In Non-Sexual News

What? You're still reading? Did you misread the headline? It says NON-sexual. Okay, then, you fucking diehard. You're here now. You may as well listen to the rest.

So this morning, I awoke to discover that a delightful reader, T.P. of Putney, Vermont, donated money to the blog. T.P. had never written, commented or in any way made it known that he read and/or liked the blog. But yesterday, T.P. took 4 minutes out of his day (or perhaps 4 minutes out of his evening of drunken Internet donating), pressed buttons, filled out a quick form, and donated some of his own money.

And, damn, it if hasn't made my fucking day.

Outright donations like that of dear T.P. of Putney, Vermont, are exceedingly rare. (I know! Total shock, right? For such top-of-the-line content delivered right to your fucking door. To your fucking door!) Such random donations are so rare that when it does happen, I get filled with love for humanity and life and writing, and I wish to honor the donor somehow. To let them know that their act made a huge difference, gave me the will to live, and whatnot.

My question to you, dear reader, is how should I do that? When a few people donated last month after the post on Google dropping my ass because of my supposed "adult content" (damn, just thinking about it makes me mad AGAIN. We are adults talking about adult things! Not frickin' perverts raping kids behind the school. Fuck! Can't grown people discuss something as innate to being human as.... Crap. I'm sorry, what were we talking about?)

Oh yes, so when those people donated, I wrote them each an email thank you note, but then afterwards, I wondered if that seemed a little skeevy*. After all, the internet is largely an anonymous medium. You don't want someone you've been arguing with over at the Huffington Post showing up at your door to finish the debate. So the whole thank you note thing--I don't know. (If you are one of the people who received such a note, please feel free to let me know--skeevy or not.)

I was also thinking of creating a permanent Supporters of In Bed With Married Women wall of fame/sidebar thing for the blog, but, I'm unsure about this too. After all, donating to a smutty** blog is not the same as bequeathing your estate to the local children's library. Do people really want to be listed publicly as a supporter of IBWMW? Fuck, maybe they do. A lot of people read this thing and you all might be heartened to know that you're not the only sick fuck sweatily entering the IBWMW URL when no one else is home. No, you're part of a community of sick fucks sweatily entering the.... Actually, from what I've seen of the lot of you, you are with a few notable exceptions, smart, funny, lively, perceptive and delightful citizens of the world.

So my question is this: How should I honor/thank donors? Wall of Fame, skeevy thank you note, or some other, much better solution I haven't yet thought of? I bow to your collective wisdom.


*Not actually sure if "skeevy" is a word.  If it's not, invent a definition for it as you see fit.
**Or worse, PORNOGRAPHIC blog, as judged (ever so harshly) by Google.

(photo source)

On the Benefits of Someone Who Can Kiss The Hell Out of You

The other day at the grocery store, a man came up to me and said, "You must know that you smell incredible." "Uh, thanks," I murmured because, in truth, it was all I could do to tamp down my geeky impulse to add, in a manner reminiscent of a female Mister Peabody: "Ah, you are responding to biological clues in my scent. Most likely you are detecting a favorable genetic similarity between us--although not too much similarity, as that would encourage genetic mutations in our young. All this sensory information is telling you we are probably well-suited to bear healthy, symmetrical young with a balanced assortment of genes." 

It is impulses like these that make me glad I am already married. As Dorothy Parker said, "Men seldom make passes at girls who say nerdy &%$# like that."  

So it was with trepidation that I started studying the biochemistry of kissing. Because as any formerly religious person can tell you, there's nothing like a little science to ruin a wondrous, magical thing. 

"Soul meets soul on lovers' lips," said Percy Bysshe Shelley in Prometheus Unbound. A truly good kiss does feel like the meeting of souls -- maybe it's because so much is happening in a kiss. Helen Fisher, author of Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Romantic Love, calls kissing a "mate assessment tool" and says, "When you kiss, you can touch, see, feel, taste somebody. A huge part of our brain lights up." Feeling someone's breath upon us or inhaling the scent of their neck is lovely in its own right, but also provides us clues as to each other's health, diet, and genetic make-up. In other words, it makes good biological sense to mate with the one whose kisses make you weak in the knees. 

So why is kissing the right person so damn good? Well, darling, those sweet kisses are making you crazy with a triple hormone combo that increases your sex drive (testosterone), makes you think pair bonding with this person is a fine idea (oxytocin) and causes you to be all sappy and prone to the excessive playing of Iron and Wine CDs (serotonin). In a 2007 study, researcher Wendy Hill compared the hormone levels of college students who had spent 15 minutes kissing with those who merely held hands and listened to music in the student center. For some reason, I love the detail that they were in the student center. The results of the study--stress levels in the kissing couples decreased, blah blah blah... wasn't as interesting as this bit of student center-related info:  

Hill thought that the setting might have been too clinical for the women to get turned on, so she tried in her latest study to up the ambience by locating the couples in a secluded room of an academic building, outfitted with a couch, flowers, jazz music and electric candles.

Alas, the article did not include a picture of this academic love nest with its "electric candles." Not that I think that setting is really all that important. I base this sweeping assessment on the fact that I received my best, most sublime kisses ever in an attic bedroom in Ann Arbor, Michigan, atop a set of bed sheets festooned with pictures of The Flintstones. (There was also a giant tapestry over his bed featuring Aries the ram, but in my memory, I choose to edit that detail out.) I didn't care about any of the decor though because, god, that guy could kiss. Sweet, melty, insanely wonderful kisses. I would live inside his kisses if I could. As the night grew later and later, I told him I should probably go home. "You could," he whispered, while placing the most delightfully soft kisses on my chin and nose, "Or you could stay here and kiss me all night." In a typically bad decision of that era (I was drunk, natch, as was my wont in those days), I inexplicably chose to go home. Dumb moves such as that, plus--okay, fine--my delightful habit of drunkenly calling him at all hours, ended things quickly thereafter.   

Which was too bad, because, damn, our young would have been symmetrical as hell.

Getting Buzz Lightyear Stuck in Your Butt and Other Hazards of Naked Vacuuming

Mayday! Mayday!

Please excuse the interruption, but this just in from major media outlet ABC News as part of their "health" coverage, Patients Get Bottles, Cell Phones, Buzz Lightyear Stuck Inside:

One winter night, Dr. Melissa Barton was the attending physician in the emergency department of the Detroit Medical Center. Making her rounds, she picked up a chart for a new patient and read the woman's chief complaint: "eye in the vagina."

The patient told Barton she had been expecting a fight with some neighbors outside her house. Wearing only a sweatshirt and spandex pants, she needed somewhere to stow her prosthetic eye for safe-keeping.

"Those things are pretty expensive and hard to replace," Barton said. "So that's where it went, along with her driver's license."

Unfortunately, it got stuck.

In case you were just skimming or have already blocked it all out, here are the salient facts: some lady put a prosthetic eye AND her driver's license up her vag. For safekeeping.

Okay, I get that this chick was in a hurry due to the pending fight with her neighbors. But, in my estimation, if she had time to stick her driver's license inside herself, she probably had time to just run it in the house instead. All things considered, running it into the house would probably actually be more efficient. I think no matter how good you are with your hands, it's probably never a speedy process to insert a big, rectangular, plasticky unfoldable thing into your womanly folds. Yes, even if you were super super aroused and really wanted to fuck the hell out of that driver's license.

Although perhaps I am not giving this lady enough credit. Maybe she had a plan. If she did get into the fight with the neighbors, at the crucial moment, she could stare right at her neighbors (with the other eye, of course), squat menacingly, push the eyeball out in a dramatic, birthing fashion, then start running toward her neighbors, yelling "Aaaaaaaaaaaahhh!" and brandishing the eyeball. I guessing she would win the fight right then and there. 

Here's another one:

Dr. Gary Vilke, a professor of clinical emergency medicine at the University of California San Diego Medical Center, saw a patient who had four Barbie doll heads stuck in his rectum.

"When you looked at his x-ray, they were looking at you, like a totem pole," Vilke said.

Can't you so picture those four Barbie heads, stacked in a totem pole fashion, looking at Dr. Vilke as though silently pleading, "Help us. Please, help us."?

But, fear not, lest you are concerned that some dude was getting off by beheading Barbies and ramming their heads up his butt, there is actually a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this.

"My favorite excuses all involve someone who was doing something in the nude," reports Dr. Rich Dreben, author of the book Stuck Up! 100 Objects Inserted and Ingested in Places They Shouldn't Be. "'I was vacuuming in the nude, when I fell.' Usually, it's some naked activity and a resulting accident."

Exactly. So this guy was vacuuming in the nude, which is the very best way to vacuum, as we all know. He tripped and fell right on top of a Barbie head! And damned if it didn't happen three more times. I think we've all been there, right?

Other objects that have found their way inside someone's personal orifice after such careless naked housework include many salads worth of vegetables, Buzz Lightyear (see photo above), nail clippers, and reading glasses. 

I can see the appeal of putting something inside oneself, but I guess I'm kind of picky about which household objects I'd wish to fuck. Like certain vegetables--a particularly handsome carrot, perhaps--might have a chance to have its way with me. But c'mon, nail clippers? Too pokey! And friggin' reading glasses? Even the most stylish pair of reading glasses, to my mind, are not the least bit fuckable. Hear that, reading glasses? Don't even try.

Still, people fuck what they want to fuck. As the commenter Sutureman1 wrote, "After over 30 years in surgery, I am awed at what people will do to themselves. I have so far seen: a candle, lightbulbs, batteries, spaghetti prongs, a mattress coil, and even a can of Edge Shaving Cream (the 33% more sized can )."

I love that he noted that the shaving cream was the "33% more sized can" because I think it makes the whole episode 33% worse.

But....I'm sorry....what were we talking about? I lost track because I just had a sudden thought on the man with the Barbie heads: Do you think he was talking to them as he had his way with them? 

"Hey, Barbie, see my sweet ass? You want some of that, don't you?" (Pointing Barbie's vapid eyes toward his eager butt. Barbie continues to smile vacantly, as is her wont.) "C'mon Barbie, beg for it!" *using his high Barbie voice* "Oh, please, I want to be in your ass so bad. Please, do it now!"

Right, that scenario is entirely too upsetting. So I am going to have cling to the fragile tendril of hope that maybe, just maybe, it really was the nude vacuuming scenario. It's about all I can handle today.

Bad Sex Week: What Have We Learned?

I learned what an "incubus" is. (By Googling the word,
not by being visited by an evil spirit who had his way
 with me while I slept. Now unsure if I am happy or sad
about my lack of evil spirit sex.)

Did we learn anything from trudging through the dimly lit backwaters of Bad Sex Week? Or did we just unnecessarily gross each other out, resulting in a statistically significant reduction in lasagna consumption per capita? (Sorry 'bout that...)

Let's sift through the debris, shall we?

1. The winner of the Bad Sex Contest and the fabulous vibrating panties is Cagey-C. Barely. It was sooooo friggin' close. So, other entrants, if you're bemoaning your completely upsetting lack of vibrating panties, please know that it could have just as easily been you emitting a low buzzing noise from your nether regions.

2. Bad literary sex spans all genres. Bear witness to these selections from Paul Goat Allen's Huffington Post article on bad paranormal sex:

• "While I stood stock-still, paralyzed by conflicting waves of emotion, Eric took the soap out of my hands and lathered up his own, set the soap back in its little niche, and began to wash my arms, raising each in turn to stroke my armpit, down my side, never touching my breasts, which were practically quivering like puppies who wanted to be petted." –Dead to the World by Charlaine Harris 

• "My nipples waved hello at him as he pulled down the cups of my bra." – Tracking the Tempest by Nicole Peeler 

• “His man lance prepared for duty.” – Naked Dragon by Annette Blair 

• "I let my hand stroke boldly downward, my fingers aching to set him free, to grasp his turgid magnificence." – A Brush of Darkness by Allison Pang 

• “Fuck me,” I said. “Fuck me, God, fuck me, just fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please, please, please, just fuck me.” – Incubus Dreams by Laurell K. Hamilton 

• "...I had my very own orgasm, a moment so explosive it was like I'd been saving up for a holiday." – Dead in the Family by Charlaine Harris 

• "He was a velvet rock in my hand." – A Brush of Darkness by Allison Pang 

• "She has seaweed pubes." – Tempest Rising by Nicole Peeler 

• “His body knew only one goal, to bury itself into the snug fist of her femininity and let it milk him dry.” – Demon Rumm by Sandra Brown 

• “Her pubes was a field of wheat after the harvest, a field neatly furrowed; it was a nest, a pomegranate, an arrowhead, a rune. It was a shadow. It was moss on a smooth white stone. There was an orchid within the moss. There was a drop of dew upon the orchid. It had the breath of moss-beds, of the deep seas, of the abyss, of scrimshaw and blue glass, of cold iron; she had the sex of rain forests, the ibis and the scarab; she had the sex of mirrors and candles, of the hot, careful winds that stroke the veldt, the winds that taste of clay and seed and blood; the winds that dreamed of tawny, lean animals.” – Bronwyn: Silk & Steel (Bronwyn, 2) by Ron Miller 

Mmm, ain't nothin' like a fresh can of vagina!

3. And finally, and most importantly, there exists in our world...Canned Vagina! Vagina in a Can! Oh, fuck, I never get tired of saying it! And I am not alone in this. A mother at my kids' school--a lovely, kind, very very religious lady--became similarly enchanted by the idea of Canned Vag and came up to me the other day and said quietly, "They should make Canned Ass, too." The weird thing was...I was thinking the very same thing. It made me feel kind of We are the World-ish because I realized, that day in front of the school, that the very best ideas transcend our different belief systems/religious ideals. The necessity of Canned Ass was something we could both agree on.
Canned Ass®-- a convenient, shelf-stable solution to all your ass needs.
Canned Ass®--When you want some ass, but don't have time for fresh.
Canned Ass®--It's what's for (after) dinner.

Right, I should probably stop now.

I will instead work on seeing if I can make my nipples wave hello, ala Tracking the Tempest above. Might come in handy when I'm walking the dog and need to greet a neighbor and whatnot.

xoxo
jill

Bad Sex Week, Day 5: Bad Sex All Over the Damn Place

Well, it's Friday, the day I'm supposed to pick the winner of the Bad Sex Contest (prize: fabulous vibrating panties courtesy of Good Vibrations) and--crap!--I just can't decide. Instead, I'm gonna shirk my duties empower the readers by letting you decide. That's right, you try to pick one of them, leaving the rest of the non-winning entries to shuffle away from the blog, sobbing and vibrating panty-less. Go ahead. I fucking dare you.

I've narrowed them down to five so this wouldn't be a 12,000 word post, but I've left out some really good ones, so you're welcome to go back to the original post and vote for someone I didn't include. You can vote in the comment section or via email. The tyranny of the majority will rule. You can rig the game--just like corporate America!--by cheating and having your friends and family vote for your entry. The drawback to this approach, of course, is admitting to friends and family the exact nature of your Bad Sex. I guess it all depends on how much you want those panties now, doesn't it?

I'll announce your choice Tuesday, December 13. (Er, probably, if you can learn to trust me again.)

Here they are:

1. I like this one by Cagey-C, not because the sex is so bad, really (it could've happened to anyone) but because it gives me a peek into the mindset of someone so completely different than me--a Conservative Evangelical dude having his first sex ever with his brand new wife. Also, the vibrating panties would be a sort of belated payback to said wife. Behold:

I went through a period in my teens and early twenties where I attempted (rather successfully) to be a theologically conservative, evangelical Christian. As such, I made it all the way until I got married (thankfully, at 23--but still, 23!) before having sex for the first time. Thus, the indelible memory of our wedding night. A summer evening, a lakeside cabin in Maine. A 23-year-old super excited about the first honest-to-God sex he was about to have. That super excited 23-year-olds bizarre insistence on sharing a pre-undressing prayer, because, you know, there's nothing quite as romantic as asking Jesus to watch your very first time. The couple tenderly undresses each other, kisses, allows hands to roam. Lies down on the bed in--what else?--the missionary position. I couldn't believe the sensation as I entered, like nothing my hand had ever managed before. I managed approximately two thrusts before shuddering, exploding, collapsing. In my endorphin haze, I looked into her eyes, smiled, and said, 'So that's what all the hype is about.' Only to realize that she was crying, and that it all actually sucked.

2. Can't keep anything to myself inspired Bad Sex Week in the first place with this story. Also I love her faith in the "toughness" of her vag, "NOT tough like beef jerky is tough," she hastens to add, lest we get the wrong idea:

Apparently Trojan also thought Ben Gay/Icy Hot + sex = great idea. Fire and Ice condoms anyone? 

I actually thought these seemed like fun. Especially after the super cheesy commercials. "Burning and freezing sensations in my vagina?! Sign me up!" I was reluctant after reading reviews from people who said they were too fiery and too icy, but my curiosity got the better of me. And faith in the toughness of my vagina. (What can't she do?!) 

Lo and behold, my vagina is in fact too tough (and by tough I mean insensitive, NOT tough like beef jerky is tough). I didn't feel a thing. My partner on the other hand had to run to the bathroom to wash his fiery-icy genitals in the sink. 

I felt kind of bad. And yet, I'm still kind of jealous I didn't get to feel ANYTHING.

3.  Gia also wrote about Fire and Ice condoms, but I so love how she shares her panicky thought process upon feeling the burn: "Does Boyfriend have an STD? Is he giving it to me right now?"

Re: Fire and Ice condoms. Well. Boyfriend bought some variety pack of trojan condoms, and we never really paid attention to which ones we used because they all pretty much felt the same. So when he grabbed a fire and ice one, I had no idea. And then it got kinda burny down there. Not like, painful burny. Just like me thinking "Something's wrong, this doesn't feel normal"and "Why would it be burny? Razor burn?" and "Does Boyfriend have an std? Is he giving it to me right now? What's happening?!?" Needless to say, I lost focus. Boyfriend did not. But later, when we were cuddling, he was like "So...did that feel kinda weird to you?" and only then did we realize we used those condoms. So, that's my story about that.

4. Jenerosity wrote of a truly epic queef, which deserves something, doesn't it? Plus extra points for giving her story a title.

Bad sex, entitled "Queef for a day"

It started out as any other raucous romp. He was definitely an overzealous partner and I didn't mind, at first. Let's just say he had a way with his hands; just would.not.stop. with the fingers. Eventually, I had to switch things up so I roll over on all fours for some good old-fashioned humping. And it began...the air deposited by overzealous fingers had.to.go.somewhere....would.not.stop!! Thankfully, I was in the position where no facial expressions had to be read and my utter embarrassment could be hidden. I know, I know, a tiny little queef happens to the best of us but OMG it just went on and on! 

This is one of those memories I wish I could erase forever. Perhaps some fun times with the no-insertion-required panty buzzer would help me forget. :D

5. And then there's this by Jen C. which is just so fucking smart and well-written, and it even has a moral, like a Bad Sex Aesop's Fable:

There's such a spectrum of bad sex. You can have bad sex with someone you normally have incredibly hot, oh-God-that-was-GREAT sex with. You can have bad sex that's good at first, then turns bad. Or sex that seems pretty damn fine until you're done with it and then you're like, "Oh. Actually, that sucked."

I've experienced all of these, but when I read your post, the bad sex memory that first came (CAME!) to mind was a classic third-date scenario that was in retrospect a sign of more cringe-worthy awful sex to come (COME!).

I met this guy in an AOL chat room, back in the days when people did such things. We hit it off online, then over the phone, and when we met in person, we still hit it off despite the fact that I was in no way attracted to him. Which should always be a sign, yes? But I was lonely and liked him, and deluded myself with that "Maybe I could GROW into hotness for him" notion.

After two fun movie outings, he took me to The Inn of the Seventh Ray in L.A.'s Topanga Canyon for dinner, which is really romantic if you can get past the New Age bullshit factor. Lots of wine combined with appreciation for an expensive meal to make him 8% more attractive to me on the drive home. We ended up at his place. I still have this vision of him naked, putting on the condom, and me looking up at the ceiling because, OMG, he had a weird body and I couldn't believe I was about to screw it but, you know. The wine. 

Some foreplay, yada yada. Penetration. Ho hum. I guess I wasn't NOT enjoying it. I was beginning to psyche myself into the experience using one of my tried-and-true fantasy scenarios (I'm the teenage babysitter and he's the single dad! Yes! Take me!) when suddenly, it stopped. He stopped. He didn't say anything, didn't make so much as a grunt. Pulled out, limp. 

I thought, okay. That's fine. We've been drinking and he's probably nervous. Whatever. I don't want to make him feel bad with one of the cliche comments you make at a time like that. So I got up to use the bathroom and when I sat on the toilet, a sad little bit of something dripped out of me. 

Come. He actually came, and I didn't even know it! How can a guy come without making a peep? I felt this overwhelming rush of horror and regret and just plain yuckiness. 

I don't remember much about what happened after, but I will admit that I continued to see this person. We enjoyed each other's company and he had money and took me to fancy places and okay, I was shallow. Eventually, that did not make up for the fact that his cock tasted horrible and he always came too quickly. (When my husband and I talk about my sexual past, we refer to him as Premature Ejaculation Guy -- not to be confused with Curved Penis Guy and Friends With Benefits Guy.) 

The moral of my Bad Sex story is that sometimes, you need to trust your instincts. If you're not attracted to someone, that could be your body sending a message that THIS IS NOT YOUR MATE. THIS PERSON DOES NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH A NAKED BODY IN ITS BED. RUN AWAY!

It's not true that sex is like pizza -- "even when it's bad, it's good." I'll take bad pizza over bad sex any day, because you can't just puke up bad sex and take a Zantac. It haunts you for years, and only if you're lucky can you turn it into a funny story on someone's awesome blog.

So can you handle this one for me? Thanks!

photo: Julien Mandel, Nus Fantastique, 1930

Bad Sex Week, Day 4: Bad Literary Sex

Anyone who thinks that America is no longer #1 needs look no further than True American Hero, David Guterson (Snow Falling on Cedars) who just won the 2011 Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction Award. USA! US...er, oh bad sex. Right then. That's not good.

Guterson said he "couldn't attend" the award ceremony at London's In & Out Club (those Brits, so cheeky!), and I can't say I blame him. Would any of us be all that eager to attend a large, media-filled ceremony held for the sole purpose of mocking your sexual writing? It surely didn't help that it was announced with coy headlines like "David Guterson Comes First in..." and "'Ed King' Beats Off Competition to Win..."

On his win for his fifth novel, Ed King, Guterson said: "Oedipus practically invented bad sex, so I'm not in the least bit surprised." He sounds all crisp and British--"I'm not in the least bit surprised"--but is clearly trying to pretend that he, like, wanted to win. Later, however, I suspect he dissolved into a pile of tears and spent the rest of the day masturbating joylessly to his unappreciated sex scenes. Which, it is my duty to inform you, included some icky mother-son gettin' it on, aka "mother fucking," in such passages as:

"She took him by the wrist and moved the base of his hand into her pubic hair until his middle fingertip settled on the no-man's-land between her 'front parlour' and 'back door' (those were the quaint, prudish terms of her girlhood)".

and this:

"In the shower, Ed stood with his hands at the back of his head, like someone just arrested, while she abused him with a bar of soap. After a while he shut his eyes, and Diane, wielding her fingernails now and staring at his face, helped him out with two practiced hands, one squeezing the family jewels, the other vigorous with the soap-and-warm-water treatment. It didn't take long for the beautiful and perfect Ed King to ejaculate for the fifth time in twelve hours, while looking like Roman public-bath statuary. Then they rinsed, dried, dressed, and went to an expensive restaurant for lunch."

The last passage crams so much badness into such a small space that it's masterly in its own way. Not only does it lack sexiness, but it's littered with phrases that seem actively sex-repellent. I mean "abused him with a bar of soap," "wielding her fingernails," "family jewels"? Then that last sentence, about the drying and lunch eating, WTF is that? 

Award-winning American writing is what the fuck it is. And don't let anyone tell you any different.

In the meantime, anyone who utters the phrase "family jewels" to me is So Not Getting Any, so don't even try.

(photo source)

Bad Sex Week, Day 3: Sex Toys

Wondering what this is? You will never guess.
Don't even try, because you'll never, EVER get it.
(But don't worry, I'll tell you at the end of the post.)

Still trying to think of something for the Bad Sex contest? (fabulous prize: a pair of vibrating panties--squeee!)

May I submit For Your Consideration... something with sex toys?

Sex toys are fraught with opportunities for error, awkwardness and injury. That is, the basic elements of bad sex.

And Sex Toy Bad Sex can happen to any of us. Like, oh, me, for example. At one of those in-home sex toy parties, a bunch of friends and I, lured by tantalizing prospect of driving our respective mates to ecstasy, all bought sleeve-like male masturbation devices called something like The Pearl Power Piston. It was like this blue thing in the photo:

But it was clear and had marble-sized pearls embedded up and down its (her?) sides.

Anyhoo, as we all soon discovered, if one were to, say, put the sleeve over a certain husband's shaft, and use one's mouth for stimulation of the head, one would soon notice a foreign substance in one's very surprised mouth. Said substance was not, upon inspection, ejaculate or anything, you know, expected, but rather, a marble-sized pearl. Then later, another. And another. And so on, until a little stack of inadequately attached pearls had collected on the nightstand.

I suppose in certain circles, it would be a perfect blow job-giving incentive for a woman to receive random dispensation of jewelry during the act, but for the rest of us, not so much.

It that case it was shoddy workmanship, so I hold us entirely blameless. However, other times, I do blame user due to their choice of sex toy. I mean, you only need to take a quick look at a device like the V-String Masturbator (see also: Boxers, Briefs or...Mangina?) to know that some really Bad Sex is gonna be going down. (And that #$%$ is $224!)

(Um, no offense if you love your Mangina. I'm sure when you wear one, it's very very sexy. Very sexy indeed!)

I thought I had already discovered all the sex toys with Bad Sex potential. I mean, we've already covered your genuine horse hair anal plugs, your Slave Driver Fucking Machines and your Ultimate Ass Lock (the chastity belt for your ass with the Best Slogan Ever: "Sometimes, you want others to know your ass is off-limits.")

But yesterday, while having a what-the-fuck-it's-only-day-3-of-Bad-Sex-Week-and-I-already-got-nothin', I stumbled upon 18 More of the World's Most Disturbing Sex Toys on Cracked.com.

Yes, I took a certain pride in seeing that the V-String Masturbator was #1, but I was also pleased to see that there was a whole host of scary-ass sex toys that I'd never seen (And, believe me, it's not like I haven't looked.)

If you're too lazy to click over to read it yourself--don't feel ashamed, I've been there too--I'll give you the highlights.  Like this, the Pogo Stick for 2:

This different kind of pogo stick has springs and dildos so you can jump up and down with it inside of you. Suggests Cracked's Ian Fortey, "Why, they even added an attachment for a friend so you can stare into each other's eyes as you both come to the realization you're suffering massive genital trauma..."

Or perhaps you prefer something in a snappy pair of Enema Piss Rubber Pants:

Writes Fortey: "What's the best way to combine as many godawful fetishes into one place, preferably a pair of pants, as quickly and efficiently as possible?" Exactly. I like how the rubber pants are so sleek and aerodynamic as though the big ol' pee bag on the side won't be slowing you down. (Again, pee and poo lovahs, I'm not saying your excrement isn't the hottest damn thing around. You keep at it!)

Go check out the rest of the article if you want to see more scary-ass stuff like the Drilldo (ack!), a Granny Blow-Up Doll or the Extreme Ass-Spreader (no thanks, I'm good right now!) but I will leave you today with my very favorite, this....Disposable Canned Vagina!

I'm not even going to bother making a joke here, because it's a fucking CANNED VAGINA! Vagina...in...a....Can! This my friends, is proof positive that the Future Is Now. Vagina in a fucking can!

*Wandering off while muttering and shaking head in wonder*

Remember you can still enter the Bad Sex Contest. Click the link for rules and junk.

Bad Sex Week, Day 2: Dan Savage Tries It Hetero Style

It's Bad Sex Week around here and, damn, do I have some bad sex for you today. It's the best kind of bad sex, that is, someone else's. I found it in the book Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me , a compilation of essays from folks like David Wain, AJ Jacobs, and Bob Odenkirk (love that dude in "Breaking Bad").

These "things learned..." include "You Too Will Get Crushed," "Sex Is The Most Stressful Thing in the History of the Universe" and "Don't Come On Your Cat." But my favorite is by the delightfully wise and funny sex columnist, Dan Savage, who learned the lesson "I Am A Gay Man."

Let me set it up for you. In it, a 15 year old Dan Savage has had sex once with Wendy, his older brother's 21 year old ex-girlfriend. The first time went, well, okay, considering the whole I Am A Gay Man thing. This was primarily because Wendy invited a hunky 23 year old guy, Alex, to come along, to show Dan how it was done. Alex went first. Dan watched Alex "like a dog watches steak."

Despite that, when it was Dan's turn to mount the accommodating Wendy, he felt his erection flagging as he haplessly pumped away. That is, until Alex took it upon himself to cup Dan's balls. "It helped," writes Savage.

But the second time around with Wendy, Alex and his helpful ball-cupping ways weren't around. This was a problem. But let's let Dan tell it:

Today third base is--what? Double penetration? Pegging? Sucking off a she-male in the backseat of your dad's Hummer? In 1980 third base was finger banging--it was a more innocent time--and I knew what I was supposed to do when Wendy placed my hand over her vagina. I slipped a finger in.

Then two. Then three.

It's hard to describe the sensation, but I'll try: It felt like I'd slipped my hand into a large, lukewarm piece of lasagna that had been stood on its side. Only this lasagna had a pulse.

And hair, this lasagna was covered in hair.

I kept my fingers in Wendy's vagina long enough, I hoped, to give her the impression that I liked hairy lasagna as much as the next guy. Then I executed what I, at age fifteen, thought was an exceedingly smooth move. I removed my fingers from Wendy's vagina and pulled her into an embrace. I brought my hand up her back slowly. I caressed her--but just with the palm of my hand and my thumb and my pinky, the fingers that hadn't been in Wendy's vagina. I brought my hand up to her shoulder. I leaned way in to kiss her neck, positioning my nose so it was angled over her shoulder. I brought my wet index, ring, and middle fingers up to my nose.

You see, back in the tent I hadn't really got a change to smell Wendy. By the time I got in there, Wendy already smelled like Alex's sweat and spunk. Not that I'm complaining, but the whole point of my adventures with Wendy was, well, learning to like pussy.

Wendy's vagina smelled awful. Really awful. Like no hairy lasagna I'd ever eaten.

Here Dan goes off on a tangent about how he's not maligning Wendy's particular vag and that she might have had a yeast infection, blah blah blah, and different people's responses to pheromones and how gay men might prefer different smells, etc... But back to Wendy, third base and Dan now-wet fingers.

After quickly pulling my fingers away from my nose I began to caress Wendy's back again. But this time I used all my fingers. I was pretending that I was passionately caressing her when I was, in fact, vigorously wiping her juices off of my fingers. I thought this sequence of moves--strip, finger-bang, caress, position nose, bring fingers to nose, smell fingers, wipe fingers while pretending to caress--was pretty slick.

"Did you just wipe your hand on me?"

"No," I lied.

Despite this, perhaps the most awkward moment in the history of sex, Dan and Wendy did manage to get it on that day. And several times after that as well. But the next person Dan had sex with was a guy. And, to Dan, he smelled just fine.

Don't forget, in honor of Bad Sex Week, we're giving away a pair of vibrating panties ($64 vibrating panties, no less). To enter, head over to the awkwardly-titled post Bad Sex, Gratitude, and a Contest to Win a Pair of Vibrating Panties and tell us about either:
--Bad sex you have had or,
--Some bad literary sex you've enjoyed and/or been horrified by.
Or just pop over there to read the comments and enjoy a bit of Schadenfreude over the bad sex--whew, that was a close one!--you managed to avoid.


Winner announced this Friday.


(photo source)

Bad Sex, Gratitude, and a Contest to Win a Pair of Vibrating Panties. (And don't worry your pretty little head, I'll tie it all together)

Wouldn't you like to know?

Okay, I lied. I am actually not sure how I'm going to tie this all together but let's give it a go, shall we?

Item #1: Gratitude. After my little rant about Google pulling their ads from In Bed With Married Women due to my supposedly "pornographic" ways (see also: Yes, There's Adult Content. That Would Be Because I'm An ADULT), several gentle readers came through to Fight the Power by springing for a Kindle subscription (only 99¢ a month!), going through the blog links to buy something from Amazon or Good Vibrations, or flat out donating money. I don't even know how to say thank you without sounding like an ass, but please know that I am beyond thrilled and humbled. So. Much. So.

Item #2: A Contest to Win Vibrating Panties. Because I am so hideously inept at expressing my gratitude in words, I'm going to Plan B: giving away a pair vibrating panties! Here's the Good Vibes description of said panties (insert game show music here and read the following passage aloud using an announcer voice. Unless you're at work, in which case don't. And get the fuck back to work.):

Frisky fun is just a click away with the Remote Pleasure Panty! These flirty black lace briefs feature a hidden pocket sewn into the inner lining specially designed to hold the curvy-shaped bullet vibe close to the body for a superior external stimulation experience. Plus, the included wireless remote allows your or your partner to take control of the sensations from up to 20 feet (6m) away, with 10 different functions of vibration, escalation, and pulsation to choose from.These sexy skivvies adjust to a variety of sizes with satin ribbon side ties that lend these lacy lovelies sass and sophistication. Whether part of your intimate play or to add excitement to every day, the Remote Pleasure Panty is a discreet and titillating treat.

Nice, right? I like the whole aspect of someone else being able to control them from up to 20 feet away (or 6 meters if you're sharing the love with a Canadian or Brit* or something). And I like that the volume ranking is only a 2, meaning the vibe is not very loud. It would probably ruin the effect if every time your lover (I'm going to imagine mine being British and thus standing 6 meters away) fires up the panties and they roar to life like an old gas-powered lawnmower. Anyway, they are a $64 value, meaning you will get at least $64 of "superior external stimulation experience." Which sounds good to me, if not a bit space alien-sounding. "Please spread your leg modules to commence external stimulation experience." (If you don't wish to publicly state your sordid desire to win such panties, you can just order them directly.)

Item #3: Bad Sex.The Literary Review has announced this year's Bad Sex in Fiction nominees. The bad sex doesn't seem nearly as delightfully bad as usual but have a look if you'd like. I did, and I probably shouldn't be admitting this in public (The Internet--it's FOREVER!), but this nominee from The Great Night by Chris Adrian didn't sound bad, but, well, kind of hot to me:
"His lady lifted to the stars on his impossibly stiff, impossibly elegant cock"

Impossibly stiff, impossibly elegant cock? What is the bad part, exactly? (Anyway, if you have time/inclination, you might also like this smart funny essay by contest judge Jonathan Beckman. Who, I think, might be, hmmmm...British.)

Item #4: Hey Jill, Quit Dreaming of Remote-Wielding Brits and Get Back to the Damn Contest! Right. In honor of the Bad Sex awards, I am hereby decreeing it to be BAD SEX WEEK here at In Bed With Married Women. Thus, to enter to win those sexy sexy panties, you must provide us with some bad sex. You may either:
1. tell us about some bad sex you experienced (sorry 'bout that, darlin') OR
2. share some literary bad sex.

You can either fork over the bad sex via comment below, or if you're feeling shy, via email. I'll announce the winner Friday, December 9, 2011.

To get you started, here's a sample of real life bad sex sent in by the always delightful Can't keep anything to myself as a comment on the last post 7 Things I Learned At Homemade-Sex-Toys.

Apparently Trojan also thought Ben Gay/Icy Hot + sex = great idea. Fire and Ice condoms anyone? I actually thought these seemed like fun. Especially after the super cheesy commercials. "Burning and freezing sensations in my vagina?! Sign me up!" I was reluctant after reading reviews from people who said they were too fiery and too icy, but my curiosity got the better of me. And faith in the toughness of my vagina. (What can't she do?!)

Lo and behold, my vagina is in fact too tough (and by tough I mean insensitive, NOT tough like beef jerky is tough). I didn't feel a thing. My partner on the other hand had to run to the bathroom to wash his fiery-icy genitals in the sink.

I felt kind of bad. And yet, I'm still kind of jealous I didn't get to feel ANYTHING.

Want a little more bad sex, do you? Don't worry, I'll be providing you with bad sex every single day this week. (Wait a minute, that doesn't sound too good, does it?)

*This is incorrect.  See also: Sandra, a Brit, pointing out my ignorance of global measurement standards in comments below.