Guest Post: On Being Chosen For A Threesome

Today's guest post is from Confessions of a Recovering Cynic, a ballsy, hilarious blog in which heroine, self-described "train wreck," Tricia* writes about hideous dates, having to move back in with her parents and sending her brother to the post office to mail a butt plug to a reader/contest winner.

In the following post, Guest Star, Tricia--who clearly has an especially alluring Blogger profile--has been propositioned by a married couple for a threesome. Instead of just writing about that, which would certainly be fine enough, Tricia takes it a step further and imagines the couple's conversation as they look at her profile, deciding if she is the one to share their marital bed. Note the subtle manuevering between the husband and wife as they try to work the situation to their own advantage.

So behold, Guest Star (text and artwork courtesy of Confessions of a Recovering Cynic):

Guest Star

So, I've already told you that my online profile is quite titillating to the geriatric set. I get swamped with emails from silver not-so-foxys suggesting that I look like I'd be a hoot.

Cuz mama taught you to share...

Today I was surprised to find out that apparently I am attractive to someone who doesn't bear an AARP card.

More specifically, two people who don't bear AARP cards.

That's right...I'm being propositioned as a guest star.

Now, I'm no fool.

I know how this conversation went down as they perused the profiles.


Hubs (clicking on picture of blonde could-be Playmate):
     She looks pretty good, honey.

Wife (thinking over my dead body):
     Um, I prefer brunettes...

Hubs (clicking on Megan Fox look-alike):
     Here's a brunette!

Wife (still thinking over my dead body):
     Hmm...she looks like she might have herpes.
(Shuffles profiles, lands on mine. EUREKA!)  
     How about her? She looks...nice.
(Nice = not so ugly that hubs will heave his lunch, but not as pretty as wife, naturally.)

Hubs (considering):
     She's a little...chubby - don't you think?

Wife (speaking soothingly):
     Nah, I think she's...sensual looking. Just think, hon - big tits!

Hubs (realizing with alarm this might be his only shot, and that a mediocre threesome is still better than no threesome):
     You're right, babe! Let's email her.

*And yes, overly attentive stalker  astute reader, this is indeed the same Tricia who "won" last week's contest on Most Stupid-Ass Thing Done for Love. She was the one who, among other things, paid for her own engagement ring.

The Blog That Rewards You For Your Failings

Today's contest asks you the inappropriately personal question: What Stupid-Ass Thing Have You Done for Love (or, if you prefer, "Love-Resembling Emotion That Cruelly Disguised Itself As Actual Love")? Did you write bad poetry? (Check.*) Feign an interest in the intricate fretwork of guitarist Adrian Belew? (Check.) Subjugate your personality until only faintly recognizable? And even then only observable during the vernal equinox with the use of special goggles? (Sigh. Check.)

Don't worry, no one will judge. Really, it was all so long ago. Why, it's difficult to even remember the white-hot burn of shame of not being true to your own bad-ass self. Besides you're, like, a million times smarter now -- right?

That's why the prize for this contest is the It's All About Me Kit from eco-friendly, girl-power-promotin', dildo-sellin' sex toy company Good Vibrations. The kit (a $32 value) includes:

• Touch Me Massage Oil (Nude, 8oz)
• Devour Me Lickable Body Oil (Pina Colada)
• Rub Me Massage Bar (Coconut Lime)
• Ignite Me Massage Candle (Nude, 2oz)

It's all the better for your New and Improved Lover (or yourself, also a decent lay) to minister to your needs.

To win, confess your stupid-ass love moment in a comment below (or send an email if you're a big pussy). I'll choose a winner according to the vagaries of my whims. On Tuesday. So think of something fast. Good luck!

*Oh, god, I did write a poem. Yes, a fucking poem. Worse, I gave it to the guy. Rather, I presented it to him somewhat ceremoniously like, "Behold this precious gift" (in my defense, I used to be quite a drinker). The shame of it still burns today. In fact, so preoccupied have I been with my own shame that it's only today--writing this--that I realize how horrible it must have been for the poor guy to have to receive the hideous poem. He had to read the frickin' poem--in front of me--and act like he was touched, or at least like he liked it. And that, my friends, would surely qualify him for top honors in Stupid-Ass Things Done for "Love".

Our Forefathers...So Embarrassing

Credit: Peter Zetterlund, 
Swedish National Heritage Board

Oh, I get the best mail around here.* Like this:  Reader Leslie of Long Beach, California, sent in an article about this ancient Stone Age tool (shown left) which--and I think we can all agree on this--most decidedly does not look like an axe or bowl or, really, any other non-dildo-related object. Says the caption below the photo:

This bone carving from Stone Age Sweden could be an ancient dildo, scientists say. Then again, it might just be a carving tool.

Right. There is no damn way that is a carving tool. (Though if it were, I am certain Stone Age fifth graders giggled away as the hapless Auk cluelessly carved with his cool-looking, self-designed carving tool. "What's so damn funny about me carving?" he grunted, waving the penis-shaped tool in annoyance, yet again.)

And lest you think In Bed With Married Women is a big perv that thinks everything looks like a penis, rest assured, we're not the only ones who see it. A real scientist thinks so too:

"Your mind and my mind wanders away to make this interpretation about what it looks like – for you and me, it signals this erected-penis-like shape," said archaeologist Göran Gruber of the National Heritage Board in Sweden, who worked on the excavation.

The archaeologist's language is oddly poetic. "Your mind and my mind wanders away...." Um, is this dude hitting on us? But I do like how Gruber just boldly notes the "erected-penis-like shape." In Sweden, you see, they are more open-minded. The "erected-penis-like shape" is one of the basic shapes taught to all Swedish kindergardeners.

This is not the first time we've uncovered evidence that our ancestors were a randy lot. In a previous post, we notified you about an object that scientists concluded was an ancient sex toy/firestarter tool--an awkward and bewildering combo that for semi-obvious reasons never quite caught on. I would liken it to today's KFC Chicken & Biscuit Bowl which is some godawful-sounding mishmash of fried chicken, corn, mashed potatoes, gravy, three cheeses and a buttermilk biscuit tucked in the side. (The comparison, by the way, is regarding the awkward combo-ness aspect.  I am most decidedly not suggesting that you use the KFC Chicken & Biscuit Bowl as either a firestarter or a sex toy. And especially not as both at the same time.)

The prevalence of these ancient sex toys raises some questions. Was it such a good idea to be fashioning dildos when there were still down comforters, iPhones and toilets to invent? Is this just the beginning of such findings and soon Swedish scientists will be uncovering Stone Age anal bleaching kits, vajazzling rocks and primitive inflatable sex cows made entirely of rock? Did Mrs. Auk claim the object tucked in her nightstand drawer was a "carving tool," much like Modern Woman's "back massager"? And, finally, how embarrassing would it be it future Swedish scientists were measuring, analyzing and photographing the contents of your nightstand drawer? "The object in question is purple and squishy and has the erected penis-like shape..."



* Not always. The other day I got a message from a young woman that read, "You are so going to hell. Have fun with that." What was weird to me about it was the combo of misinterpreted Christianity ("Jesus NEEDS me to send snippy emails to strangers.") with the teenage phrasing. I am not just going to hell, I am SO going to hell, like I am in some extra-special category of hell-goers. Perhaps it's like having your tickets at Hell's Will Call booth or something. And the "Have fun with that"--it's like a Mean Girl from the popular lunch table is banishing me to hell. "Have fun with that. And make sure you wear those geeky pants you have on too, loser."

Bad Sex, Writing, and Inappropriate Speculation on Alan Alda's Sex Life

Today at our morning coffee/de facto literary support group, my gorgeous novelist friend said that it's actually quite difficult to write a good sex scene. You can't just plop in any old bow-chick-a-wow-wow scene and have it work.  Not only does the scene have to propel the story in some way, but the characters have to be having sex in character. "Once you put in sex, it can get tawdry fast," she said. "And there are no good words for body parts."

It's true, even the hottest sex scene would be ruined--for me, at least--if a male character slowly unzipped their pants to reveal their... jade stalk. ("Cockstand," however, would be okay. I have made my peace with cockstand.) Sexual language is so personal and all tied up with the particular brain synapse connections we've made over a lifetime. One person's hot talk is another's desire killer. For example, I can't stand the term "making love" because that's what my parents called it during "the talk" with us, thus rendering the term permanently icky. (Subsequently intolerable 1970s songs: Feel Like Makin' Love, Feel Like Makin' Love, et al...) But to someone like, say, Alan Alda, "make love" is probably a sexually-charged phrase, imbued with all sorts of longings, memories, and images. "Pull off that cowl neck sweater and let's make love, Ellen Burstyn," he perhaps whispers in one of his fantasies, an old favorite. (Alan Alda, if you're reading this, I apologize for speculating on your sexual fantasies. It won't happen again.)

The problem of writing a decent sex scene confounds even the most acclaimed writers, hence the existence of the Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction Award.  This year's winner, announced last week, was Rowan Somerville for The Shape of Her. His competition was tough--Jonathan Franzen was among the other nominees--but it was prose such as this that pushed Somerville to the top:

"Like a lepidopterist mounting a tough-skinned insect with a too blunt pin he screwed himself into her." 

That sentence alone would probably be enough to put Somerville on the top of the list (except perhaps to that one weird dude from the Entomology Department who keeps taking The Shape of Her into the bathroom with him) but he kept the bad sex coming. In one passage, he described pubic hair "like desert vegetation following an underground stream" while another read:

"He unbuttoned the front of her shirt and pulled it to the side so that her breast was uncovered, her nipple poking out, upturned like the nose of the loveliest nocturnal animal, sniffing the night. He took it between his lips and sucked the salt from her."

For a man who though it would be a good idea to describe a breast as a salt-dispensing rodent's nose (albeit the "loveliest" one), Somerville gave a surprisingly well-worded acceptance speech. "There is nothing more English than bad sex," said Somerville, upon receiving his award. "So on behalf of the nation, I thank you."

By the way, if you are contemplating writing a sex scene and want to avoid winning such an award, you might eschew the talk of salt-dispensing nipples and go with more generally accepted sexual language. One dude calculated the top penis synonyms used in romance novels and found that most common word in penis references was "hard," followed by "manhood," "erection" and "throbbing." Feel free to mix n' match these words--throbbing manhood! erect hardness!--or borrow something from his frighteningly exhaustive list of bulging, jutting, straining synonyms like "evidence of his arousal," "fullness" and "aching shaft." If Somerville had just replaced his weird-ass insect imagery with an "aching fullness" or two, he wouldn't now be world-renowned for bad sexual writing--an honor I imagine has thinned his dating pool considerably.

In the meantime, I have to ask: what sexual words make you cringe? That is, what is your "making love"?

A message on behalf of the In Bed With Married Women Accordion-Playing Monkey

If you were going to do any holiday shopping through Amazon anyway, feel incredibly free to use the Amazon search box over there in the right margin. See it? Yes, there it is! Hmmmm...that baby sure looks easy to use. Your holiday shopping could be done in a matter of minutes!

Plus, each purchase tosses me and the monkey a few pennies, which helps pay for monkey food, tin cups, accordion sheet music, Lexapro, little red and white striped monkey-sized pants, matching grey top hats for the monkey and me (for winter evenings when we get chilly), and the expensive ten dollar vocabulary words we're so fond of. (Long term goal: a machine that will magically remove prepositions from the end of our sentences. See also: previous sentence.)

And by the way, let's see--together--what posts come up on the "You Might Also Like..." automatic feature below. I picture the algorithm that decides such things throwing up its metaphorical hands in dismay at the impossibility of its task with this particular post. "If they like accordion-playing monkeys, they will like, what...Manginas? NO, dammit, this blog--it gives me nothing to work with!" it shouts in its robotic voice, untying its apron, throwing it to the ground, and stalking off two full hours before closing time.

Guest Wanker Contest Winner + Egregious Sex Toy Gender Inequality

"Delilah! I didn't expect you home so early!"

"I wanna be a Guest Wanker!" wrote CkretsGalore, a Canadian chick who does not mince her words, and winner of the Tenga Egg Masturbation Sleeves* from Good Vibrations.  As Guest Wanker (translation for our U.K. readers: "Guest Wank-ah") CkretsGalore's duties include trying these space-age sex toy sleeve things out and reporting back to us with the details. (The sleeves, it should be noted, are to be used on a penis--either your own, or a local penis. They are ribbed in various absurdly intricate patterns for His Pleasure.) P.S. For those readers who are both highly moralistic and into reading about pervy sex toys, please note that Miss Ckrets will be using the sleeves on her fiancee, so fear not, they will follow their Sin with the sanctity of marriage.

In her contest entry, Ckrets, who writes Kick Her Right In The Habit, a blog about "smoking cessations, dreams and random shit," unwittingly leads us right into our Important Point of the Day:

We have purchased a few different [sex toys designed for men] without positive results. We have found plenty of things that work fantastically for my vajayjay but not for him.

YES, this is the aforementioned egregious sex toy gender inequality. Any woman who's ever tried a vibrating toy knows that it's like--cue the choir of singing angels**--well, amazing. If you do not possess female parts, or are still waiting for them to come in from the factory, sex toys for women are like MSG for your loins--all the sensations are enhanced and super-charged. Or, if a Fast & Furious reference is more up your alley: it's like nitro for your naughty bits.

From what I've heard anecdotally (you know, hanging out on the street corner with knicker-clad older kids playing Mumblety-peg for nickels), there is not the same sort of universal love for the male sex toys. Some men like them, others think "eh," and others find them somehow unsavory and won't even try them. Actually, a lot of men seem almost spooked by them--at least according to what their wives tell me. (FYI: Oh, that's right, we talk. Your wife's friends know everything. Yes. Every. Thing.) So what's up with the sex toy hatin'? Well, I dunno. My friend's husband offered this theory, after I accosted him with questions about male sex toys (yes, I am delightful at dinner parties!): "Men aren't supposed to need anything extra," he replied, backing away slowly.

Damned if he isn't right. When women use sex toys, it's all yay, female-empowerment, owning your sexuality, la la la, but when men use them, there's still a shred of shame. The bias is obvious even here at sex blog central. When I offered the Tenga up as a prize in this contest, instead of entering publicly via the comment section, the entrants surreptitiously slipped me emails, as though trying to purchase illegal fireworks or something. And as much as I try to be open-minded, I'm as bad as anyone. I wouldn't dream of mocking a woman for using a vibrator--even if the vibrator was decorated with Hello Kitty stickers, shot off sparks, and played "Too Legit To Quit," every hour on the hour. But I had no problem writing an entire post dedicated to making fun of a particular Fleshlight masturbator (although in my defense, the masturbator's color*** was listed as "anus.")

So, your questions for the day:
--Have you had experience with sex toys specifically for men? Found anything good?
--Are you one of those dudes spooked by sex toys? If so, what is it about them?
--My answer to why sex toys don't work as well for men was, as I recall, "dunno." Surely you have something more enlightening to say on the matter. C'mon, go all doctoral dissertation on my ass. I love that intellectual #%$.

*If you're feeling daring, get some of them Tenga things for yourself or someone you love by clicking this link:


**In the first draft of this, I wrote, "cue the choir of singing angles" which is also pleasing in a Sesame Street, After Hours, kind of way.
*** Note to Canadian contest winner Ckrets: that would be spelled "colour," though it still doesn't change the fact that "anus" is so not a color, or colour. (Full disclosure: I have not actually looked at Canadian Crayolas lately but I'm almost positive that "anus" is not among the choices.)

Masturbation Devices, Anti and Pro. (Plus, the Guest Wanker Contest!)

I am thinking of masturbation this morning. Not in the sense of putting it on my morning "to do" list (although--what the hell--maybe I was, you don't need to know every damn thing), but in a more general sense. Specifically, how masturbation has spawned so many devices to deter the supposedly evil habit. (For other masturbatory writing--and no, I am not referring to this entire blog--see also: If You Can't Be With The One You Love).

My sinful train of thought was spurred by Stephenson Billings' The Anti-Masturbation Movement's 14 Greatest Inventions in ChristWire, the fake (I hope...) hard-core right-wing web site. The article details all kinds of dreadful devices used to stop people from touching themselves "down there." There were penis fans to keep one's member from undue warmth, full body suits to prevent lustful wandering hands, and alarm systems designed to alert parents to their children's nocturnal erections (not quite sure what the parent is supposed to do once alerted). Penis cages and trusses locked the guilty organ up or tied it down to physically prevent shameful erections. And when those didn't work, physical pain was employed. "The Timely Warning" (pictured) prevented "night emissions by arousing the wearer." "Arousing" is, at the very least, a curious choice of words. I guess it's an 1800s adman's best try at a positive spin on what would more accurately be described as: "being rudely awakened from your sweet dreams and pleasantly swelling erection by the sharp stab of a ring of metal teeth cutting into your wang."

It's strange that we would have developed such a virulent fear of self-love because throughout most of history, masturbation was considered natural, good, a sign of fertility and such. There are spurts of masturbation references throughout art, mythology and history. So accepted was the practice that nannies in 17th century Europe would masturbate young males who couldn't get to sleep(!) (Perhaps this is what people mean when they complain they can't get good help anymore. Carmen, the lady who used to clean my house before I became poor, never once even offered to give me a handjob. The bitch.)

In the 1700, it's like we all lost our minds and became dreadful prudes, enflamed by various influential pamphlets of the day detailing the hideous moral, religious and health problems caused by spanking one's monkey. In "A Solemn Appeal," Sister Ellen G. White lists a host of old-timey ails caused by "the practice" including the dreaded "dropsy." The alarmed Sister warns, "The mind is often utterly ruined, and insanity supervenes," which perhaps explains why I have been known to stare blankly when someone asks me my cell phone number.

At a certain point, anti-masturbation advocates sound less concerned with the moral health of our youth and more like completely insane sadists. Consider John Kellogg, the cereal guy, who claimed that the "solitary vice" caused a host of health problems, up to and including death. "Such a victim literally dies by his own hands," Kellogg wrote, perhaps chuckling to himself over his wit. I knew Kellogg was whack--I mean, the dude invented his own high-powered enema machine--but I didn't realize just how much of a nutter he was until I saw this in Wikipedia's History of Masturbation:

He recommended, to prevent children from this "solitary vice", bandaging or tying their hands, covering their genitals with patented cages, sewing the foreskin shut and electrical shock. He also recommended burning off the clitoris to prevent masturbation in girls.

As part of In Bed With Married Women's one blog campaign to counteract such nonsensery, our prize today is a pro-masturbation device--dropsy be dammed! The prize is a six-pack of Tenga Egg Masturbation Sleeves from sex toy company, Good Vibrations.  Each egg contains a squishy, tube-shaped thing with a different texture--ribbed, vertical ripples, and whatnot. It's not as "arousing" as the metal spikes, perhaps, but it does reportedly give a nice sensation to a man. Wrote one dude in a Good Vibes user review:

Wet and squishy. Delicious. And wow, your cock looks really strange and really cool—like a failed, cloudy aspic—bulging and pulsing through the translucent elastomer and striated or spotted with the texture. Is it weird to get off on how your cock looks in one of these things? Probably but I don't care. 

Here's what you must do to win:
--Have a penis, or access to a penis.
--Be willing to write up a short description of your experience with the Tenga (either on yourself or using it on another) to share with the rest of class here at In Bed With Married Women. (Note: the phrase "failed, cloudy aspic" has already been taken.)
--Leave a comment below or drop us an email to indicate your willingness to do a public service wank. I'll pick a winner Monday.

Vagisil Porn, Regular Porn and Transcendent Orgasms--Or, Just Another Friday Mail Day

Oooh, the mail's here.  Let's take a look!

In response to the Vagisil Porn post (aka "Oh yeah...there.... yes, yes, yes, MAKE ME FEEL FRESH!!!!") reader Chaffyn sent in the chart below and wrote,

Thought you'd like to know that this domain name is AVAILABLE!!! Unless somebody already grabbed it, we should.  Doncha think? It's only a dollar a month and I'll split it with ya.

Hmmm....

Well, the price is certainly right for the "vagisilporn.info" domain name. But unfortunately my one dollar of investment money is currently tied up in highly volatile derivatives. However, if you go the Vagisil porn route with Chaffyn, you might pick "vagisilporn.co" because it's listed as the "Premier Choice!" and that just sounds classy.  I also like "newvagisilporn.com" because it implies a certain modernity, not like the old-fashioned Vagisil porn your grandpa used to listen to on the Victrola. ("Claudine, head out to the shed and fetch me my douching bag! And I'm gonna need some sterno cans, barley malt and some extra lye...")

Meanwhile, back in 2010, reader DeliaDelish spilled her porn gripes in response to the post Considering Porn, Perhaps Too Much:

Oh, I'm so glad you asked! Husband and I do watch porn. Probably the typical stuff. Sucking and fucking, we call it. I have some basic beefs: 1. The word shit does not belong with sex. Can they not find better words to express their pleasure? 2. What's with all the spitting? Gross. Is there no lube in Pornland? 3. Pussy slapping? Really? And why is it always the girls slapping each other's pussies? Those three things have really been bugging me and until now I've had nowhere to vent, so thank you.

You're welcome. I soooo hear you on the spit thing. Recently someone sent me a supposedly "instructional" film on blow jobs to review. I watched the whole damn thing because I kept thinking it would get to some secret tongue move that would give me BJ Superpower, but no such magic tips were forthcoming. What there was was spit, lots of spit, friggin' gallons of spit. And worse, the people in the video were "real" people, i.e. "people who don't look good naked--not at all."  Oh, children!-- the pock-marked bottoms I saw! Lord, have mercy! I was so traumatized, I had to reenact parts of the video to my friend Heather--including sound effects and hand motions--to help purge it from my pysche. I honestly thought I might not want to have sex ever again. I was as grossed out as a kid hearing about sex for the first time--"They do WHAT? With their WHAT? NOOOOO!"

And finally, Anonymous sent this in response to the post on cervical orgasms, In Search of the Elusive Third Type of Orgasm.

i am 38 and i had one of these last night. i told my husband i had no idea what that was-- and he was in awe about how *loud* i was (i am usually very quiet...just a breather...) the only way i could describe it to him was that it felt like an orgasm that started above my chest and overtook my entire body, and it was like everything went white. i told him it was like my spirit split and was in him and myself at the same time. that was the most intense experience i have ever had. i'm sure the neighbours agree LOL i read about vaginal orgasms but those are what i normally have (i have vaginal orgasms way more often than clitoral orgasms) and i just knew there had to be something else. it was so intense that afterwards i said "I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M AN ATHEIST!" HAHA

I don't have anything to say about this except I am beyond jealous. Clearly this is something I will need to put on my To Do list.
1. Go to Trader Joes.
2. Have my spirit split in half while everything goes white during intense, screamingly loud cervical orgasm.
3. Whoops, first close window overlooking neighbor's yard, then spirit splitting, screaming loud, everything goes white cervical orgasm.

In Bed's As Sappy As A Drunk Today

This is supposed to represent me ravished by gratitude.
Or, alternately, a lady passed out in marshmallow fluff.

In the largely unseen 2003 film Japanese Story, Toni Collette is an Australian geologist who has an unexpected, instinctive and mostly wordless affair with a Japanese businessman, Hiromitsu. After a tryst, they lie stretched out on a rock facing the sparse, seemingly endless expanse of the Australian outback. In halting English, Hiromitsu says, with a sense of wonder, "My...heart...is full."

That's how I feel today. Like I am a Japanese businessman who just had sex on a rock and...well, no, not that exactly, but my heart is full. It all started the other day with a comment from a new reader, DeliaDelish, who wrote, "I am so crying and peeing in my pants right now. I think your writing is going to cure my lifetime depression. I soooo thank you." Girl, I feel the same way--about the writing as cure for depression thing, that is, not the peeing. (though it is fun to contemplate that I could control people's urinary habits using only The Amazing Power Of Words--bwah ha ha!)

Every day one of y'all do something to make me just that less clinically depressed. Like, just this morning, reader Ed ended his comment with a P.P.S. that read simply, "cockstand." (It was genius, I tell you, and if you click here, you'll see why.) Another reader made some sort of off-color innuendo about furries and a bag of knobs. Now, that's the kind of thing I like to see in my inbox.

So here, let us commence with the gushing! (Clapping now to signal the beginning of the festivities.)

I am grateful to the multi-cultural, Benetton-esque, Rainbow Connection readership for In Bed With Married Women. Check out this map--from just one friggin' day!--that clearly indicates the worldwide need for urgent, up-to-the minute news on anal bleaching, inflatable cows that you fuck, and Manginas.



I am grateful to the lovely Asha, http://www.ashafullife.blogspot.com, for this blogging award. I don't really understand it, but it's an award and I'm kind of slutty about accepting stuff:

And thanks to the witty, ballsy, all-around top-notch Brit, The Barreness, who not only bestowed this upon me:

but also penned the best comment ever.

(Here's where it gets all awards-speechy. If you're going to flee, now's the time.)

In Praise of Smut

I was at my corner library staring forlornly at the budget cut-ravaged New Non-Fiction section. "I can't find anything," I complained randomly to a mother I recognized from school. She glanced over The National Inquirer that she was reading. (Yes, The National Inquirer--at the friggin' library. She didn't even go hide at a back table somewhere.) "The good stuff's over there," she said, gesturing to a wall. It was the romance section. I hesitated. Shouldn't I make sure there wasn't a new book on urban farming or something? Ah, fuck it, I was long overdue for some smut.

I found a small section of Harlequin Blaze books. If you are not familiar with the Blaze line, described as "red hot reads," it is basically porn for women. Now, Blaze books are as silly as any other romance novel--true love is pledged, the touch of a hand causes sparks to leap through the body and such--but Blaze books don't fade to black on a promising kiss. They take you right into the bedroom with the characters, and describe the goings-on with the keen attention to detail of an eager sports commentator. I scooped up the entire Blaze section, including this, Hold on to the Nights. (Please know that if it had dawned on me that it shared its name with a Richard Marx song, it would have most certainly remained, punished and pariah-like, on the shelves.)

Here's a short passage for you:

"Omigod," she gasped, dragging her mouth to stare up at him with something like amazement. Her lips were parted and swollen from his kisses, her eyes-heavy-lidded and dazed with arousal. "I'm going to come." Graeme's body responded to her words, his cock so heavy and aching that it took all his restraint not to push her legs apart and sink into her slick heat.

Yes, it's poorly written crap ("slick heat"? really?), but, god help me, that stuff worked, at least for me. After spending a couple hours reading of body parts swollen with desire, jutting erections and "delicious torment," well, let's just say it benefited things at home. And I would argue that reading the smut benefits more than just the marital bed, I think it's good for your whole damn life. After reading my little smut, I felt more aware of the fact that I was a sexual being living among other sexual beings. The whole seemed brighter somehow and full of promise. I felt more attuned to the sexuality inherent in everyone, and this knowledge gave every encounter a little extra frisson of electricity. Of course, I wasn't going to do the coffee guy or the crossing guard or whoever, but I could, we could, and that awareness was exciting. 

So, yes, it is the cheesy Harlequin porn that does it for me. I am not proud of it. I'd be happier to admit I read esoteric erotica in Swedish or something, but I don't. I read my stinkin' girl porn. Other people I know swear by the vampire stuff. (Actual back cover blurb which sounded hot to my friend, but funny/creepyish to me: "He was her perfect man--except he was dead!") And others love Highlander romances, with their frequent mentions of lifted kilts and "cockstands," which I think is Scottish for "jutting erection."

There are a bazillion subsets of romance/erotic fiction. When I returned to the library, I discovered a whole section of Inspirational Romance, which means lots of talk about God, perhaps a chaste kiss or two. These books, according to romance writer guidelines, are about two people and their relationship to God. (And no, I will not be so crass as to make a threesome joke.) I checked out one of these Inspirational Romances to understand this genre because its appeal is beyond unfathomable to me. (And, let me tell you, that was THE most embarrassing book I have ever checked out. It took every one of my meager social filtering skills not to explain to the librarian way I needed a Christian romance.)

Here's a sample passage from that book, The Family Next Door:

"I would love to marry you. And be a mother to Jenny."

"Amen to that. We'll have the life the Lord laid out for us, together, making a family, making memories to sustain us all our lives." 

"I've been praying you might see me in just such a light."

"Oh you have, have you?" He kissed her lightly. "Jenny will be thrilled."

What? This is the big climatic end part? "Amen to that"? "Kissed her lightly"?!  Okay, but did he have a jutting erection? Was slick heat involved? Bah! So while some Christian chick is flushing and breathing heavily over the chaste kiss, my wiener (as my friend charmingly likes to call it) is curling up into a ball and scuttling to hide under the table at the excessive Lord mentions. My point? People like their own damn smut and all the other stuff is just tame tripe or gross porn.

Thus we come to your questions for the day:

Do you read any smutty trash?

What?

Does it improve your sex life?

Or am I just rationalizing my smut habit?

What, besides "cockstand," is the best romance novel word?

Today's Contest is Somewhere in There...

I'm reading Melissa Febos' Whip Smart (not to be confused with Liz Phair's similarly brash and ballsy Whip-Smart), a memoir about a bright, nervous college student in New York who decides--what the hell!--to become a profession dominatrix in a Midtown dungeon. It's a hyperliterate exploration of all kinds of seediness, from the author's (possibly) secret heroin habit to the various elaborate--and often bathroom-related--fantasies that regular-looking dudes in New York pay $75 an hour to... enjoy. (Is "enjoy" the proper word for having someone pee on you? I am willing to entertain the possibility that I am missing out on something, but for me, contact with someone else's pee would lead directly to a frenzied Lady MacBethian scrubbing session with a big-ass bar of soap. Preferably caustic old-time soap, chockfull of banned chemicals and lye.)

To go with the whole S&Mish theme, today's contest prize was going to be a pair of handcuffy things for a reader to try. I was even going to make the winner report back on how it all worked out for them. But the best part was that the handcuff things were non-leather, vegan handcuffs. Yes, cruelty-free bondage gear. "I wish to torture someone cruelly, but want to make sure that no animals will be harmed."

Unfortunately for the part of my brain that really, really likes a tidy theme, In Bed With Married Women's sugar daddy/sex toy company Good Vibrations sold out of the cruelty free cuffs immediately. Thus the fare I offer you does not relate at all to the theme I spent SEVERAL minutes of time composing in my head while walking the dog, but that's just going to have to be okay.

To make up for it, today's prize, the Date Night Delight Kit, is full of all kinds of slide-y, sexy, vibrating stuff that will make you forget all about my precious tidy theme and urinating Manhattanites. That's right, if you win, you will be too busy babbling incoherently after enjoying this:

Waterproof Mini Bullet Vibrator

2 Please Lubricant Samples 

Ignite Me Massage Candle 

Touch Me Massage Oil 

Devour Me Lickable Oil 

Mini Rub Me Massage Bar

Hmmm....what should I make you do to win? Actually, no... fuck it, unless someone's handing me $75 an hour, I'm not making anyone do anything. To enter, just leave a comment below (or if you're a big wuss and/or don't want anyone to know of your excessive lickable oil usage, send me an email).  I'll pick a winner on Saturday. Okay, then. Run along now.

True Wife's Tale #6: Emma, Sex as Negotiation

Sometimes married sex (or lack thereof) is about so much more than sex. Bliss in the marital bed can thwarted by any number of decidedly non-sexy things including, but not limited to: tiredness, quietly nursed bitter grudges, general laziness, the dog is already asleep in the bed, is anyone going to fold that big-ass pile of laundry that's been on the floor for six fucking days?, etc...

For Emma and Jeffrey, having good sex is not the problem. He's a skilled lover and she's very responsive to him--this girl's one of the lucky few who easily has orgasms through intercourse alone. So, yay, hot, satisfying sex with orgasms for all. It's just...all the other stuff. Chores, kids, who's making more money, blah blah blah. Says Emma, "Sometimes at the end of the day, sex just feels like one more thing on the to-do list."

I have no idea what she is talking about because I am usually whistling a merry tune as I mix fresh martinis and press my french maid outfit in preparation for greeting my husband at the door or, you know, giving him mind-melting blow jobs as he smokes his evening pipe and whatnot, but perhaps you might be able to relate to Emma's situation... Click below to read her story.

(A note to latecomers: True Wife's Tales are a recurring In Bed With Married Women feature in which real women tell the damn truth about their sex lives. Sometimes it's hot, sometimes it's not--but it's all true, and that's worth something.)

The Scent of Desire

It's an overcast day, grey and rainy--the kind of day that fills me with an ineffable yearning for something, or someone. As I sipped my coffee this morning, my thoughts drifted to a man I know, and I wondered how he would smell. (And no, this man is not my husband. As I have mentioned, even good ol' house-buildin', church goin' Jimmy Carter entertained "lust in his heart." As far as lust in the heart goes, I allow myself free rein.) I had a desire to press my nose to this man's neck and deeply inhale his scent. The idea was strangely pleasing to me. (In real life, I can see this exploratory neck-sniffing being a bit problematic as I scarcely know the man and, at the very least, highly socially awkward.)

I have no desire to mate with this man (okay, maybe I sort of do--and no, mom, dear husband and various other concerned friends and family, I won't), but my sense of smell is eager to work its biological duty to detect if he would be a suitable mate. When we smell someone, we are sniffing out their genetic make-up and determining if they will be a good match for producing genetically sound offspring. (Read more about it here if you're feeling sciencey.) You want someone who is dissimilar enough to you so it's not like inbreeding, but similar enough so it's not outbreeding. (I'm too lazy to look up the word "outbreeding," so you can handle that one. What do you want? I'm working for free here.) There's no universal foxy scent, though if there is one, I'm quite sure it is exactly how Javier Bardem smells. As the article puts it, "One woman's Romeo is another women's raunchy." Our efforts to disguise our natural scents with various sprays, perfumes and the like are mucking about with our biological wisdom.

Our sense of smell resides in the primitive, reptilian potions of our brain and most of the information we gleam from scent comes to us subconsciously. But as I've talked to women about their sex lives, I've found that some women are quite aware of much they rely on their sense of smell. Mara, for example, is so attuned to her sense of smell that she can actually smell her husband's desire. "If he's naked, I can smell a certain level of arousal, almost a cum smell," Mara reported in her In Bed With Married Women True Wife's Tale. (Mara, btw, loved her TWT. "Wow!" she wrote, "I want to have sex with me.") Another woman can't stand men who have what she intriguingly terms "the peppery smell."

Another woman I interviewed described her tepid sex life and mentioned in passing that she didn't like the way her husband smelled. (For the record, her children are delightful and not at all genetic mutants.) Later she wrote back, entirely screwing up my theory about the uselessness of body sprays, etc...:

I don't think we have a natural pheromone connection. My first really serious boyfriend had the pheromones that made me absolutely crazy and it didn't matter if he was sweaty or filthy or dressed up or whatever . . .  he was just hot to me. This will sound bizarre but recently my husband started taking showers just before bed and piling on the scented body wash and he smells so much better to me. He feels fresher and more in the mood.  I love the way he smells and it makes me feel much more aroused.  We kiss a lot more and sleep with less clothing. He says he's going to shower every night now.  

So--you there!--help me get me attention away from my inappropriate neck-smelling reveries. Tell me what role scent plays in your sex life. Do you like how your mate smells? Have you even been attracted (or not attracted) to someone because of their scent? And does anyone have any idea what the hell "the peppery smell" might be?

*Postscript: If you like reading swoony prose about the senses, I highly recommend Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses.

xoxo
jill
(photo: www.flickr.com/photos/mysteriouskyn/135998094/ )

PS.  This is an old as fuck rerun. Do not be alarmed.

What is Feminist Porn Anyway?

Well, my friends, I am a feminist porn virgin no longer. As faithful In Bed With Married Women readers will recall, I've written about porn before here (and okay, here, too, geez, get off my back) but had only seen the usual freely available Internet variety, i.e. guy porn. This weekend, I broke down and ordered some so-called feminist porn. I was quite pleased to discover that feminist porn was not--as I had halfway feared--naked chicks sitting around discussing equal pay for equal work, but rather porn designed to appeal to women.

The movie I got was called Matinee. Here's the blurb for it:

Two theatre actors who play onstage lovers without much zing -- until one critical peformance, when they decide to improvise. The results will thrill you as much as they do the Matinee audience who watches them really begin to make love. Bridging the gap between indy art film and sex film, this plot-driven, scripted mini-featurette by US-born, Amsterdam-based filmmaker Jennifer Lyon Bell features real actors performing their first-ever explicit scene, not porn performers, and the result is smart, nuanced, and oh-so-sexy.

I was into the idea of porn as "smart" and "indy art film," so I had high hopes. And damned if the thing didn't totally work for me. I was quite surprised, actually, that I liked all the emotional stuff, fuller story line, etc... I had no idea I was, yeesh, such a... girl.

So now, much like Tiresias (yes, most of my knowledge of Greek mythology comes from Peter Gabriel-era Genesis records), I feel that I have experienced the male and the female side of things. Well, at least porn watchin' kinds of things.

With Matinee, I could see all the appealing-to-the-ladies elements in action, but I still fell for every last one. And what exactly are these elements of girl porn? Well, here, I made a list for you. Perhaps you can clip it and consult it next time you're watching porn.

The Bad Dave, and Why Every Woman Needs One. Maybe.

Readers over at The Frisky were recently all up in arms about an article 12 Kinds of Sex Every Woman Has To Have Before She Settles Down, calling it "inane," "slutty"and "stupid." (Among the 12, if you are planning to take it as serious life advice, were sex with a girl, with a way older/way younger guy, with an artist, etc...)

I don't mind things that are inane, slutty, etc... and in fact, would submit that the article missed one very important type of pre-settling down sex--sex with a mean guy (aka, that asshole, what a dick!, etc...) Hooking up with a mean guy offers many Important Life Lessons. Plus when you're not busy sobbing over him or in the corner scrawling forlorn poetry, the Mean Guy is kind of fun, in a weird, unhealthy masochistic way.

My own mean guy--who I will call Bad Dave, because that is his name, well, the Dave part at least--was a friend of a friend who ended up being one of my housemates in college. Six of us lived in a big Band-Aid colored house in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Bad Dave was not horribly attractive, made unflattering clothing choices and was slightly plump, but he bore a passing resemblance to Bono and was a philosophy major. He was big on late night discussions of topics such as "What is Art?" which, to my college self, was so fucking deep. (And, to be perfectly honest, I would still probably still be sucker for such talk.) But what made it all work for us is that he had a mousy girlfriend away at Harvard, and I was slutty and generally drunk.

Our relationship--embarrassingly, probably my most long-lasting one of the year--was sort of an extended series of booty calls, all the more convenient because his room was right next door to mine. This could have easily become tedious--get drunk, go knock on Dave's door, blah blah blah--but what made it interesting was that there was always a weird power struggle going on, with me always on the losing end. It was psychological S&M, kind of like that movie "Secretary," except with poorer-quality cinematography and I didn't sit in a chair peeing on myself.  Bad Dave would give me instructions like

Vagisil. VAGisil. Vaaaaaagisil. Yeah, Sounds Bad No Matter How You Say It.

A friend sent this e-mail today:    

Subject line: "The first line of a Vagisil ad I saw today..."

"I found out the hard way -- all feminine washes do not get rid of odor."

Unfortunately I was eating at the time.

Ha ha, I thought, then went out to walk my dog. About halfway through the walk, the question occurred to me: What did this mean--"found out the hard way”? To me, “the hard way” implies more--much much more--than perhaps absently noting that one does not “feel so fresh.” No, “the hard way” implies something big happened, really big. What had gone on with this lady and her odorous vag? A beau passing out?  Co-workers holding an embarrassing, yet ultimately helpful, stench intervention? If so, was an actor reenactment involved? My friend had not specified, and now I needed answers! “The hard way....”? It was a curious choice of words. Surely it meant the chick in the ad had suffered some sort of major public humiliation due to her poor choice in feminine wash (whatever the hell a feminine wash is). Had people been injured? Were authorities summoned? Were parts of her office building cordoned off?

And, dear Lord, that name--why did they have to name it Vagisil anyway? I mean, can you imagine being part of the Vagisil product-naming committee meetings? You would have to sit there, talking earnestly about vaginal cream and brainstorming names for it--Springtime Freshness! M'Lady's Secret! Butterfly Kisses!--without laughing like a 5th grader. Then, when someone suggested something like Vagisil and everyone nodded sagely in corporate agreement, you would not only again have to stifle your laughter, but also your overwhelming urge to stand up and scream, “Vagisil? Are you fucking serious? Really? VAGisil? What the fuck! I am so out of here!” (In case you were wondering, Combe Inc., the makers of Vagisil, are not also the makers of Anusol.  They do, however, make LiceMD and OdorEaters which, in my opinion, are also in need of some major name makeovers.)   

So anyway, I’ll let you know what I find out. In the meantime, enjoy your lunch.

America's Getting Freakier, Plus Your Question of the Day

I'm not saying I have my finger on the pulse of America's sexuality or anything--that would be sexual harassment--but yesterday, the very day I wrote a post on vibe ads in coupon section=a country gone sex crazed, a lovely and attractive reader informed me of an LA Times article saying that Americans really are getting more freaky, or as it's put more scientifically in the article, "expanding their sexual repertoire."

If you don't like to receive your information from legitimate news sources and instead prefer it from half-assedly researched blogs, here's the lowdown:

Across the lifespan, Americans report they are masturbating, alone or with a partner, engaging in oral sex and experimenting with same-gender sex more often than they owned up to in the 1980s, according to a study released Monday.

Apparently Americans, both wigged out by STDs and feelin' freer and sexuality open in a society that puts vibe ads in the freakin' Sunday coupon supplement, are expanding their sexual palette beyond straight intercourse--insert-p-into-v, repeat until done--and incorporating more oral sex, anal sex, masturbation and same-gender sex. In other words, straight people are having sex more like gay people.

It's all good news for the ladies, who are reporting higher levels of orgasms than before. "The vast majority of women indicated that their most recent experience of sex was highly pleasurable and arousing," said researcher Debby Herbenick, PhD to Lemondrop, bringing to mind an unbidden image of researcher Debby Herbenick, PhD, after sex, rolling over and telling her lover in a scientific manner, "I would like to indicate that that was highly pleasurable and arousing."

Ironically (or predictably, depending on your position on the whole Corporate Overloads Taking Over The World issue), the survey was sponsored by the makers of Trojan condoms, the same company that plastered vibes ads all over the former Squaresville of the Sunday supplement.

Which brings me to our question of the day:
--Would you use a coupon to buy a vibrator at your local Target or grocery store? (Factors to consider: $2 off coupon ain't too shabby vs. possibility of seeing neighbors and/or coupon problems. "This coupon for the fingertip vibrator isn't going through! Hey lady, did you purchase a fingertip vibrator?")

I honestly don't know if I could. Even though I am--in the words of the darkly handsome Long Beach Press- Telegram columnist Tim Grobaty, a "sex bloggatrix"--I don't know that I would have the balls (metaphorical ones, mind you) to just march into a store, greeting the neighbors all the while and tossing various sex toys into my cart. "Price check on the inflatable Javier Bardem!" Yeah, no. Still not ready for that.

So We Talk About Our Vibrators Now? Is That How It's Going To Be?

Do you think that sex toys are too outrageous for you? Well, girl (or guy, or highly intelligent blog-reading monkey), you need to get with the times. To wit: Who do you imagine being the most sexless, repressed, adventure-averse people on the planet? How about the readers of those coupon supplements that come in the Sunday newspaper? (newspaper: a daily or weekly publication on folded sheets; "He read his newspaper at breakfast.")

Okay, I'll admit it, I read those supplements (Yeah, yeah, keep your snarkery to yourself. I'm poor. I clip my damn coupons. So piss off), but I don't think I'm the real target demographic. These Sunday supplements--if you are tossing your money about like Mr. Monopoly, and thus unaware--are full of the very squarest of merchandise: Bradford Exchange collectable plates (This week: Michelle Obama "The First Lady of Fashion"), stretch pants with the pleats built right in (no ironing!) and support socks ("Will not make you sweat!")

This week, however, I also saw this headline: "TWICE THE TURN ON." It was not an ad for the Clapper, or Life Alert or a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed or something, but the Vibrating Touch from Trojan. "Perfect for enhanced stimulation," reads the copy coyly, but I'm no fool, I know what they're talking about. It's a flippin' vibrator, right there in the staid old paper! ($2 off coupon, btw.)

On the Trojan web site, they are a little more blunt about what's really going on with this "enhanced stimulation" business:

Designed to be petite and discreet, the TROJAN® Her Pleasure™ VIBRATING TOUCH® fingertip massager is the perfect little aid to help create big pleasure, providing thrilling vibrations right at your fingertips..  

I don't know, it's all freaking me out a little bit, like finding a Hitachi Magic Wand* in your Grandma's drawer. (Grandma, as you know, only did "It" three times because she has three children.) Is our society really this open about sex and "thrilling vibrations" now? Are support socks-ordering grandmas also carefully clipping coupons to save $2 on vibes? Has the whole world gone plumb sex crazy? I don't know. But I am wondering if I should clip that coupon. I do like a bargain...

*Historical note: The Hitachi Magic Wand was long billed as a "massager," but became notorious for its intense personal "massages." The Hitachi plugs in with an unwieldy cord, it's loud, pretty expensive, and has the subtlety of a chain saw, but it reportedly can put just about anyone over the top in a couple seconds.

Guest Post: "Demystifying Cunnilingus" by The Barreness

Today we bring you a lesson in the art of pleasuring a female orally. Or, as it is more formally called, "cunnilingus." (Though it is Most Certainly Not called cunnilingus by anyone I know--even at the most formal of occasions. Cunnilingus is a displeasing word, made all the more displeasing by the prominent "ling" sound right there in the middle of the word, forcing anyone who says it aloud into making an involuntary suggestive flick of the tongue.)

Our instructor in the art of, well, you know, is a lively, sassy Brit, The Barreness, who writes the equally lively and sassy blog Hello, Sailor.  I urge you, using my highest possible words of urging, to check it out immediately. At the very least read Meet the Barreness, an intro to the Barreness worldview. But you're here for cunnilingus talk. Let us cede to the Barreness:

Greetings Chaps and Chapesses.
As you might have guessed, today's topic is an educational one, its necessity brought into rather glaring focus for me throughout the recent audition process.

As it turns out, despite machinations and unsubstantiated claims to the contrary, nearly every man I meet, infuriatingly  most men  lots of men are absolutely bloody clueless about how to give good head.