as he started to give me a massage, and got a little too handsy with it. Uh, my shoulders are actually pretty tense, but my ass requires no kneading at this time. 

He kept telling me to relax, but all I could do was tense up against his overly aggressive come-ons. I had to put a stop to the massage, needing some air, and suggested we take a walk.

After we’d gotten a little ways out, I realized I had forgotten my totally awesome purple turban at his house, which was gifted to me by a friend during a magical weekend in Chicago last year. Taffy. I would have to go back for it. 

I had told my new friend about my plans to do a topless in NY photo shoot, but about how my plans had been foiled when my photographer friend backed out at the last minute. I even posted an ad on Craigslist, saying that, while I couldn’t afford to pay anything, it would be awesome if a random bored photographer followed me around topless Manhattan for a few hours and gave me copies of the pictures.

Romanian gypsy guy was happy to oblige me in my quest, even though he had no photography experience and the only camera we had was the crappy one that comes with my phone. Feeling more than a little uncomfortable around this guy already, I decided to leave a shredded shirt on, with nothing underneath, so that, while my nips might occasionally pop out, I wasn’t quite topless.

The gypsy kept trying to adjust my top for me to further expose my nipples, rather than telling me to move it. Who does this guy think he is, brazenly fondling my breasts like that? 

We passed by some street vendors selling cool hats and I tried one on. It looked pretty badass. The gypsy bought it for me. Least he could do, in my opinion, after such blatant and unwanted fondling. We found a nice little park and stopped there for a minute. As he tried to nuzzle in next to me on the bench, my discomfort was growing. I had to take an Ativan to calm down. This is the first time I’ve ever felt the need to take medication because of overactive flirtations. 

All I could think about was getting my turban back, so we headed back for it. Dude made several final attempts at getting into my knickers, and failed.

He’d been singing my praises, talking about how he’d gladly buy me a ticket back to NYC for a visit, about how we should meet up in London for the Olympics.. about how I should totally email him those quasi-topless pics. He talked about how he’d wished for me, and here I was. Oh, crap. I was trying to politely laugh it off, but it wasn’t working. 

As soon as he finally realized he was not going to get to have sex with me, his tune changed. He told me he didn’t want me to email him the pictures, didn’t care to ever see or hear from me again. He sat on his bed, pouting, saying how disappointed he was. And upset. I offered to reimburse him for the hat and the felafel, feeling as many women probably feel that accepting gifts from men somehow obligates them for some kind of shenanigans, but he declined my offer.

What, did he really think I was going to give it up for a felafel and a hat? I mean, the hat was cool, and the felafel was tasty, but it wasn’t that tasty.

He asked me to leave and I happily obliged, so relieved to get the hell out of there without getting date-raped.

It really is a shame that some men don’t really value interesting women or their company, but merely a shot at getting into their panties. Once that opportunity is off the table, they cease to be of interest at all. I think there are merits to just hanging out, having interesting conversations, following semi-topless women around the city and goofing around, but I guess not for this chap. For him, it’s all about the pussy. And if he can’t get it, then there’s really no point to any of it, right?

I’m glad to have my cool hat, but sad that it has weird failed mojo vibes attached to it. Perhaps it was my own foolishness for going off with some guy I met at a bathhouse, but, you live and learn. 

 

Museum of Sex, NYC

A simple internet search yielded me a $3 off coupon to the Museum of Sex. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I’m a thrifty girl. 

I took the East River Ferry over from Brooklyn into Manhattan, enjoying the view and the sunny sweatbox that is New York summer from atop the ferry. Ah, breeze! 

I stepped off the ferry and onto the streets of Manhattan, where street fashion is a competitive sport. Women of all ages strutted their stuff in daisy dukes, elastic waistbands, and crop tops. High-waisted acid wash jean shorts were also a big feature.

I admit my out-of-town strut was not as competitive as I would’ve hoped, but I did have a Japanese hand fan, which I can only hope counts for extra points.

I reached the Sex Museum and chilled out in the adjoining gift shop, amusing myself with such inventions as the bicycle-powered fuck machine and the Cunt coloring books. I browsed around for gifts for friends, and thought, is a pocket pussy too much? But I’d remembered it’s gone over well as a gift once before, so I took the plunge on some fancy new models shaped like eggs.

Once inside the museum, I learned about the history of pornography in cinema, and the myriad ways the internet has changed the human sexual experience and its expression. I gleaned valuable information about white-tailed deer orgies. I got to feel a Real-doll. (Life-like rigidity!)

I read some interesting stats on perverse internet searches. I can relate. My own search terms stats yield some pretty odd results. You know they’re recording this, right? 

I also got to see some pretty badass art. It was a pleasant trip. Although my competitive shoe choice left my feet a bit weary after the day’s walk. Oh, the things we do for fashion’s sake.

Brooklyn/eels/sumo/ridiculousness

The series of events that was last night may be a tad tricky to explain. First off, I’m in NYC, visiting some friends, on the good graces of one such friend who was kind enough to see that I desperately needed a vacation but could not afford one, and opted to help vacate me. Awesome. Then I was stressed about spending money in NYC, as things were tight and my budget for the trip was $0. Then, shockingly, another friend stepped forward and helped me close that gap between financial ruin and fun times. Double awesome.

Generosity is a beautiful thing, and I feel blessed to have such good friends, who help to take care of me in any way I need, whether it’s making me dinner, buying my plane ticket, sneaking cash into my wallet, or simply providing a hug and a smile (or the occasional orgasm). Thanks, guys. PS – I’m still accepting donations from generous readers who are able – this gal intends to make it to the Sex Museum in Manhattan in the next few days (price: $17.50! Holy shit!) for what is sure to be some sweet blog material. If you’re interested in donating, check the box at the top right of your screen. Thanks friends! You rock! 

Back to last night. So here I am in Brooklyn, ordering strange Taiwan beers that say only “Taiwan Beer” on them, in odd, Dharma-initiative-looking cans, and talking about the feasibility of artificial vagina paste (you don’t want to know).

Myself and some buddies headed to Gowanus Ballroom for an art opening, and we ended up getting more than we bargained for. As soon as we walked in, we were greeted by a huge space, a muddy eel pit, and an aquarium of sea creatures caught in the Gowanus canal a few odorous feet away. The art was actually really cool, impressive, and unpretentious, and bands were rocking out for the eclectic crowd.

Waiting in line for the bathroom I saw a topless girl covered in mud. She couldn’t possibly have been nude in the eel pit, or could she? What exactly did we miss?

There was a crazy treehouse-type structure, massive wooden carvings, and a mock sea captain’s quarters. In short, it was the shit. While looking through a beautiful series of old, tin-type photographs encased in, well, some kind of tin, my friend noticed a great shot of Bob Cassilly in Cementland, and we all felt a bit nostalgic. It seemed right that he should be there too.

The swampy heat drove me downstairs, where I got a little fixated on eel girl, who, now-clothed, was wading around in the muck of this boxed tarp pit, catching slippery Superfund eels with her bare hands and depositing them into a bucket of water, presumably for release back into the canal. This went on for some time, as there were a surprising number of eels and they were difficult to catch. Definitely a 2-handed and splashy operation. 

Something about the way this gal was fondling/caressing the eels gave me and my friend pause. Was she high on ecstasy or something? Who strokes an eel like that? I touched one and was unimpressed by it’s moist, spongy texture. Then someone told me we were at a Superfund site, and all of a sudden I very desperately needed to wash my hands, but there was no soap available for miles. I felt like eel petrochemicals were slipping between my DNA, mutating me.

Talked to some random people and overheard a guy protesting the imminent death of the eels for some kind of mysterious, supposedly political purpose. What a shame. How can eel girl stand for this? She really seemed to love those things…

We high-tailed it out of there and back to my friend’s place in Brooklyn, where, after stocking up on snacks of 40′s, chips, and Wisconsin’s finest wine cheese, we made a quick pit stop and it was suggested that I put on a Sumo suit. I complied. It was super difficult to sit down in the thing (and to see anything over my inflatable sumo tits).

After a few giggles, we set off to meet the dawn at the riverfront, while pointing out buildings we could recognize in the Manhattan skyline. They sure do work late at the UN… so many lights on!

We laughed ourselves silly, ate all the cheese, and drank all the beer, probably scaring onlookers and like-minded weirdos welcoming the dawn. Oh well, fuck it. Stumbling home for the night, we snagged an IKEA lamp off the sidewalk, but something tells me it’s not going to fit into my carry-on luggage. Then the 4 of us passed out in various locations in the tiny apartment post-5 AM, and I slept through my morning alarm.

I had plans this morning to go to the beach with another friend at the ripe hour of 9:30, but obviously, that didn’t happen. I texted her at dawn, stating the obvious, that I would likely oversleep, and just meet her at the beach later if so, but alas, I discovered she is heading to one of those weird, hard-to-reach beaches, so I’ve been stranded ashore for the day and will have to meet up later.

Such as life. We all need sleep sometimes. I wonder what kind of oddities will happen today..

Eel capture complete

PRIDEfest 2012: Be YOU, just don’t show your tits!

Some friends and I ventured off to Pridefest last weekend, and I came fully prepared with electrical tape on my nipples, under my shirt, just in case things got too hot, or too boring, and my breasts needed to come out.

Met up with some old friends, one of whom promptly bought me a margarita bucket that mysteriously came without a drinking straw. Don’t they know that the only way to get properly drunk off of mixed drinks served in plastic buckets is through sweet glorious drinking straws?!?

We set off to wander around the crowded, sweaty festival and search for some free STI testing. Hey, it can’t hurt, right? When’s the last time YOU got tested?

We found the elusive testing booth, which had closed for the day, seconds before we arrived. No fair! I could be teeming with bacteria, and you’re just going to send me back out into the population? At least there were plenty of free condoms around…

Partly to escape the heat, and to make things more interesting, I pulled down my halter top to reveal my pert bosoms, masked in tape to comply with prudish, female-nipple-hating legislation. Things definitely got a lot more interesting after that.

My posse and I wandered around, with me and my tits leading the pack whilst my companions had a chuckle over all the stares and confused looks I was getting. After making the rounds, we noticed a VIP tent with about 5 people in it, and decided to go laugh at them for paying $100 to gain access to a VIP area so exclusive that no one was in it!

Instead I was greeted by a local drag queen, who I’d seen perform before, who just looked at me and said simply, “Please don’t do that.” I could only assume Ms. Pepsi was referring to my mockery of the VIP booth and its inhabitants, and not my breasts, which couldn’t possibly be offensive at Pridefest.

I was wrong. 

A short while later, I was approached my a security guard who admonished me to put my breasts away, asked my name, and warned me that she’d heard of my antics over the walkie talkie, and was going to inform her other security brethren that I had been warned to cover up twice now. I was told that this was a family event, and since children were present, my breasts did not belong out, even though my nipples were covered, and my clothing in general covered a whole lot more surface area than many others in attendance.

Hmmm, that’s odd. I’m pretty sure children don’t sexualize breasts; that’s something adults do. 

Furthermore, why is it okay for a child to see a half-naked man walking around in nothing but a tiny banana hammock, but my poor little breasts and covered nipples are the thing that causes offense? What a bunch of prude hypocrites. “Be you” my arse. Apparently this slogan only applies to the male gender. Tits not welcome here.

His fishnet bodysuit was ok; my tape wasn’t. Is it because I’m white? Or a woman? Hmmm..

At this point I was fuming. I was here fighting for my right to bare as much as I dare without breaking the law, on a hot summer day no less. I asked a few local police officers their thoughts and understanding of the law, since I was under the impression I was in a public park and breaking no rules. I marched over to the Sex Positive tent, and David Wraith came to lend his support. At least I know somebody wants my breasts to be out! If I get enough votes can I bust them out again?

The offending bosom in question

I was politely informed that because Pridefest had rented out the area and obtained a special permit for this event, they could, in fact, order attendees to do or not do whatever they commanded. However, there was a free speech area where I could potentially show my tits in protest, along with all the God hates Fags banners, presumably.

I led my crew around the park in the direction indicated, vainly searching for the free speech tent. All I found was a children’s playground. Well, this can’t be the free tits area..

I resolved to return the next day, employing my sewing skills to make the world’s tiniest bikini top. My logic was this – if there are strings attached, I won’t get hassled. My logic was sound.

I returned the next day, complete with the world’s tiniest bikini top, and got myself tested, bared way more skin than the previous day, and received no hassles whatsoever. Booya. 

The mysteriously un-offensive tits

This adventurous gal needs your help!

Greetings friends, fans, readers, open-minded ones, perverts, and nudists!

This adventurous gal needs your help! I’ve been blogging about my misadventures for just over a year now, and my numerous escapades are getting harder to finance.

I have so many awesome plans and ideas this summer that I want to enact and write about, including:

1) Going topless in NYC (Heard it’s legal there! Woot!)

2) Going topless in Toronto (I KNOW it’s legal there!)

3) Nude beach excursion!

4) Potential trip to Montreal!

5) Return to Toronto’s Oasis Aqua Lounge, the wettest clothing-optional adult playground I’ve ever encountered!

6) Nudist colony visit/infiltration

7) Clothing-optional camping: the sequel!

8) Pridefest!

9) African Lion Safari

…and other ridiculous adventures as I encounter or experience them!

If you’d like to show your appreciation of my writing, lifestyle, or would simply like to help finance my future adventures and endeavors, I would be most appreciative of your support!

Donors who are especially generous will be rewarded with a special secret prize TBD by yours truly! Corporate sponsors welcome!

Thanks so much for your support, financial and otherwise!

Have a stellar day, all!

Nude power! 

Clothing-optional yoga!

A few months back I got the invite to a somewhat exclusive secret guest list clothing optional yoga session. As I have an unlimited monthly yoga membership at a (clothed) yoga studio, I considered skipping this special session, but, in the end, nudity prevailed and I joined in!

I scanned the room and saw a few friends in various states of undress, and a few more familiar faces from the local nudist scene. I noted that most of the ladies, including our friendly instructor, kept their bottoms on but opted for bare breasted yoga. Right on sisters. I thought about keeping my panties on, especially given the delicate poses one sometimes gets into when practicing yoga, but ended up dropping trou after all and stretched out to prepare for yoga in the buff.

We were led through a beginner’s yoga class in a room lined with mirrors, which is a bit odd for yoga, since you’re not really supposed to be looking at others, but rather, focusing on your own practice.

As I glanced around, I came to realize that aside from our instructor, I was probably one of the more advanced students, while others were mostly beginners. Well, to be fair, they were not beginner nudists – just novice yogis.

Where can I find an advanced nude yoga class? Still, all in all, invigorating good times! And I managed to accomplish a naked headstand! Woot!

Pussy Party: Get to know your vag (and everyone else’s)

I recently attended a Pussy Party hosted by Sex Positive St. Louis. On the date of the actual event, I was feeling less than enthusiastic, but knew I didn’t want to miss it. So instead of coming well-prepared and fully stocked with vibrators, show and tell items, and my speculum, I only managed to get myself and a few PBRs there.

Once I arrived, I learned there was a speculum shortage going on, and I felt bad for not bringing mine along. Oh well, such as life. We had some cocktails and then moved to the cuddle pit for show and tell, as the group passed around their favorite sex books and vibrators. Everything looked spotlessly clean, but there was a moment of awkwardness (for me, anyway) when I thought about how we were all handling items that had clearly been in other people’s vaginas, asses, or both. Can I just look at it from here? Vibe highlights included a device that buzzes along to your favorite songs, which led the group to ponder which musical genre would elicit the best orgasms. I’m thinking gangster rap.

Next, we all got ready to have a look as our hostess stripped down and prepared to show us her cervix. Co-conspirator Kendra performed a very professional-looking pelvic and we all crowded around to catch a glimpse of the elusive cervix. An overeager housecat also wanted in on the action, and was sitting herself on our naked hostess and other guests as we all dove in to examine her vagina and try to feel some ovaries.

Men have it so easy – so much of their parts are on the outside. Ladyparts are elusive and hidden. A girl could go her whole lifetime without knowing exactly where her ovaries lie. So, we were all invited to insert a few gloved and lubricated fingers and try to root around and compare anatomies. It was all very medical, but with cocktails. Odd..

We discussed our own medical anomalies, and I volunteered my vagina up as a specimen because I have an IUD, and the strings that protrude from the cervix can be easily felt and identified. Much to my embarrassment, a teeny tiny piece of toilet paper was stuck to my delicate ladyparts for all to see. If more bidets were readily available this wouldn’t be a problem. I showed the group how my vag is slightly asymmetrical, and how the left side of my labia has a little more heft to it, and, if I’m not careful, can get hung up on things, or things could get hung up on it. Damn asymmetrical vagina – always getting in the way!

A few people stuck fingers in me to explore, but most didn’t feel the need to check out my strings, already having experienced them on their own, or simply growing tired of exploring other vaginas by that point in the evening. One gal was good enough to tuck my strings back for me at my request, bonus.

I took a bathroom break and made sure to double-check my vag for debris. Once I was sure everything was copacetic, I left the bathroom, only to be notified that I had a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my foot. I just can’t win tonight.

Next, we were on to pussy portraits, where any gal who wanted could get a nice close-up picture of her vagina for the mantle, or to give out as Christmas gifts when money is tight. Once I get my copies, I’ll be ordering double prints for just that purpose.

All in all, it was an educational experience, and I was glad to have attended and been around so many women who embraced their bodies and their unique vaginas. They really are like snowflakes – no two are alike. 

Old journal entries: Stealth trip to Toronto

dated 16 September, 2010

Yesterday I began my stealth trip to Toronto. (There’s a simple joy in taking off on a spur-of-the-moment trip when no one knows where you’re going or for how long) I overslept and missed my flight (6:40 AM? What was I thinking?) but was able to catch the next one at 9:30. My cab driver was exceedingly pleasant and gave me a great outlook on the day. I tipped her accordingly. 

Many hours of traveling later, I met a man named Muhkki (his actual name was way too long to remember or fit on his passport). Muhkki is a middle-aged Muslim-American who very quickly takes to calling me “sweetie,” possibly because he can’t remember my name. We met in the Greyhound station in Buffalo, NY and chatted on the bus all the way to Toronto. He had terrible breath but good stories. 

He offered to buy me a plane ticket to Alberta, where he’d been living and working for a year. Muhkki also told me it would be easy for me to get Canadian citizenship.

When we got to Toronto, Muhkki asked me to watch his luggage while he went to find a currency exchange place. I tried not to think that his luggage would blow up and splatter me all over Eaton Centre, but I thought it anyway. When he returned a few minutes later, I then felt like a jerk for thinking that. It’s not because he’s a Muslim; I get sketched out watching any relative stranger’s luggage. 

Muhkki insisted on buying me a drink, which turned into 4 whisky & cokes for me as well as dinner. He hardly ate or drank anything but insisted I take my crispy duck to go. Muhkki made a phone call, to arrange a ride from a friend of a friend, who showed up promptly to get him and he left me to finish my last drink alone as he picked up the check and vanished.

I then drunkenly stumbled into a shop to buy both tampons and condoms, (which didn’t seem to go together) both of which I has to ask for, making the poor young guy in the shop blush and look confused at the same time. He told me to enjoy my stay in Canada.

I taxied to Jake’s place, but he wasn’t home yet, so I had a smoke outside and chatted with a nice fellow for a few as he was passing by. As he left, another guy strolled by to talk to me – Miguel, who speaks Spanish, is Colombian, and once lived in Texas. As I had some time to kill, I agreed to go walk with him for drinks. First I dropped off my bags in Jake’s unlocked condo (Gotta love those Canadians never locking their doors!). 

We chatted while we walked and Miguel grabbed my ass and tried to make it seem like an accident. He also showed me some kind of tricep stretch which he performed on me, but it interfered with my smoking. At this point, I got a text from Jake, who was now home, and wondering where I was, seeing my bags in his condo.

I felt obligated to ditch Miguel and head back, as I was staying with Jake, after all, and hadn’t seen him yet. Miguel was going to continue on to the bar and tried very hard to kiss me several times before I left, but I denied him, feigning prude-ness. He was cute, but I said, “No, it’s against my principles, seeing as how I’m about to go fuck my friend Jake, who I’m staying with.” Miguel replied with a grin, “That’s okay. Fuck him tonight, then fuck me tomorrow. I get off at five.” And then he was off, leaving me to consider the notion.

I headed back to Jake’s to find him in bed in his boxers. He was sleepy but somehow I revived him. We had a shower, then a shag in the shower, which Jake filmed somehow without destroying his iPhone. I had forgotten how hairy he was, and that he was uncircumcised, and how perfect his dick was/is. 

Jake fucked me doggy-style and it’s a miracle I didn’t slip and die. I was getting all weak in the knees from the pounding he was giving me. Then I gave Jake head, (which he also filmed) sucked his balls, and he came all over my face and said, “Welcome back to Canada.”

I’d never used a condom in the shower before, so that was interesting. Or a phone. Weird. Then, of course, I had to shower again to get all the cum off of me. 

Had the hardest time sleeping and dreamt that there was a secret toilet in the floor next to Jake’s bed (because the apartment was originally for the elderly or infirmed or some such) and that he made me sleep on a pillow that had pee on it. When I woke up I checked – no secret toilet or pee… curious…

I think this trip is just what the doctor ordered, and I think I should move here. Crap weather today – very windy and rainy, but I wandered around and shopped anyway. Ate some sushi, drank some good coffee, had a beer, and bought a book about Cowboys written for children in 1976 from a thrift store. If it’s possible to strut in the rain while holding an umbrella and shopping bags, I did this. 

A bit of a solitary day so far, but good to be away from home and flying under the radar. Tomorrow I’m going to meet Anna and Katie for lunch. Jake should be home from work soon, and I’ve just gotten back, after walking my ass off and soaking my boots, which weren’t as waterproof as I would’ve hoped. Dutch-like winds turned my wimpy little travel umbrella inside out.

Had a shower and am now waiting for Jake in sexy lingerie (awww yeah, pin-up style) and his hoodie (not so much pin-up style, but it’s cold in here). Jake wants me to pick up some foxy lady for a threesome; we’ll have to see what happens… Looking forward to more shagging, more booze, and lunching with my ladies tomorrow.

Poor little kitties

I grew up in New Jersey, in the slummiest house on a not-so-slummy block in the slightly nicer part of town. After my parents divorced, my mother remarried a very strange closet transvestite named Bruce. I feel I can use his real name here because 1) he was a jerk to me and 2) he’s in jail now, serving 20 years for molesting his newest step-daughter so I figure it’s fair game. (Note: he never molested me; I seem to have escaped just in time.)

Anyway, ours was a house full of cats. And it smelled like it too. I always wondered if I smelled bad, and I hated the way that you can get used to the pungent ammonia odor of feline piss and litter so you didn’t even notice it anymore. That is, until you left the house, breathed in glorious fresh air, and had to come home again. Then the smell hit your nostrils like a brick wall of nasty. Ugh. 

We started out humbly with just one cat, Butterscotch, a wild stray that we tamed, and who became an indoor/outdoor cat, who, instead of using a litter box, would simply meow at the door to be let out to go do his business. Now that’s an awesome cat. No fuss, no muss. Sometimes he’d also follow me on walks and he even followed my bus to school one day.

Bruce brought two of his own cats, Jesse, a big tomcat, and Mitsy, a fluffy little calico. Misty was a little whore and escaped as often as possible, getting knocked up at every opportunity. Soon we were home to hoards of kittens. Not every kitten in her litters survived, and sometimes she would try to eat her poor dead kitty babies, and since I didn’t like the looks of this, I kept her from doing it. My then-step-father Bruce decided to save them for later. For what purpose, you ask? Stillborn kitty autopsies? Who knows. He put them in a freezer bag next to the always unpleasant generic vegetable medley of lima beans, carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower. Gross. 

Some years later Jesse mysteriously turned up dead in the yard. Bruce suspected a sadistic neighbor had killed him for some nefarious purpose, and left his body in our side yard as a warning of some kind. Looking back, I’m betting it was my eldest brother that did the deed, because he was one sick kid and would totally do something like that. Jesse’s body was relegated to a larger freezer bag and placed in the downstairs freezer, hidden underneath stockpiles of chicken pot pies and Steak-umms.

Years later, after I escaped New Jersey, my Mom and Bruce got divorced, and my Mom was eventually selling our childhood home, the dead cats still remained. Again, gross. Did they carry that much sentimental value? I mean, come on now!?

At any rate, my mother told me that she asked the buyers of the home if it would be okay if she buried a few dead cats she just happened to have on hand in the backyard before she moved out. The new homeowners agreed, but I can’t imagine what the fuck they must have been thinking about the twisted family that lived there before them. I’m betting they burned a lot of sage when they moved in. At least, I hope they did. 

Old journal entries: Refrigerator Sex

dated May 13, 2002

Me and the roomie have to be out of our apartment by 2:30 this afternoon. That’s less than 12 hours away. I’m really going to miss this place. We’ve had some great times here. Today (or was it yesterday?) was strange…

While cleaning the fridge, I remembered that I never got to achieve my goal of having sex on top of it. So I racked my brain for who to call up and do the dirty deed with. I called Mark, then proceeded to nervously ask, but was turned down! Either I have no game whatsoever or Mark is batting for the other team. (Update 2/03: Turns out Mark was gay after all, go figure). 

Anyway, I called Julio after months of not talking to him, and asked him to be my booty call. He came right over and we fucked on the fridge, albeit, a bit awkwardly. (Yippee! Mission accomplished!) Then we moved to the bedroom and boned some more. That is all.

*names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent

Naked Party 2.0: Spoken word

A few weeks back I made it to another successful naked party with some local Sex Positive folks. Our host and hostess were the very same attractive and intelligent couple that graciously opened their home for Fleshtivus a few months ago.

I had a lot going on around that time, but there was no way I was missing this. I tried to get my fellow to accompany me, but he was working, and isn’t quite so fond of being naked in public as I am. Determined not to go alone, I scanned through my phone the day of the event and thought to myself, now, who would be willing to get at least semi-nude with me at this party, on the fly, and would feel comfortable there knowing no one? Jenny, that’s who!

Jenny’s an awesome chick I met at a (clothed) party a few years back where I happened to know exactly no one there (the one person I barely knew had left early on and I came alone). Interestingly, others at the party thought Jenny and I were old friends, since we got on so well. Truth be told, that was a pivotal evening for me. At that party I met 4 people who are now my good friends. So glad I didn’t stay home! 

Back to the nudity. I picked Jenny up after my yoga class and we were on our way. The theme of the evening was to be “Spoken Word.” I immediately thought of some trashy vintage porno novels I have and brought them along. One I bought online, and the others are borrowed from my dad’s ample collection, if I can be permitted to just throw that out there without further explanation.

Jenny and I were greeted by our hosts and ducked behind the well-placed screen shielding the inner sanctum of nudity from the outside world. We quickly stripped down – Jenny to her cute ruffly panties, and me to my chainmail bra and (not-chainmail) panties, at first, then to various stages of nudity ranging from partial to complete.

There was a mostly naked salon going on in the cuddle puddle room, with a lot of really interesting and sultry readings. Some were adaptations, ancient poetry and prose, personal experiences, and perhaps my favorite, some intricate descriptions of Yonis (that’s vaginas to us layfolk).

I was stoked for the opportunity to conduct a topless smut reading, and it all went over quite well. The crowd gave some rousing applause afterwards and I was told that I am very good at storytelling, doing readings, etc. I plugged my blog and the erotic tracks I’ve recorded thus far along a similar vein, and had good responses. Bonus.

Met some cool new folks and had a lot of laughs, and did some more naked networking. It was sweet to see all the happy couples there, mingling and gently cuddling up in various stages of nudity to their sweethearts. I was a bit sad to be there without mine at my side, with his hand on my bare ass. Oh, well, maybe next time.

Instead of dwelling on the absence of my paramour, I simply tried to remain professional and not appear to be sneaking a peek at everyone’s genitalia. As if that ever works. 

How I didn’t get backstage with Del..

Last summer I was thrilled when Del the Funky Homosapien came through town to play a show. I’d been listening to him twist words and spit lyrics for years, and under several different name variations. I would totally be hitting this show up. Sadly, I would be attending solo, as the dude I was pseudo-dating at the time was broke as hell, and could not afford the meager admission fee. Not to worry though, plenty of my friends would be there and we could all meet up, jam out, and have a cocktail.

I was dressed for sexy comfort, in a one-shouldered white striped shirt/dress/thingy over shorts, with no bra. Ahh, the benefits of sporting a small rack… As I entered the Firebird, I quickly noticed that I was one of only about a dozen ladies in attendance, the rest being my friends and random dudes. A hundred eyes seemed to instantly gravitate to my nipples. Woah. Sausage-fest.

After a few cocktails with my friends, I met the ex-wife of the deadbeat I was pseudo-seeing (Mind you, at the time, I didn’t think of him as a deadbeat. I thought of his deadbeat-ness as probably temporary and situational, and I only thought of our fun times and frequent shags). I knew who she was because he’d mentioned her, and she has a very distinctive name. I wondered whether or not to mention the connection, and I thought it might be better left unsaid for the time being, since we were all just out having fun.

Another round of drinks and suddenly my mission for the night was so clear: I was going to try and get backstage with Del to… hang out. 

I happened to be taking a breather outside when Del arrived. He came in with a black hoodie on, with the hood pulled up and hiding his face. He also had huge headphones on, and was staring at an iPad, all the while walking fast as hell with several cohorts, and looking at/stopping for no one. He looked quite unapproachable. This was going to be tricky. 

Later in the evening, Del was rocking the crowd, and the ex-wife and I somehow ended up on stage together, being cute dancing ladies. I spied Del way off to stage left, taking a break from the mic during a long musical interlude. Here was my chance to go over to him and make my impression. This was going to take all of my feminine wiles…

I rushed over to Del and failed to notice at the time how he kind of backed away as he saw he coming. Then I showed him my tits. Needless to say, he was not impressed, but rather, looked freaked out. I imagine he was thinking, “Now see, this is why I fucking hate being famous. Damn bitches always thrusting their tits in my face.” 

You see, for a purported Del fan, I had made a critical error. Del has a bit of a reputation of being a little stand-0ff-ish; something of a recluse; mysterious. Definitely not the kind of fellow who would be impressed by a random tit flash. Although, if I do say so myself, I do have a pretty nice set.. But in my drunken state, I’d forgotten all of this relevant information and instead just made an ass of myself. One of the guys Del was touring with, however, was impressed by my brazen rack flash, and invited me to go party with him in his hotel, but my drunken, shamed ass declined.

Sorry bout that, Del. No offense intended. Keep bustin’ out those amazing tracks. I promise I’ll never flash harass you again. 

Updates

The last month or so has been funny and strange. I feel like I’ve been really busy, so here’s a condensed version so I can write some of it down, and I’ll fill in updates later (or take requests on which ones to elaborate on! I value your feedback!) 

I ran into an ex-client a few weeks ago at an underground dusty warehouse party with a distinctly old school vibe, and I could tell it completely freaked him out to see me there and realize that I, his former assistant counselor, was actually cool and knew how to get down. Poor kid peaced out right after that, and I never saw him again. He missed me jumping on the mic later that night (since I knew the DJs/organizers), spouting out sultry, improvised verses and random lullings (let’s face it; I’m just making up words here). The crowd was really into it and so was I, getting high off their energy and the entire vibe. 

Also in the last few weeks, I’ve been a naked dessert plate, been to a naked party (2.0 – later, more detailed blog post to follow! Separate occasions – YES!), thrown a party, hosted a friend from Norway at my home, and I’ve been doing a yoga bender for the month of March. My goal is to go to a yoga class every day for 30 days (or rather, attend thirty classes in 30 days, since I’ve already missed two and one of them was yesterday!) Regardless, I’ve been to 16 classes in 17 days, and I’ll go to at least one tonight, possibly two. I feel like a rockstar. And my arms are getting buff again. Yessssssssss.

Last night I was up late with some friends, after hosting the Viking/St. Patty’s Day/Sexy/Cinco de Mayo piñata party. This cactus piñata that I bought at a local grocery store became a centerpiece for the party, and got filled up with condom and lubricant trinkets, and a random speculum, candy, and other things. It was surprisingly difficult to break open. Or maybe that fake Viking’s sword was just a little too flimsy… tough to say.

A foursome (or was it a fivesome?) showed up at the party last night in full Viking attire – shoulders covered in sexy little rabbit fur caplets with skulls, crossbones, fake swords, hoisted bosoms, and serious headgear. A lot of strange things happened last night, come to think of it… There was also a grab bag full of pornos, old VHS tapes, and random stuff I’m over that just might be a treasure to someone. I did this grab bag idea at a party once before. It went over quite well, both times, but I had to implement a 1-porno-per-person rule to ensure optimal fairness. I had to hang on to a few with such winning titles as “Hot Fur Pies” and “Let’s Orgy, Baby!” for myself, because, let’s face it – that’s just too good to part with.. at least for now.

Oh, and I got worked over pretty good last night and today.. that’s gonna make for an interesting yoga class..

If I may be permitted a request, in light of some recent events as well, would anyone out there in possession of or with access to any nude or semi-nude photographs of me please do me the honor of asking my permission before posting them on the internet for others to see? I’d really appreciate it. This is especially true for any photographs containing my face. I’m trying to be real here. Thanks in advance!

 

Nearly Naked Dessert Tray

I was flattered when David Wraith asked me to participate in a fundraiser for Sex Positive St. Louis. In what capacity, you ask? I was asked to model as a naked dessert tray. Well, not naked, per se, but in underwear, or in my case, the tiniest g-string imaginable. I had to get a Brazilian wax just to be able to wear it and not have bush sprouting out over the top!

I accepted the invitation and didn’t ask too many questions. I was stoked about the Queen of Hearts Ball. It was sure to be a wild, sexy party where I could mingle with other sex-positive folks, some of whom I’d met already at Fleshtivus, the last clothing-optional meet up.

I quickly downed a cocktail after I arrived a few minutes late to the Ball, and it was already starting to pack full of kinky friends and strangers. A kind friend brought a special silky robe for me to borrow, and I was most appreciative. We all jammed out to some incredible throwback tracks from DJ Sweets and got in the mood to party.

I was a little nervous about baring it all at my current weight, which is more than a few pounds heavier than my ideal, but I found this crowd in particular to be totally accepting of the beauty of the human body in all shapes, colors, and sizes. And that’s fucking awesome.

I met the chocolatier and we briefly discussed logistics. There would be two models at a time, on some very tiny coffee tables. It was time to get out of this party dress and into my robe, which I then partied in for a few more minutes until it was time to strip down. Always a lady, I left my party hat on. 

Laying down in a state of undress and not moving for long periods wasn’t new to me. I channeled my former art model self and prepared to get still as my body was covered with delectable little chocolates. My fifteen minute set turned into at least 45, and things started to get a lot busier once I started accepting payments myself, since our talented chocolatier was busy with other tasks and another model to boot.

I could tell that people preferred to pay me, and that they really preferred to put the money into my g-string. Some asked, others just did as they pleased. Some kept creeping dirty ones closer and closer to my actual vagina, which was somewhat gross, since currency is one of the filthiest things imaginable, if you think about it.

Most people delicately grabbed their chocolaty delights off of my nearly naked body with their hands, but others just went at it with their mouths, without asking permission. I allowed this from a female who ate one off my stomach, leaving a lipstick ring near my navel. Then some strange man in a furry vest of some kind grabbed one off my stomach, placed it on my nipple, and started to lean in to lick it off of my tit. All of this without asking my permission. So I vetoed him and just handed him his candy. He didn’t come back for a second round, and he seemed very disappointed. I wonder why he didn’t just ask??

I have to echo David Wraith’s sentiments here. Models are people. Just because we’re naked doesn’t mean we can’t be polite, and say, ask for permission before touching, kissing, or licking someone in a delicate place.

Not only that, but I was a volunteer. I assume that many thought the ones they were stuffing into my g-string went to me, or at least some of them, anyway, but this was not the case. One gentleman gave me a $5 bill, and I started to make him some panty change, but he said it was a tip for me. This was the only tip I got, since he was the only one who stated it was specifically for me. I gave the rest over to the chocolatier, who, after all, did bust her ass making some delicious chocolates for the party. She also offered to have me model again for her sometime, for payment, and I told her I’d totally be interested, as I am quite broke at the moment from too much working for free.

Near the end of my session, my fellow came over and I said he should definitely put a chocolate on my nipple and eat it off. He happily obliged, and his lips and tongue lingered for a moment on my breast, and I could feel my back unconsciously arch and the eyes of the crowd on us both. They probably all felt ripped off, since they didn’t get to eat their candies that way, but what can I say, he was a VIP.

I remembered hearing all kinds of shutters clicking during my set as one of the dessert trays and it occurred to me that I probably should’ve worn some kind of a face mask to hide my identity in case all of these pictures ended up on the internet, which they most assuredly would, and probably already have.

At the very least, I feel like I should get copies for my personal collection, and know/give permission for whatever the photos will be used for. For example, if someone plans to sell them, I think I should get a cut, since I was modeling for free for a fundraiser, but we hadn’t discussed potential photos prior to the event.

All in all, I had a great experience and would totally do it again. But it was a lesson in figuring out what I’m agreeing to ahead of time and outlining any personal boundaries and needs that I have beforehand. Also, if I’m going to be this naked, maybe I should invest in some face masks and a bodyguard!

Photo by AJ; “Boom” as a favor by Alex Petrowsky

Naughti Gras V

I got the opportunity to perform with the Improv Trick at another successful (and very erotic) Naughti Gras.

The crowd was packed and looking frisky. Everywhere I looked there were giant vagina murals and portraits, scantily clad performers of all kinds, rope bondage demonstrations, gymnasts, and burlesque dancers. Sex was in the air.

The sex-themed art ran the gamut – full, classical nudes, urban settings, mixed media, powerful images of vaginas shooting out lasers and such… there was even a chair affixed with a built-in butt plug! Now that’s engineering! 

Our first set of improv games was well-received on the main stage, with a lot of hilarious references to Rick Santorum, genital debacles, and other frothy mysteries, all based on audience suggestions.

There’s a certain thrill to being on stage, making an ass out of yourself for entertainment purposes, and we were all in the moment, using our combined quick wit to win over the audience and roll with the punches.

A break between our sets left me free to have a few cocktails, dance and wander amongst my fellow perverts, nudists, and art aficionados.

The second set was on a side stage, and a bit shorter, but we got some chuckles out of our slightly diminished audience. Too bad nobody seemed to get my Wayne’s World reference. Such as life. 

Can’t wait for the next opportunity to do some improv and have some laughs! 

photo by Lisa Lisa Odak

Self-collected vaginal swabs: wave of the future

Going to the box doctor is a pain in the vag. So are sexually transmitted infections, or STIs, (although they can be a pain in the penis as well). With so many women out there who do not have access to proper healthcare, and with the extraordinary costs of medical treatment and testing in the U.S. and other parts of the world, it seems prudent to look into cost-effective, user-friendly alternatives.

A few months ago I had the opportunity to try out a revolutionary new idea: self-collected vaginal swabs for detection of STIs. 

This allows curious, sexually active, health-conscious women to order a kit which arrives in their mailbox. They follow a series of simple instructions, swab themselves, carefully package the contents, and mail them to a lab for testing and simply await the results, and seek further treatment if necessary.

This ingenious idea has several benefits: 

1) You get to save time, transportation costs, and hopefully medical payments since you can bypass a doctor’s visit and go directly to a testing source.

2) You don’t have to wear the hated paper dress.

3) You don’t have to experience the cold discomfort of a speculum (the duck-billed platypus-looking thing docs and perverts use to look into vaginas).

4) You can do this in the privacy of your own home, in case you’re embarrassed or perhaps agoraphobic.

5) Hopefully this method of STI testing will seem more acceptable to a wider variety of people, increasing the number of folks getting themselves tested.

6) Easy to understand, easy to use, easy to package and mail with postage-paid return package included.

Downsides:

1) The kit I received did not test for everything (just Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, and Trichomoniasis). It would be swell if a more complete kit option was offered so that testing could be done for HIV, Syphilis, and other STIs.

2) It’s not readily available to the public yet.

3) The actual costs are unknown to me, as this method was given to me for free as part of a contraceptive research study.

4) If this idea really catches on, mail carriers could become overburdened with millions of vaginal swabs!

All in all, I found the experience to be quick and easy, and far less painful than a standard gyno appointment. 

Why do you have sex?

People bone for all sorts of reasons. Lust, boredom, mutual affection, friendship, exercise, apathy, coercion, love, glory, obligation, pity, personal gain, power, conquest, curiosity…

Some have sex because they are too blitzed out of their mind on booze or drugs to know better or care. Others have sex when what they’re really seeking is attention or affection, and if they can’t find what they’re looking for elsewhere, sex will do in a pinch. Some acquiesce and have sex when they don’t even really feel like it, because they think they have to, or should, or owe it to their partner in some way. Sometimes it’s not about the sex, per se, but the type of sex, and one partner might pressure another into engaging in some act that both parties aren’t comfortable with.

I am no stranger to the idea that good friends can have good sex and it doesn’t need to mean anything. Hell, strangers can have good sex and it doesn’t need to mean anything. But sometimes it can be hard to find anything of substance in those cold, detached waters. True, casual encounters need not be chilly; they can be downright friendly at times.

But when you find a partner that you care about, and the feeling is mutual, sex does mean something, and it’s lovely. A partner that cares for you puts your needs above their own, cares about making you feel good, and wants you as more than just a vessel for their dick (or whatever else they may want to stick in there). 

Someone that cares for you wants to know you, not just fuck you. Wants to be around you, share in your time, interests, thoughts, and life.  Respects you.

So, just to be clear, I’m not here to knock casual sex by any stretch of the imagination. Rather, I’m here to say let’s all examine the reasons why we’re having sex.

If it’s not something you really want to be doing, and you have a say in the matter, don’t do it! If what you really want is to be held, not fucked, then find someone who will just hold you. And, hopefully, find someone who will respect you before, during, and after sex. We all deserve that much at least.

As for me, I’ve recently been reminded how beautiful sex can be when it’s shared between people that care for and respect each other. All the gritty, erotic, casual flings in the world can’t hold a candle to that, in my humble opinion.  

 

 

 

USA, land of condom convenience

Have you ever found yourself in a foreign land with the opportunity to get laid, but no condoms available? Navigating the purchase of condoms should be a relatively easy task, even in another country, but it isn’t always so.

Here in the States, we’re used to the convenience of, well, convenience stores that are open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. We want to be able to buy what we want and need exactly when we want or need it. Planning ahead is hardly a necessity in this culture of convenience (or so we think).

My advice? While traveling, if you think you might be engaging in a little sex tourism, random hookups, or trysts, PACK CONDOMS! Fuck it, pack some lube too! You never know what you might be getting into, or how you might be able to MacGyver some lube, condoms and dental dams into some kind of survival gear in a pinch.

Have you ever tried to purchase condoms in, say, Holland in the middle of the night? To the best of my knowledge, you’d have to go out and pay entry into a club so that you could purchase a condom out of a seedy bathroom dispenser if you didn’t plan ahead during normal business hours. This hassle alone is enough to prevent one from getting laid, and believe me, it has. 

Come to think of it, I wonder how much more sex Americans have, since we can purchase condoms easily on the fly… In other countries, couples might forego a hump if it was unplanned and condoms are unattainable during prime shagging hours. Following this pretzel logic trail a little further down the rabbit hole.. are convenience stores providing greater opportunities for increased slutdom? Or are they just helping us to 1) not plan ahead, and 2) get laid at every opportunity? Hmmmm…

Amsterdam adventures

The last time I was in Amsterdam was in 2010, where I detoured for a few days after visiting some friends in London (and had an absolutely superb time there, but that is for another story). I wanted to go back to the land of bicycles and reminisce, explore, and see how familiar or unfamiliar it all felt. It had been 6 years since the last time I’d been in The Netherlands. I found that most of my friends in Holland had moved away, so I got a hotel room off the beaten path, in some area of Amsterdam I was totally unfamiliar with.

I wandered around, ready to hit the town, and wandered into the Paradiso, an old church-cum-venue. It was packed. Strange, European dancing was happening all around me. It was sort of scary and comical at the same time.

I added my dancing fuel to the mix and chatted with random strangers while drinking some good Belgian beer. I talked with a young schizophrenic man who explained what it was like to be considered disabled in Holland, and about the resources that were available to him, how he was happy to have a job, and the perceptions of the Dutch public towards those with mental illnesses.

Then I made a dreadlocked friend who I ran into again as I was leaving for the night. In classic Dutch fashion, he offered me a lift to my hotel on the back of his bicycle. Awww, shit. I’ve never been very good at this, even though I lived in Holland for 6 months. 

I balanced my very American ass carefully on his rack, and we set off to try to figure out where my hotel was. We managed quite well, and there’s something kind of sexy about a man using the strength of his legs and ass to pedal me around cobbled streets and across moonlit canals. 

Then he tried to take an uphill turn too slow and we both fell off. Shit, I’m such a tourist. A real Dutchie would’ve been able to keep her ass on that seat and the bike off the ground.

We never did figure out where my hotel was, since I was unfamiliar with that area and so was he, and we’d gone off course somehow. My new friend offered that I could crash at his place, and we went there. I entered the filthy Dutch apartment and met dude’s roommates, and he served us all green tea out of a tea set I was a little afraid to drink out of.

The couch looked like a suspicious place to sleep so I found myself crashing fully clothed (for protection!) in my newfound friend’s bed. Then, in the night, his hand meandered down my pants and he tried to stick a finger in my ass. Okay, so he might have succeeded.

I guess this is how the Dutchies roll. But it stopped at that – no sex, or oral, no handjob, nothing. He just jumped straight to a finger in the butt. Odd. It took me over an hour to figure out how to get back to my hotel the next day.

What this blog is NOT about

To better inform my faithful readers and those who have randomly stumbled across these electronic pages, I feel I should clarify a bit about what this blog IS and IS NOT.

The writings here are my personal experiences, musings, and rants. I use this as a forum to express myself, write about my adventures, and challenge traditional views about sex, gender roles, and whatever floats my boat. Everyone is of course entitled to their own opinions about what I write and how I live my life, but I am just here to share my two cents and my unique perspective.

While readers are welcome to comment, I would ask that the comments remain respectful and refrain from personal attacks. We all have the right to disagree with one another. However, if you find yourself vehemently disagreeing with me and my ways or writings, you may find that the best way to reduce your stress level is to forego reading this blog and go on your merry way, rather than engage in a battle of words and wits over the interwebs. I do reserve the right to moderate, edit, and delete comments that I deem offensive (not because I am Queen of Everything, just because I am Queen of this blog). Censorship is not the goal; rather, I just want to keep this blog peaceful and enjoyable.

Since it’s come up a few times, I should also mention that this blog IS NOT a place to pick me up, make sexual advances at me, etc. I get plenty of that in real life, and I’d like to keep this blog fun.

Thanks for reading! Hope this helps to clarify a few things!

 

Nice ass. Can I buy your groceries?

My facebook fans already know about this one, but I felt it was blog-worthy.

The other day I found myself grocery shopping, and I happened to overhear some lurid comments about my ample ass (in Spanish, no less!) from two guys behind me in the checkout line.

Since I speak Spanish, and was feeling cheeky, I called these ‘gentlemen’ out on their catcalls and we started a conversation. These Cubanos were happy to attempt flirtation with me. One of them offered to buy my groceries. I said that wasn’t necessary, I could afford them, but if he really wanted to, he was welcome to pay for them. Then he asked me for my number. I declined to give it to him, saying that I wasn’t looking for another man at the moment.

I asked him if this meant that now he wouldn’t buy my groceries. He hesitated a moment, and the cashier was ready with my total. I said, “I think he’s paying,” and he did, wasting a whole $22.54 on a failed pickup attempt.

Some may think it was wrong of me to capitalize on his offer if I had no interest, but I think not, since I made myself clear and didn’t lead him on. Besides, I think for the constant harassment and come-ons that women receive in all kinds of public spaces, we deserve the occasional free groceries and drinks.

It gets a little old being hit on in unexpected places, like the 7-11 or the laundromat, or waiting for the bus. When I’m out at a bar, I feel a lot better prepared to deal with it. My armor is on.

What surprises me is the backlash that women get when they make it known that the come-ons are offensive and unwanted. We all know that rejection sucks. But I think the reason I get miffed a lot of the time when being hit on is because the men doing it show zero interest in being real with me, kind, polite, or wanting to get to know me. The interest is in obtaining my phone number (as if I would give it out so easily, then I’d be changing my number all the time!) or possibly getting me into the sack. And often, it’s all done in an offensive manner. I don’t want some jerk I’ve never met calling me baby, or sweetie, or making audible noises upon noticing my ass.

We are called bitches, whores, sluts, cunts… all for saying we’re not interested. I’m fairly certain the fellows who bought my groceries were calling me some names for wasting their money, even though it was their idea to purchase them. It just didn’t work out like they planned.

Further baffling is the notion that if a woman likes sex, she must want to have it with everyone. I’m afraid this is not the case, at least, not for me. I want who I want, and if I don’t want you, talking me into it is not going to work. Sometimes carefully laid plans and elaborate come-ons may work out, but often times, I think they end up backfiring.

Anyone else care to share their thoughts on the subject?

The Apple Store Porn Fiasco

A few weeks back my beloved Macbook started acting goofy, so I made myself an appointment at the local Apple store to get it checked out. I waited patiently for my turn with one of the Apple geniuses.

My genius started to look over my computer and I described the problems it was having, and also said there is something wrong with the CD/DVD drive, for example it would no longer burn CDs. Genius guy asked me to open up iTunes to demonstrate, so I did, thinking that my music selection would pop up.

However, what was actually loading in front of my eyes in the very crowded store was… porn – the movie tab had been inadvertently clicked, and for whatever reason, some homemade amateur pornography was about to be seen by roaming children and dozens of other hopeful holiday shoppers.

The genius noted the familiar look of panic in my eye as I tried to close out of the offending page, but alas, my computer would not respond. Blast! 

That’s when he told me to take my computer and go stand in the corner, away from all of the children’s eyes. I felt like I was being punished, and I was hoping they wouldn’t make me wear some kind of a modified Porn/Dunce hat. 

Once we got the offending porn off the main screen, my genius tried to recommend some tips on encrypting porn files. 

You mean I have to go through and encrypt them all individually? This seems like a daunting and arduous task! Is there a way I can do it in bulk?

Then we got into a nice discussion on how I could be sure that the Mac pervs wouldn’t steal my porn. Especially the guy that works there who I went on a failed date with a few years back… he would definitely rape my hard drive. My genius assured me my porn was safe, but that I should start encrypting or I might have to sit in the corner again next time.

 

Pondering open relationships

Relationships come in all forms – open, closed, good, bad, superficial, dysfunctional.. sometimes it’s just a matter of crafting the one you and your partner want to be in.

My mother’s first marriage was an open one, but only in a weird, coerced way. Standing at the altar, about to marry the man of her youthful dreams, her husband-to-be informed her that theirs would be an open marriage, and she should just deal with it or get out now. My mother wasn’t too keen on the idea, but not wanting to cancel the wedding, she acquiesced. She caught her husband in bed with another woman and in a bold move, said, “How dare you sleep with someone else and not invite me?” And this is how my mother embraced the polyamory game. She told me that a separate affair was spawned between her and the other woman, even excluding her husband. Way to go, Mom! Needless to say, the marriage didn’t last.

In my experience since then, I’ve talked with many friends who are in varying degrees of open relationships. Some have threesomes together, but otherwise, do not participate in any sex outside of the relationship.

Yet, when engaging in threesomes, it’s advisable to lay down some ground rules. Some folks don’t want to see their boyfriend’s penis enter another girl’s vagina. While I can totally respect this, it seems somehow less safe, since a lot of people I know do not practice safe oral sex but would definitely use a condom for other types of genital spelunking. (C’mon, bust out the flavored condoms and dental dams, people!) Some gay couples have similar rules about which orifices are acceptable to penetrate. It all depends on preferences.

And then there are subtle nuances involved that can lead to hurt feelings. Case in point: A threes0me I had as a much younger lass, with my then-boyfriend and a hot chick we both wanted to shag. Let’s call them Fred and Amy. Fred, Amy and I were fooling around, having a great time, but I had to leave in order to make curfew. Being 16 had its drawbacks. I didn’t want to go, but assessed the situation and gave the green light for Amy and Fred to continue fucking in my absence for the evening. And I was totally fine with it.

However, my beau dodged my calls for the rest of the weekend, and when I ran into him next, he told me with a grin about how he and Amy had been shagging each other senseless all weekend long. She’d left to go to work and came back at least twice for some more of my boyfriend’s dick. This hurt my feelings. First off, I wasn’t asked or invited back for rounds 2, 3, or 4. Second, it seems to me that once you leave to go to work the sex session is over, and any new sex acts should probably be cleared with the primary partner. We talked it out and decided that I was allowed to fuck someone else to even the score. I took advantage of this opportunity and enjoyed myself a little too much with my new partner, souring my relationship with Fred. Oh well, you live and learn. It certainly wasn’t the first relationship to be doomed by a threesome, and it won’t be the last. 

I think the key to making it work is communication. Recently I’ve encountered some couples who are allowed to have sex with others, but they talk openly about it afterwards. I’m told they even fuck each other that much harder after hearing about all the salacious details. A buddy of mine that I occasionally  sleep with (come to think of it, it’s been quite a while..) is in such a relationship, and last month he invited me to meet his girlfriend for the first time. I thought this might be awkward, given the fact that I’d slept with her boyfriend, but it was surprisingly chill. Funny how that works out.

Other couples I know are actually dating several people at once and have multiple boyfriends or girlfriends at the same time. (How do they ever find the time to work out?) In a sense, you’d think this would be preferable to your significant other sleeping with half the population of Rhode Island. However, I can see how jealousy could be an issue, and these things must be well communicated in order to make it work.

It still might not work. Boundaries can be pushed to an uncomfortable point if limits are not set and discussed ahead of time. Even in the most open of relationships, there are certain lines that are quite risky to cross. And, when you really care for someone, it can be difficult to justify having sex with others. In the end, we’ve all just got to do what feels right. And if you have any qualms, I highly recommend discussing them at length – it’s the only way to fly.

Illustration by Alex Petrowsky

Check out additional works by Alexander Petrowsky here

Zoidberg’s Claw AKA The Tango: A vibe review

As I’ve mentioned before, my vibrators get a lot of use, and I’m sorry to say all are in a state of disrepair, or simply disappoint. In a valiant effort to remedy this lack of adequate vibration in my life, I sought out to try and replace my irreplaceable favorite vibe.

I searched far and wide, craving high end vibes, but shopping on a budget. I definitely wanted a rabbit vibrator, but which one? I finally settled on an interesting model, the Tango, by Fun Factory. There was a sale at pleasuretease.com and I went for it, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my special delivery. I was psyched to see the package on my front steps, and was in awe of the sleek German construction and vibe directions in multiple languages. Linguistics get me hot.

Once I got my new vibe out of its package I was struck by how much it reminds me of one of Dr. Zoidberg’s claws (from Futurama, in case you’re not of this planet). If I had two of these things and something to double as his weird moustache tendrils I’d be all set for next Halloween…

I’m sorry to say that my original Tango suffered from manufacturing defects that left it impotent. Well, not impotent, per se, but unable to vibrate. This would not do.

I contacted pleasuretease.com, hoping they’d take returns, and they made the process very easy for me. I was given a code and form to fill out, then I was able to print out a pre-paid UPS shipping label. I reused the original packaging and brought my defective Tango to work with me (if they only knew what that package under my arm contained!) to pop it in the nearest UPS drop box.

A week or so later I received my replacement Tango/Lobster Claw. I’ve since spent several hours on laborious field work to properly test and review this new toy. My impressions are as follows.

1. Neat, safe, silky smooth texture (go silicone!)

2. Amusing, claw-like shape

3. Quite flexible, and seems durable

4. Waterproof! Bonus bath-time fun!

5. A surprising number of different vibrations and intensities to choose from

6. A turbo booster! Probably the coolest feature – the push of a button when you’re close will increase the vibrations in any setting and put you over the edge!

7. Not sure about the clit zapper placement though – I found myself wishing that tiny little claw was just a tad longer and bigger for better reach. The angles seem a bit off, but it is possible to manually hold that sucker in place since the Tango is so flexible.

All in all, the Tango may not be the Tokyo Rose, but it will definitely become a well-used tool in my vibe arsenal, as well as adding to my collection of vibes that resemble sea creatures.

Old journal entries: Koh Tao

This undated entry is from somewhere in the Spring of 2005, when I was living in Thailand. Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. 

On Thursday night I embarked on a marvelous solo adventure to Koh Tao, which means Turtle Island. After a long and arduous journey, I arrived on this beautiful island around 10 in the morning. I took a much-needed nap in my seedy bungalow, then rented a motorbike and headed to Shark’s Bay to lie on the beach and lounge in the sun. I tried not to stare at the hot bare-breasted European women who were sunbathing, but it was a useless effort. Later I made my way to Sairee beach where I had a minor accident on my motorbike. Bystanders laughed at me once they saw I was alright.

I spent most of the day wandering until I once again found myself back at Sairee beach. I got no farther than the entrance to Lotus Bar, because as soon as I got there I met a couple of cool guys: Jack (Aussie), Paul (Brit), and Kobus (I forget where he’s from). After numerous beers I left with Jack to go to this other bar Whitening (which sucked). One of my new friends drove my scooter, and I was happy to let him. (2011 update: Now I know how to drive scooters!)

We ended up going back to Jack’s bungalow (we meaning Jack and I) and we snuggled and had good sex (which I’ve been sorely missing) but the condom broke, which was terribly unfortunate and worries me a bit. (2011 update: As it turns out, I was in the clear! Woo hoo!)

We spent the rest of the weekend together lounging about with Paul, who’s really cool and has an incredible imagination. We talked about all sorts of metaphysical shit and Paul told me to “always trust the universe.” I like that thought, although sometimes I think things need to be taken into one’s own hands. Paul, who’s an English bloke, also taught me lots of British sayings such as “knock your tits off.” He also called me a “rum chick,” whatever that means.

Later we scaled many rocks and I was told to “relax me bum” and Jack and I went snorkeling around this old shipwreck. It was a whole different world once I stuck my head under the water. Beautiful clam-shaped coral and large rainbow fishes I couldn’t identify swimming all around me. Whole schools of fish nibbling on the coral, sea cucumbers slinking along the ocean floor and all kinds of sea creatures living amongst this old shipwreck. I cut my ass and foot on a piece of coral but other than that it was awesome!

Having a metaphysical moment

Old journal entries: Thai beach party

This is the first of a series of old and silly journal entries I’m sharing here. This particular entry is dated January 16, 2005. 

Holy Potatoes, Batman! So much has gone on in the last 2 days! I suppose it all started Friday, a few hours before the beach party. First, I spent the day lounging around naked, as my roomie’s out of town. Did some Thai homework (sort of), lounged in the hammock, listened to music, chilled at the beach.. (Or was that Thursday? Oh, fuck it.)

Anyway, ate at Nino’s and had a few beers. Got a few Changs for the road and met up with Liz, Dan, Ali and others. By the time we caught the bus at 8:45, I was probably 5 beers deep. This was going to be a fun night. At the beach party I had a few more. Saw a bunch of people and had a chill time dancing on the beach. Here’s where the timeline gets screwed up. I remember T.J. (or maybe it was Stephanie) grabbing my arm and telling me to come wade out into the sand dunes. I drunkenly followed and broke my flip flops in the process. It felt so good to wade in the ocean that I didn’t care my pants were soaked up to my crotch. 

A little while later, someone shined a spotlight on the people wading in the surf (although some of them didn’t realize it at the time). Back on the beach, I glanced over to see my friend Stephanie unknowingly backlit and dancing in the water. She then stumbled, fell, and was completely submerged, all with the spotlight fixed on her for all to see! Ha ha!

Then, in another funny moment, where I only realized the full hilarity of the situation later, I was dancing on the sand, madly grooving away when I suddenly fell hard on my ass. Sonya was watching me dance and she told me later she was thinking how graceful I looked mere seconds before I wiped out! Figures. 

The next hour or so is fuzzy or nonexistent for me. All I remember is Steph lending me her flip flops because I was all of a sudden too fucked up to be without shoes. She had to walk me to the bathroom and someone, I think it was Yangchen, mentioned something about how we’d all take a taxi back.

I remember little after this point. I don’t remember the taxi ride, where there were apparently like 12 of us crammed into a tuk-tuk. I also forgot that I still had Steph’s shoes, and that she was all wet from falling in the ocean, and how we got up to Yangchen’s room. I only remember being at the beach and then suddenly at Yangchen’s, where the atmosphere was a chill one. Yangchen picked up a guitar and started singing these amazing songs. She’s very talented, has an amazing voice, and even played some originals for us.

At some point, Namgay and I were alone together for a second, and he leaned in and kissed me. It was hot, and so is he, but he’s really way too young for me. Sometime in there we stopped by an afterparty in someone’s bungalow, and went by Nino’s, where Yangchen sang some more. Then we drove around a bit in Yangchen’s rented car. I kept trying to get in on the wrong side, since I kept forgetting how the driver’s and passenger’s sides were reversed from the locations I was used to dealing with.

I ended up at Stephanie’s bungalow and passed out on her bed. We woke up around 11, chatted, then got some breakfast (although it was not the Denny’s-style American breakfast we both craved). Then we went back to the bungalow and decided to save some cats. 

People had been hearing meowing for days and had finally pinpointed this one area in the roof as the source. Though we were determined to get to the cats, our first few attempts were thwarted by height deficiencies and a lack of supplies. Then T.J. the gymnast scaled a fence, jumped up on the roof, climbed over, lifted up some shingles and pulled out three baby kittens! Such good karma and a great thing we did. After nursing the kittens back to health, we took this inflatable kayak out to the pool and floated around. Then Ali and this Dutch guy Ken took the kayak out into the sea…

Making a joyful noise

I’m not that into the holiday spirit, really. My family has never been much for celebrating, and from time to time I have mooched off of the families and holiday celebrations of friends or significant others. But this party I went to last weekend had me overflowing with holiday cheer in the first 5 minutes. There was a huge spread of food and a very diverse crowd. Oh, and Christmas carols. As a group, every odd hour from day until night. With sleigh bells ringing. Seriously. With an acoustic and an electric guitar, and a soulful/delighted lead singer jamming her heart out to holiday classics along with 50 of her closest friends.

Everywhere I looked in the crowded room, there were smiling faces. Some people were sitting on the floor making ornaments but they were still singing along. It didn’t matter if you could sing or not, or if you knew the words (there were printed lyrics sheets available). Everyone was pouring their heart and soul into these songs, and it was a beautiful thing. Happy Xmas (War is Over) rose to a crescendo of feeling and release and I tried my best not to tear up.

After the 7:00 PM caroling was over, there was a wave of hearty embraces. Friends were just so darn glad to see each other, to be catching up, singing, eating great food, talking to cool people.. So I accepted the holiday cheer instead of fighting it. And it was lovely.

Unfortunately, though, I did not get kissed under the cameltoe.

My first naked holiday party

Last night’s clothing-optional holiday party was a complete success! I arrived solo and knowing only one person in attendance, and feeling a tad awkward at first. Especially since most people still had their clothes on. I was immediately struck by the awesome house the party was thrown in, complete with mirrored walls, a cuddle pit, a stuffed (taxidermy-style) german shepherd (there was actually an interesting history behind this old dog..), fireplaces, and cool architectural details everywhere.

Everyone started to strip down to partial or complete nudity, or to holiday themed costumes. I wore a coyote face hat and nothing else. The hat was a big hit. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw men with sleigh bells, bows, and ribbons affixed to their wangs. One fellow even wore a light-up reindeer nose! Some just wore winter scarves and socks, and nothing else. Our lovely hostess was rocking a faux animal hat and matching fuzzy boots, while sporting an impressive pubic thatch.

The environment was without judgment as everyone mingled and chatted it up. I ran into a few people I knew and made some new friends as well. With all the mirrors, it was surprisingly easy to check people out without being obvious about it.

There was an impressive spread of tasty treats in the spacious kitchen, and plenty of flasks being passed around. There was even a silly gift exchange and I scored some awesome stuff: a “Cock Blocker” (a wine bottle stopper/cork shaped like a rooster) and a festive ramen-like package of “Slut Soup!”

To be clear, this was no orgy, but rather just a merry gathering of nude friends and acquaintances. I so badly wanted some pictures with this crazy stuffed dog, but it seemed like a faux pas to bust out my camera at a nudist party. The hosts were kind enough to indulge me and another gal, so we took the dog from his resting place and took some hilarious nude pics with him in a more private area to avoid offending the other nudists.

So many people had towels flung over their shoulders that it seemed like a scene from the nude version of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. While roaming the galaxy or nude parties, it’s important to have a towel to act as a barrier between your bare ass and someone else’s couch. 

All in all, great times were had, and I’m really pleased that I got to attend. Nudists unite!

What’s in a number?

Unfortunately, double standards exist when it comes to sex. Men are given a pat on the back for shagging as many ladies as humanly possible, while women are scolded and thought of as dirty whores for fucking those very same guys.

This notion has burned my biscuits for years – the idea that men can be sexual gods while women must remain virginal and pure. Except, if all women were that way, these man-whores would never get laid.

Men don’t seem to think all women should be virginal. It depends on the situation. A one-night stand or a fling is given a bit more leeway, but the girl you’re going to marry better not have slept with more than 5 people.

My last serious boyfriend didn’t want to know my number. I think he was ashamed for me, or felt daunted. He’d only had a handful of lovers, and was sure that my number would dwarf his. He just wasn’t sure by how much.

An old guy friend of mine had a long-standing reputation for slutty behavior. Ten or twelve years ago, he’d already topped 100 lovers. I knew the girl who became #101, and she beamed with pride at the distinction, much to my confusion at the time. Still, no one ever criticized my friend for sleeping with literally every available dame  in a 10-mile radius. Something tells me if this friend had been a woman, she would’ve faced harsh scrutiny for the same actions.

I can only hope that by opening a dialogue, these unjust double standards can be examined and challenged, so no one needs to be unduly ashamed of a few (or even a few dozen) misguided fucks.

For those who dare to comment, I ask you this: How many people have you fucked? What counts as a fuck? Have you ever been made to feel ashamed of your number of sexual partners? How do you mitigate those feelings? After all, there’s no undoing what (or who) has been done.

If it starts with xxx, expect some filth

Is there, or can there be, etiquette amongst perverts? I think so, and there should be. After all, we have to be respectful of the predilections of others, and no one should force their kink on unwilling participants. And, after all, we’re all human beings and ought to treat each other with some modicum of courtesy, or even, occasionally, tact.

A few months back I joined a dating website of sorts that appeared to be a sexy version of OK Cupid. There, you could upload photos (and nude ones were not only allowed, but encouraged!), and chat with other perverts, and maybe, just maybe, meet that one special pervert. Or you could just cyber-wank. Your choice!

I stumbled across the x-rated site while I was both extremely bored and horny. I had no time to browse because my screen was immediately blown up by hundreds of dudes instant messaging me. Some were way outside my stated age range of interest, so I politely declined their invitations to sit on their faces, even in cyber-land. Others were just plain rude, calling me a bitch or a whore just because I wasn’t interested. Some would open up their webcam before I’d even agreed to chat with them and would be beating off immediately, assaulting my eyes with mystery cock I didn’t even ask for or agree to. And all this without so much as a “hello” first. I may be a pervert, but I am also a lady, and we all deserve a little respect. 

All of these weirdos forcing their spank sessions on me got me thinking – these perverts are not following the code of etiquette. How’s about we start a pleasant conversation, then you ask me if I’d like to see you beat off. Things are kept much more civil that way.

Out of the 2,017 people who contacted me inside a week’s time, I found 2 that were worth talking to and made a couple of new friends. I suppose I should have expected as much while perusing x-rated dating sites.

Desperately seeking Tokyo Rose, circa 1999

Did I mention I need a new vibrator? That’s because all of mine are broken down in some form or another. One in particular, my favorite, the Tokyo Rose, is just completely shot. The poor thing’s got so many miles on it! It was given to me as a birthday present from a buddy of mine, about 12 years ago. Now, that’s a long time to have a vibrator! And I can assure you, it got plenty of use over the years. 

The Tokyo Rose falls falls under the vibrator category of rabbit, meaning that it’s got some kind of alien-looking clit zapper attached to it for dual-action pleasure. Having sampled a variety of vibes, dildos, and other random objects that happen to fit in my vagina over the years, I can safely say that rabbit-type vibrators are the way to go.

My beloved Tokyo Rose came equipped with a clit zapper that looked like some strange insect. The antennae would flutter fervently, flicking my bean at adjustable speeds and intensities, all controlled with the push of a glow-in-the-dark button. What’s more, it has pleasure beads and a rotating shaft that goes clockwise and counter-clockwise. What more could a girl ask for? 

Although the Tokyo Rose held up remarkably well, and gave me countless orgasms, it eventually started to wear out. I thought it had zapped its last clit when it made this horrible screeching sound, but I discovered that bending and banging it provided a temporary fix. I was able to coax a few dozen more orgasms out of it in this rigged state, but the mechanical screeching sound was starting to throw off my mojo.

I knew I should probably throw it out, I mean, the thing looked a bit… tattered. But I’d grown attached. How could I ever replace my favorite vibe? I looked around for the same one, figuring it would last me another decade at least, but alas, there were none to be found. All the new models were bigger and supposedly better, but their clit zappers were too rigid, their shafts too big…. I need something that will flutter! 

Slowly but surely, I am running out of viable sex toys. My vibrating butterfly broke, I lost the battery cap on another, and my current vibrator is just way too big (I swear, it looked smaller in the package). 

Why can’t the vibe-making powers that be just bring back Tokyo Rose Classic, while at the same time launching all the new and ‘improved’ instruments of pleasure?!? I’m going to need to start stock-piling when I find my next favorite vibe.

Are there any beans in the area that need flicking?

Holidays at Perv Central

My family gatherings, are to put it mildly, a bit odd. While we dined on Thanksgiving turkey and all the fixings, my father casually made a reference to the time he lost his virginity at age 11 during a gang-bang in a secluded woodland setting with a 13 year-old girl who’d been impregnated by her step-father. Hardly appropriate dinner table conversation if you ask me, particularly with children at the table. 

But such are the ways of my father as he continues on his weird, pervy, patriarchal path, trying with all his might to instill true lust and depravity in his children, along with other, more useful skills, such as sound financial planning.

Post-dinner conversation mellowed out somewhat, and turned to still perverse, but lighter topics. My Dad left the room to go watch TV, and the rest of us discussed a sex toy party my step-mother had thrown (I politely begged off the invitation for obvious reasons) where my step-sister had the balls to ask my father if he would buy her a new vibrator. Of course he did, and this prompted a subsequent conversation between my father and I where he felt the need to tell me that he would buy me one too if I needed it, and had the courage to ask. 

This conversation has plagued me for several reasons. First, my family is wayyyyyyy too involved in each other’s sex lives. It’s pretty creepy if you think about it. Plus, it’s bizarre that a father would offer to buy his only daughter a vibrator. It’s also strange that he would require said already-creeped-out-daughter to ask him flat-out for this new toy. Finally, the truth of the matter is, I really could use a new vibrator, and I totally don’t have the cash to throw down on one right now. All my current vibes are missing pieces, improperly sized, and/or have a whole lot of miles on them. 

Still, what’s a girl to do? I pondered this and discussed it with my step-mother and step-sister (who, by the way, is very happy with her new vibrator) and downed some liquid courage.

I decided to start small. I asked if I could speak with my Dad privately to avoid creating more scenes in front of the kiddos.  We went into my Dad’s bedroom to talk,  (the only room  off limits to the kids because it is essentially a porn dungeon and who knows what they might find in there) and I began by asking to borrow some of his vintage erotica books for a creative project I’m doing with a friend where we combine spoken word vintage porn readings with funky beats for ultimate hilarity. 

Dad asked me what type of books I was looking for and I quickly replied, “Nothing in the incest category.” How odd that I have to include this specification.

My Dad settled on a few titles from the popular Female Prisoner Series, with winning titles such as “Gestapo Prison Brothel” and “The Gang-Ravished Wife.”

Now I hesitated. Dare I ask for the new vibe I so desperately needed? I quickly blurted out the shameful question before I lost my nerve. I was doing my best to convince myself that this was a sound financial plan and was potentially worth asking this humiliating question. My father of course said that he would buy me one, and then added that it could be my Christmas present. Wow. My Dad’s getting me a vibrator for Christmas. Do I have to open it in front of everybody?

As these disturbing thoughts settled in, I said that I could just find one online and my father could pay for it, or better yet, give me cash or a check (which I would cleverly spend on something else, then use my own money to buy the vibrator, so as to distance my father appropriately from my sex life while still extorting money for a new vibrator). My father, apparently, has other plans. I’m not sure if it’s due to his wariness about purchasing things online, or just his insistence on making me as uncomfortable as possible and pushing the envelope of normal father-daughter relations at every available opportunity, but my father, it seems, would prefer it if we go to a sex shop to pick one out together. 

It was about that time that I felt I’d had enough family time for the evening, and I started to gather up my things and process all of this. But before I could leave, he adds that I am welcome to “borrow” the $2,000.00 fucking machine he bought for my step-mother (which Pops complains she doesn’t use enough – more information than I needed.) My step-mother then chimes in from the bathroom, “But she can’t use any of the attachments I’ve already used.” 

Are we really having this conversation? As my parents argue over which attachments I could mount, I squash the discussion with a curt, “I don’t care to use any of them.” Wow. It’s time to make my escape.

I discussed the situation with some friends and feel I probably should not proceed with the whole family-trip-to-the-porn-store-so-Dad-can-buy-his-little-princess-a-festive-vibrator thing. It just doesn’t sound like a good idea, nor worth the $100 or so I will save. My biggest fear was that my father was hoping to make an impression during the vibe buying process so that I might remember his generosity whilst enjoying my Christmas gift. Funny thing though – call me crazy, but I don’t want to think about my father when I’m doing anything involving my genitals. I’m just not wired that way.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the last few days agonizing over the potential consequences of this conversation, potential purchase, and all of its implications.  When I found a cryptic message from my father on my Facebook wall asking me if I wanted to go “special shopping” soon, I’d hit my limit.

Unfortunately, this means I’m going to have to have another discussion with my father now, explaining why now I’d actually prefer a mattress cover instead. But this is simply the way of things, holidays or otherwise, at Sexual Deviant Headquarters. Maybe I should take up a vibrator fund here instead. It sounds a lot safer.