"For purposes of example, this is the best fuck of my life"--Nicole Daedone in "On Fucking"

"Rule number one. You are not going to enter her until her pussy is dripping, until the walls have caved in because they are so swollen and fat. Until you can no longer hold your body away, where it feels like there is this undertow so strong that you cannot resist."

So advises Nicole Daedone in On Fucking, a piece on how, exactly, to enflame a woman's desire. (Note: "pussy is dripping" = you're probably doin' okay.)

Daedone, author of Slow Sex: The Art and Craft of the Female Orgasm, is a proponent, instigator and teacher of OM, or Orgasmic Meditation. Here's the Wikipedia entry, but basically, OM is a practice in which clarity, mindfulness, in-touchness with the universe and all that is reached through extremely focused touch. Specifically, the touch of a partner's hand slowly and rhythmically stroking a woman's clitoris in a particular way. Sessions last 15 minutes and the goal is not orgasm, but rather heightened sexual awareness. And, as it turns out, having someone lavish attention on this particular body part for 15 minutes is extremely effective at heightening sexual awareness.

Daedone seeks to whip up the kind of desire that's not just "Sure, a quickie sounds good," but rather, "I want you so bad I can't see straight and if you don't fuck me this very instant I might possibly die."

OM practitioners can experience intense, deeper, more fuckier fucks, with fat, swollen body parts (see above) coupled with equally fat, swollen desire, a finely tuned awareness of...oh...god...how damn good it all is, plus your general transcendence and whatnot.

"I can fuck and have it feel like not only is his cock moving inside of me, but something deeper, like this magnetic cock is fucking me. Ultimately that is what I am looking for. Anything less is disappointing," writes Daedone.

Magnetic cock, eh? That sounds pretty good....I think. If nothing else, it would certainly come in handy were I to be vacuuming in the nude, trip and accidentally lose something metal up the wang.

But perhaps we should hear some more. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ms. Nicole Daedone and this excerpt from "On Fucking":

I am going to tell you a story about a perfect storm of sex.

Remember I am a crazy immersive kind of person, you do not need to try this at home, but my teachers suggested that I just om. No sucking, fucking or stroking cock.

There grew to be this attraction with this guy that was like iron shards to a magnet. When he entered a room my body just moved to him. It had reached the level where it was chemical. He was actually fairly what at the time I considered cruel. He would do things like sit down to stroke my genitals and then say, nope you aren’t turned on enough. What? Yep. Just not feeling it. First I wanted to kill him. Then I wanted to eat him.

At the same time when I really was turned on he would walk up to me and say now, lie down.  And he would stroke me into the deepest places I had ever been in my life.

He had this kind of attention that was so attuned that – whereas I normally would be yelling at a guy, no a little to the left, to the right! – with him I would think it and he would move there, or exceed my expectations and go to a place I hadn’t even realized existed. And all he did were these little strokes and I was like a ducking, are you my boyfriend.

For two and a half of those three and a half years I was dying for it. I needed to have sex.  He’d say, I am sure we will…but only when you have made it irresistible. Irresistable? Irresistable? So I would beg and plead and demand and cry and every time he would say…almost. I’d threaten to have sex with someone else and he would say I wish you the best.

I hated him. I wanted him.

At the same time, it was funny, there was this background chatter. It’s embarrassing to admit. He was not the right guy. I was totally ambivalent when I would be rational.

And so my mind screamed no, my head screamed yes.

And there was this element of power. I was always accustomed to being in control. I would put out the “sex is in” sign and they would line up. Not him. I felt oddly at his mercy. I would find myself actually begging him.

I would lie in bed and yearn for him.

And then one day, something overtook me. It overthrew my rational mind. I didn’t care how tall he was, I didn’t care that I would be breaking the rules, I didn’t fear that it might not be as good as I dreamed, I didn’t care that I felt like a desperate animal.

This thing inside me was going to fuck him and that was that.

At the moment I realized it he entered the room. I simply said “now” and he took off his pants.

My body was a live wire. His hand brushed my stomach it I felt like 10,000 nerve endings fired. When he kissed me, it felt like the end of two wires came together and sparked. Everything was heightened. I could smell the detergent on the sheets, the Casablanca lilies, his saliva had this sweet salty taste, the sound of his breath sounded like an ocean.

And then he entered me and it was like he was entering every single cell of my body. I could feel him in the tips of my fingers, in my hair follicles there was no part of me that was not being penetrated by him.

Prior to oming, to having all this blood rush down to my pussy, my pussy had been sort of concave. It was like this. But having this much blood pushing down on the walls made it convex. The walls were rubbing up against themselves. Where it had felt quite honestly like a man was kind of batting around in there beating up against this cave it now felt like my pussy had become this velvet glove that wrapped around his cock. My clit had also dropped down from the weight, so that however he stroked, wherever he stroked with his cock, my clit rubbed up against it. It felt like there was no part of me that was not being fucked. And because of this, this feeling of what I can only call orgasm wrapped around both of us like we were in this honey blanket. Like I could lick this feeling off his face like nectar. It was that thick.

That was my first totally surrendered fuck. After that there was a line permanently drawn in the sand between what I had thought fucking was and what I  discovered what sex really is.

Well, gentle reader, have you have lickable honey blanket sex like this? Whole mind/body fuckery, magnetic cocks and so forth? Any other general thoughts? (And for further learnin', you can check out Daedone's TED video, Orgasm, the Cure for Hunger in the Western Woman.)

xoxoxo
jill

* p.s. It gives me undue pleasure that my computer has a file labeled "On Fucking."

~~yeah, it's a rerun. just cuz. 

Reviews of Stuff People Asked Me to Review

"How 'bout some strip Candy Land then?"

1.  The Butterfly Bliss Silicone Waterproof Vibrator sent to me unbidden by the nice new lady at Good Vibrations.

Here's what I can tell you:

--Don't have it arrive near your daughter's birthday so that she runs inside carrying the package saying, "Is it my birthday present?" (Intercepted this time, thus avoiding a repeat of The Zestra Incident.)
--Note that it doesn't come with the required two AAA batteries, so if you get a sudden yen to try it one night, you might find yourself naked in the kitchen, sifting through the junk drawer, searching for some batteries that do not have corrosion on them.

We're cousins, identical cousins

--Note also that non-corroded batteries do not necessarily = fresh peppy batteries. This leads to a situation in which the vibe is slowly dying, but imperceptibly.  So as you need more, it cruelly gives you less. You know the math concept in which you can keep halving a number infinitely, getting closer to--but never quite arriving at--zero? It's like that but with orgasm.
--New batteries, next day:  all good. Real good. V. quiet, inner knobby thing for G-spot gloriousness, outer butterfly-looking part for external butterfly love.
--Note, the final: I had a good look at the butterfly looking part as I was washing off the traces of our intimate love and, fuck, what's with the butterfly/sex toy trope? Who wants to have sex with a butterfly?  (Just googled it and the answer is...no one. IBWMW Minister of Kooky Schemes: add to list of possible topics for untapped erotica ebook market.) This butterfly looks particularly reminiscent of its caterpillar past, with antennae, beady little eyes and icky ridge things on its thorax. Wouldn't an abstract design be way hotter, and by hotter I mean, completely non-bug-related?


"Please fuck me, bzzzzz."

(Btw, I took the vibrator out to my front yard--the butterfly's natural habitat, I suppose--to get better light for full thorax exposure for the picture. THIS is how much I love you.) 

2. Bedded Bliss: A Couple's Guide to Lust Ever After by Kristina Wright.

Even when I was a kid sneaking peeks at sex articles in women's magazines, there was something unbearably depressing about the articles on "reigniting the spark." And today, this kind of stuff still triggers that same existential angst. I mean, playing strip Candy Land to spice it up? Has it really come to this?

However, I will toss kudos to Wright for an innovative spin on the genre, as well as an open-minded approach. Besides some depression-inducing sex tips ("Keep a jar of memories"), there are sections devoted to each stage of married life, i.e. middle age, with accompanying erotica. The best erotica, to me, were the stories that eroticized the continuing strong sexual reaction between a couple--the place of heat that two people can return to--as in "Take it off," by Sommer Marsden or ones that had some boundary-pushing like "Circuit" by Charlotte Stein. On the other hand, when a story pushed a boundary I didn't personally want pushed, well, ick.  That would be you, "Holding Forth," with the pee erotica. Sample line:  "'It must feel so good for her to let it flow,' Melanie observed sensuously, fondling my shaft with increased vigor."

Alas, I too now must pee, but I suspect it will be less eventful, as there is no shaft available for me to fondle with increased vigor.  However it ends up, I will keep it to myself. You don't get to know everything.

 

xoxo

jill 

 

(photo courtesy the ever-lovely Lady Cheeky)

Real Sex Lives: Lucia, "Not all infidelity automatically makes you a jerk."

The following Real Sex Lives* arrived in my inbox with no explanation, save for the subject "Musings for the blog." It was from someone I'll call Lucia.

When I post these, I generally pull a quote from the essay for the title, and when I asked a friend what he thought of the one above, he said, "I think it sounds delusional." Meaning, any and all infidelity did indeed make one a jerk. Period.

But...what if your spouse was...oh, in a coma or something for a long time and mentally and physically unavailable?  Or what if they had no interest in fucking you--and in fact, would not fuck you--for 23 years? Or what if they were a loving spouse, a terrific parent and all that, but just didn't really get sex? Can you create chemistry where none lives? Is it wrong to yearn for the kind of passionate fuckery that makes your whole body hum? Is it all wrong, or is there some sort of continuum of wrongness with some points being...not so wrong.

I am more in the gray area on the subject, but maybe that's because I'm reading Dan Savage's latest book, American Savage: Insights, Slights, and Fights on Faith, Sex, Love, and Politics, particularly the chapter, "It's Never Okay to Cheat (Except When It Is)." In it, Savage argues that we are "monogamish." "I believe we should place a higher value on marital stability than we place on marital monogamy," he writes. That is, tossing out a largely working, good marriage over an infidelity is not always the only and best choice. We pair bond, mostly. And maybe we should figure out a way to work with that. Savage writes "as a society we have a responsibility to adjust people's expectation about marriage."

Tell me where you are on this lately. Not necessarily on Lucia's situation, but the issue in general. If your spouse cheated, would you toss them to the curb? Does infidelity automatically make you a jerk? Is it, indeed, all wrong?

Anyway, here's Lucia:

It sounds funny to say but I don't really remember exactly how we met. I know one of us posted to Craigslist, but I don't remember which of us or whether it was in Strictly Platonic or what... I think it must have been because I knew from the get-go that not only was he married and 20+ years older than I was, but that he was also... not attractive to me.  I had like, zero draw to him in "that way."  But he was smarter than pretty much everyone else I knew, was incredibly interesting, and always picked up the check at lunch.

For years it went on, meeting for lunch, talking about life.  He never, ever did anything inappropriate. Occasionally there would be some innuendo, but it was never overdone.  I got engaged and moved away; his goodbye kiss had more oomph than I was expecting and I flipped out a little.  In retrospect that wasn't fair of me to do... he'd just lingered a little more than I'd wanted.  But, I was moving 1500 miles away and it was hard to say goodbye and maybe being mad made it easier.  I left him behind and we didn't talk for two years.

By the time I came back, my life had changed: I was still married, but it wasn't a happy marriage, and my husband was living in a different country. I found myself thinking about my friend and missing him, which I hadn't in the years I'd been away.   I reached out with an e-mail, and he responded within minutes.  It wasn't even awkward: when I saw him, I gave him a big hug and we just stood there for a long time, with the hostess waiting to seat us, probably tapping her foot the whole time.

It wasn't awkward but it was different.  I didn't realize it at first, but it was there: we were looking at each other differently. My 20s were over, I was much more comfortable in myself, and I saw him differently too: he wasn't just an amusing way to pass two hours over lunch. I found myself thinking about him and about what it would be like to touch each other. I was pretty sure it wouldn't go very far, he'd been faithful to his wife their entire marriage (despite opportunities) and they'd been married since I was 12--but I was curious what would happen if I hit on him.  So... I sent him a suggestive e-mail, and he responded with a hard-core explicit one.  And we talked like that, via e-mail, about stuff we'd never talked about through all the years that had passed.  And then... I invited him over.

I think we were both shaking when we laid down together.  This was the only time we'd ever really been awkward around each other, ever.  And when he kissed me, that line got crossed.  We both knew that but it felt so good, and it'd been well-considered and accepted.  I asked him to go slow, and he did, and we just kissed and petted for a few weeks.  I don't know how long that would have gone on, probably a long time.  But then something happened, and I got hurt.  And it was him that I called, he came and got me and took me home from the hospital.  And something switched in me, and all the awkwardness was gone, and I wrapped myself around him that night.  

That was two years ago.  Our friendship remains--we rely on each other for advice and honesty, levity and Words With Friends and of course, wonderful, amazing sex like neither of us has had before.  We both work in fields where we can help each other personally with our professional knowledge and resources; we go to endless movies when we can.  We're working through Sons of Anarchy.  We send each other e-mail "status updates" frequently.  But there are places we don't go: I know he is in love with his wife; that doesn't bother me.  Because he loves her, she is just a topic we don't really discuss, except in passing--he feels that it would be an intrusive violation of her privacy to discuss her (I agree).  I even saw her once, at a distance, at an event we were all attending--and I didn't really have a response, it just... was.  Their relationship is a lifelong commitment upon which a family and an entire life has been built.  My role is different--I'm an escape from that, a chance to do something that is only for him, that doesn't benefit them in any way... just his.  And as far as I can tell, I'm the only thing he does for himself.  I make it my goal to appreciate him for who he is, to be a joy to him the way he is for me: again, something just for him, not his wife or kids or coworkers, just him.

And for me?  Well, the sex is truly amazing (yeah he's not the hottest guy ever, but it turns out those 20+ years of additional experience count for something!) not the least of which because he is so turned into me that I don't ever have to ask for anything, he just knows to do it.  But also, I'm single now (marriage ended in there somewhere, for reasons unrelated) and I don't want to be in a full relationship yet.  He gives me the perfect middle ground: a strong, long-term friendship, someone to talk to but with all the space I need for me.  Obviously this is not a long-term thing, eventually I will want more from a guy, but for now, I don't.  

We made an agreement that when it came time to end things, either one of us could do it without drama.  Neither of us are dramatic people, so though I am sure one of us will feel a little stingy for a while, we'll get over it.  Unless something catastrophic happens (read: wife) I think we'll find our way to another type of relationship, without the whole sex component.  I know this is a dangerous game, and I don't take it lightly--but I am so grateful for him, and he for me.  He is truly my friend, and proof that not all infidelity automatically makes you a jerk.  If this guy is a jerk, there are no nice people out there.   

***
There you have it. If you want to share your real sex story--be brave and go deep!--send it to jillhamilton001@gmail.com

xoxox
jill

*The name True Wife's Tales has become too limiting for these real life sex story things. You're smart and clever--what should we start calling them now?

(photo: Lady Cheeky)

True Wife's Tale: Beatrice, "On Varied Love: An Open Letter to My Husband/Pet on Polyamory"

Yes, Ma'am

Today's True Wife's Tale comes via Beatrice, a 29 year old Domme, married a year to Heath, 34. It's a been a weird week for the couple because not only did Beatrice present the letter below to her husband in real life, their private BDSM/poly thing might have possibly become public via a Twitter mishap. Heath was pretty wigged about it--such an arrangement is still pretty stigmatized and could carry real repercussions if they're outed--but Beatrice writes, "I told him that poly, kinky, whatever--it's all legal. It's all OK. And that I love him. And that I will bury anyone who tries to hurt him or our family." Since she's a Domme, I would take her word on that.

Here then, Beatrice:

My darling pet, my devoted husband, my best friend, and the father of our beautiful child,

I love you more than I thought it would be possible to love another human being. You have given me a life, a family, and a home that, without you, would not have been possible. You teach me, every day, what it means to be a Partner. You help me, every day, to be the best Domme I can possibly be.

Because I love you, and because you have given me such varied gifts of love, I believe it is right and salutary that I present this letter, to you, in a way that shares my messages of love for you, and revelation within myself, in a public venue.

I need you to understand what it means when I talk about polyamory.

Polyamory is not based in greed, dissatisfaction, or narcissism. It is based in the personal and interpersonal knowledge that Love can exist between more than two people and still be True.

(I have been trying to find an accurate way to express this for over a decade. Being able to finally do so, in a moment of writer's clarity, is one of the great reliefs of my life.)

After ten years, ten long years of trying to figure out what in thunderfuck my brain needed in order to feel whole and complete and sane and at peace, I am finally comfortable saying, "Yes, I am poly."

Yes, I want to enjoy the bodies, minds, and junk of other people.
Yes, I want to lap at a woman's cunt until she loses her mind.
Yes, I want to feel the security of submitting to a man who knows his way around a flogger and the female mind, from a sensually sadistic standpoint.

It's not easy to make these statements, nor are they statements that I make lightly.

I realize that making these statements, and doing so in a public manner, may have intense repercussions in my own home and with you, my own devoted partner.

I also realize that, in order to be the best Domme, wife, and partner possible, all cards must be on the table. All truth must be transparent and accessible.

Is this terrifying? Yep.

I'm scared-near-shitless to be speaking my truth. But, the Truth has a funny way of making itself heard, and of leaving Peace in its wake.

Here's to Love, and to being honest with those to whom we give it.

Yours,

Beatrice

*****

Heath responded with a heartfelt letter of his own which seemed--and I can scarcely believe I am writing these words--somehow too personal for me to want to run, but the gist is that he's down with the idea, kind of, or at least willing to give it a go. 

Wrote Heath, in part:  "Honey, I cannot promise you I'll get there overnight. A week, A month. Longer. What I am promising you is that I am going to give it my all to understand, accept and be at peace with everything. My biggest fear is losing you. Remember: no secrets. I love you no matter what you tell me about yourself. You can tell me anything; just be prepared to help me understand and to tend to my emotions and yes, sometimes confusion, as a result."

So there you go. Someone else's business delivered straight to your screen. And we are done for the day. 

If you are feeling the pull to share your true sex story, write that motherfucker down and send it on in to:  jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

xoxox
jill

(Photo: Wicked Knickers)

Why We (Still) Shag Each Other

I was sprawled across my bed, utterly wrecked, one morning many years ago. I'd just had amazing amazing phone sex with someone who, to this day, remains the most attachment-avoidant person I've ever met.

"Holy fuck," I mumbled, made dreamy by ravishment. "Why was that so...good? We were on the phone."

"People need connection," he said simply. To my surprise, even he had known this, deep in some barely accessible part of his poor love-avoidant heart. And it had been a connection, an intense sexual communion that felt like something real had happened, even though no body parts had been touched or even seen.

This private connection between lovers--This is why we fuck each other, even though there are plenty of promiscuous toys, pillows, and shower spouts that can do the job quite well. And, yes, it has to be fucking (of some sort) because other human interactions--a nice chat in the bank line, for example--just won't do it.

Bearing witness to someone surrendering to their instincts--just being with them in the moment they lose themselves--is fucking powerful. And to find someone you trust enough to fall into that void with them, well, it's a rare and beautiful gift.

On a less sublime level, I think it's also about being present in the Now and existing in a state of Flow, where you are wholly consumed with what you are doing. These are purportedly optimal (and often needlessly Capitalized) states for achieving happiness, inner peace and well-being. (See also: Ekhart Tolle's  The Power of Now and Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi's  Flow). The orgasm is, like, a bonus to what's really going on.

Caitlin Moran describes this kind of focused-attention-on-another in her book How to Build a Girl about a teenage Brit who transforms herself into a badass music journalist/sexual adventurer:

"Here's the amazing thing about sex:  you get a whole person to yourself, for the first time since you were a baby.  Someone who is looking at you--just you--and thinking about you, and wanting you...You are in a room with a closed door, and no one else can come through it....It seemed to me that this was the real reason people wanted to fuck so much. To get here. To get to this tiny, quiet place where there was nothing else to do but be with each other. Just to be two humans who had--for a short while--stopped wanting."

That idea fits nicely with what I discovered when I looked on PornHub the other day for the Top Rated Video of All Time. It wasn't "Bitch takes cum in her hair" or whatever I was expecting, but a sweet little clip of a sleepy, tousled-haired woman waking her lover up and giving him a blow job. 

This top-rated video--OF ALL TIME!--showed two people portrayed as affectionate, familiar lovers happy to be waking up together in such a nice way. They weren't over-the-top porn excited, but just enjoying the everyday-yet-so-amazing swollen pleasures of taking someone you like in your mouth and/or being taken thus. In the world of porn, this was maybe about the squarest, most vanilla thing ever. And yet it was the most loved...of all time! (For that one day, at least. Today, alas, I can't re-find it. It has been replaced by "Hot blond maid having anal." Top-ratedness is apparently fleeting. )

The point of all this being: sexual connection, in whatever form it takes, is something we all seek, including the millions of surreptitiously wanking users of Porn Hub on that particular day. Even my old friend, dear attachment-avoidant boy, needed this intimacy, albeit from the distance that felt safe to him.

We all need to get this place, however we can--where you get to be two humans who have--for a short while--stopped wanting.

Go find your place.

xoxox
jill

(photo)

This is a "cleanly" titled version of another post called Why We Fuck.  The idea was to facilitate sharing.  If you want to see the comments on the original post, see here.

The Unsexy Sexting/Sexy Talk Contest and Other Poorly Worded Things

The other day I was in the dressing room at Kohl's when I heard a odd shuffling from the next room.

It was a guy and a girl fucking--right there in the lingerie department dressing room.

"Oh God, I am going crazy," the guy whispered with a feral desperate lust, to the sound of bodies and clothes being undone/pushed up/pulled down to get better access to each other. Hot.

"Fuck yeah," said the chick in a tinny voice. "Fuck yeah."

"Fuck yeah"?  Ugh. So...trite and porny.

That she said "Fuck yeah" totally ruined it for me, which is lame and judgey but there you go.  Maybe it's because I'm a writer or maybe because I'm female*, but to me, the things that are said during sex are hugely important.

Words are even more important during sexting 'cause it's all words. Wrong stuff just sits there being wrong. And autocorrect just fucks with things even more. Autocorrect can turn a sexting-appropriate response of "Oh God, mmm...." into an upsetting-to-all "Oh God, mom..." 

Several weeks back, I asked the 1,164 good citizens of the IBWMW Facebook page for some examples of bad sexting, as well as bad sex talk in general, and got stories of "precum" becoming "precinct" (usage: "I want to lick your precinct") "ass" becoming "assistant" (i.e. "I am grabbing your sweet assistant, hard") and the like.

Of course, some of it's just personal preference--one person's hot talk is another person's passion destroyer. Once in high school, a guy was trying to get me to take off my shirt and instead of just saying that--hell, it might have worked--he asked me if I wanted to try something called--puke!--"smurfing," which near as I could gather, had nothing to do with Smurfs (thankfully)** and everything to do with me taking off my shirt.

Here are some more:

Quentin:  I wanted to say, "I would love to see you when I am in town."  Instead it came over, "I would love to fuck you while I am in town." Needless to say, that coming from this gay man, to an older straight friend was quite shocking!!

Mark: "I'm pregnant, you're the father, and I'm gonna kill all three of us!" ....She was quite a lady...

Claudette: I was about to give him a blowjob and he said, "Suck it like it's the last cock on Earth."

Jane:  I once typed a very graphic and rather perverted text to my (then) boyfriend Neil and promptly sent it to a work colleague called Neina....Actually that would be a better answer if the question was "Have you ever sent a text and then shouted NOOOOOOOO at your phone?"

Hey, get to the contest part, lady.

Okay fine, send in your worst sex talk and sexting fails and you will be entered to win this fine
Butterfly Bliss Silicone Waterproof Vibrator courtesy of Good Vibrations.  Winner will be determined by the vagaries of my whims. Deadline is, let's say, Friday, November 8. Enter via comment below, the IBWMW Facebook page, comment form at right or email.

xoxox
jill

*There is some evidence that it could be a chick thing. Females are more subject to distraction during sex. According to Kinsey:

Cheese crumbs spread in front of a pair of copulating rats may distract the female, but not the male.  A mouse running in front of a pair of copulating cats may distract the female and not the male. When cattle are interrupted during coitus, it is the cow that is more likely to be disturbed while the bull may try to continue with coitus. (Note: The word "coitus," btw, should never be used during coitus. Or maybe ever.)

** The separation of Smurfs and sex is a personal decision for me, and not one shared by everyone--as evidenced by this fan fiction "Smurfette's Springtime Encounter" which contains the following verbatim passage:

Tenderly, Rina reached up parting Smurfette’s hairy vagina lips. She could see a little pink bump at the top as Gargamel said. This caused the bound blonde Smurf to protest more, and try to wiggle her hips in hope to shake off Rina’s hand. Rina leaned forward with her tongue out placing it on the moist pink nub. There was a salty tang that wasn’t bad. She proceeded to move her tongue tip lightly over Smurfette’s clitoris. Smurfette’s pubic hair was course on her tongue.

(Photo via Passionate Sexual Healing)

True Wife's Tale: Billie, "My Lover Is A Stonewaller"

New True Wife's Tale via Billie. True Wife's Tales, as you recall, are real people talking about their real sex lives and we want to respect them and their choices, so don't get all up in her grill.

If you want to write up one of your own (you don't have to be a wife, or a woman, for that matter. Just need to have a sex life, or lack of one that you're willing to tell the truth about), see instructions at the end of the post.

Here then, please welcome Billie:

********

Yesterday my lover left me.

Or at least I think he did.  He didn't actually bother to tell me.

My lover, you see, is a stonewaller.  Stonewallers, as I learned via a teary, surreptitious Googling session last night, are people who don't acknowledge, honor or respond to your concerns. In my case, my "concern" was whether we was coming to visit me today, as he'd repeatedly said he was going to.

He lives in Washington and I live, well, somewhere else, and he was going to visit me for two days to give me the sex I sorely lack in my marriage. I didn't feel guilty about it. I'd made my peace with it as something I needed. Judge me if you'd like, but I know what I did was right for me. I had learned so many things with him and for the first time in 20 years--20 years!--I'd been able to express my sexuality and passion to a man without shame. I gave my body and self to him freely and I'm glad I did. I'd do the same thing again in a second. In a second! Plunging deeply and fearlessly into love--that's right, just jump straight the fuck in--is only way I want to love.

Anyway, I know you can't see in my house right now, but he is definitely not here.

That he is not here is how I had to figure out that he was not coming.

Writes Steve Becker in Love Fraud:

The stonewaller’s absence of empathy for the stonewalled party, perhaps even the relish the stonewaller takes in messing with the stonewalled party’s head, in watching her twist and squirm and perhaps make humiliating efforts and bids to be heard—there can be something actually sadistic about this.

Stonewalling will tend to elicit some common feelings in the stonewalled party—among them shame, anger, rage, infuriation, humiliation, desperation (to be heard), helplessness, and a sense of being driven crazy.

No shit.

Stonewalling is what abusive people and sociopaths do. Meaning--*sigh* what a drag--I have to remove myself from the situation.

So today, the day he would be fucking me, I allowed myself one last fantasy of him. In preparation of his "visit," I am in fine shape--all toned, waxed, the proper ratio of slim and curvy. I'd been tapering my antidepressant (sexy!) for weeks so I could actually have an orgasm and I hadn't touched myself since 18 days ago when we'd had amazing, amazing phone sex.

"My passion for you is near violent," he'd texted.

I needed to come.

So I locked the door and hopped into bed. Naked, I thought of him and his fine, fat Jewish cock and how much I was going to miss the way he paused in the middle of sex to fuck me slow and smooth.  His cock seemed to go on forever as he drew it slowly in and out of me. "God. It's so good, isn't it?" I whispered to him. He nodded, looking me in the eye and I thought I saw wonder there.

That look, that humanity that he couldn't seem to access in regular life is probably why I stuck around so long--more than two years. I thought I could get to it.

But I couldn't.  And maybe it wasn't even there. And that's why, in the middle of my ceremonial jerk-off, I burst into tears. Fingers stopped between my legs, I burst into deep, racking sobs--the kind of sobs that come from some deep ancient place.

I was sobbing for all of it. For the way he couldn't come to me with an open heart. And for how there was nothing--absolutely nothing--I could say or do that would make him respond openly and truthfully to me. Or even respond at all--which is just so, so...well, see above, "common feelings in the stonewalled party." For how much I would miss his thick Jewish cock. For what a stupid masochistic cunt I was to put up with so much shit. And how much I would miss him and his version of love and the way he kissed me deeply and well--the way I needed to be kissed. For how I would have to put my passion and sexuality...somewhere.  It wasn't going to fit back inside me hidden away and I didn't know what the fuck to do with it and who--if anyone--would ever again feel it with me. Ever. God. Fuck! 

I cried and cried and cried.

I slid my fingers back between my legs and thought about sitting on top of him, fucking him, and how he got almost a panicked look in his eyes before he came and shouted out my name.

In my own bed, I came too, big waves of orgasm juxtaposed with sobs.

It was maybe overwrought and stupid and overdramatic but real and necessary.

Passion is a strange thing. I have never felt so much passion for someone and perhaps never will. I don't know if I wanted him so much because he was harmed or in spite of it. I don't even understand, exactly, why it was him. He was kind of overweight, didn't "get" me in the slightest and made no attempt to try. The last time we met, it was in a sleazy hotel called The Sagamore (could there be a more depressing name?) We fucked on top of the bed spread which as anyone can tell you is about the filthiest place on the planet.  He wore black footie socks while he was fucking me. And I didn't care. I just wanted him inside me, all overweight and black footie sock-wearin', fucking me like I yearned to be fucked.

Anyway, now I am pretty well fucked metaphorically and not at all fucked literally.  Hoping for the opposite, but right now I am just...wrecked.

 ******

Thank you to Billie for today. If you have some love/sex purgery of your own to do, get your fanny over to the computer and jot it all down. Pretty it up and send it on it to jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

Love to you all.

xoxox
jill

P.S. In Bed With Married Women was named a Sex Blogging Superhero by Kinkly.com. I'm not really sure what superpowers this comes with (maybe this?) but a huge thank you to whoever it was that nominated the blog!

(photo via Lady Cheeky)

Real Sex Lives: "Having no intimacy with her for 23 years is killing me."

Store your sexuality away in that box. It'll keep. Maybe.

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Lives stories.)

Today's truth teller is crazy madly in love with his wife, but his wife is physically--and possibly emotionally--unable to have sex with him.  And that's pretty much been the story for the last 23 years.Where does that leave him? That's what he's trying to figure out.

********** 

Ever hear of “vulvodynia”? Me neither until I read about it. It’s one of those woman-things that’s quite real but insurance companies don’t pay for diagnostics or treatment for whatever excuse they’re using on a given day. The scuttlebutt is it can take up to ten grand to find out. Then there’s not a whole that can be done about it. She doesn’t have an official diagnosis. But when you’ve been around Her for over a decade and you both know the exact nature of the problem, when you read the symptomology, it’s not rocket science, no matter what the insurance bastards have to say.

All those blissful billions of nerve endings sistas have, in Her they experience a massive malfunction when stimulated. Instead of pleasure, they send PAIN! to Her brain. And they don’t all agree with each other across the topography of Her magic places; up near the clitoris, they say PAIN!, along the outside of the labia 5 mm from the bottom they say YAHOO!, inside the all-powerful opening, they say everything from WTH? to PAIN! To YAHOO to JEEBUS WTF ARE YOU DOIN’?! So yeah, so much for the science lesson and now that we know the problem has a medical name, my husband-guilt goes into overdrive—I may NEED sex, most preferably with Her, but if it hurts Her, then “sex” just turns into the thing I have to “sacrifice”—or else I’m a selfish male asshole, isn’t that how it goes? Once sex is out of the equation, all the “other” problems that come with 23 years married and quarter century living with Her go into a slow nuclear burn.

She was the girl I “did the right thing” by… I was abstinent until our wedding night, because that was how She wanted it and I wanted to be with Her more than any other girl I’d ever been around, let alone those I’d been with before Her. She rolls her eyes every time I say it, but it’s the authentic truth: I saw Her in her younger sister’s dorm room and that was it, no other female human being had any appeal to me whatsoever. It wasn’t my “other brain” that sang, it was the whole deal, head to toe, both brains included. I must have done something right that first night out because we began to see each other a lot, She drove five hours to see me, I moved to her town first chance I had so five hours was five minutes. I wrote her mammoth love letters, I wrote songs for her that my band played at gigs, I photographed the daylights out of her although she protested (a lot). We got married [too] young. Her mom wrote her a letter trying to talk her out of marrying a 23 year old musician/photographer/writer —“dreamer” was what her mom said, and I think “loser” was in there somewhere; thankfully FIL-to-be loved me. I was working-class like him but college educated and could spend hours under the hood of an old car with him and honestly have a great time. He’s quite possibly the most honorable guy I’ve ever met.

Then came the wedding night. She was the fourth virgin I’d been with out of a dozen others from the time I was fifteen (I know that makes me a high school and college boy-slut jerk, right?). The other three virgins, things worked out fine, I actually went and found out how to make those first times better than the way most women describe them—maybe they lied to me. I’ll never really know. She brought me with her to the “lady doc” and She did her homework assignments with me as prescribed. I did extra homework to make sure everything was going to go well, because I’d waited and She deserved nothing but my very best.

So we were both a little shocked after I came up grinnin’ like fool from giving Her a nice and loud, jumping-all-over-the-damned-place-orgasm, when intercourse, after appropriate recovery and well-earned snuggling, was impossible and waaaay more painful that it should have given all the conscientious preparation—in retrospect, we were both shattered. Unfortunately we were too ashamed and scared to tell each other just how shattered we were— for the first decade or so that we were married. The honeymoon wasn’t the intimate emotional-physical-sexual discovery and bonding experience we’d planned. Instead it was just another one of our many trips together, except that this trip was an emotional nightmare and we talked very little and we only tried to have sex one other time, again to failure and a lot of me apologizing for letting Her down. I was convinced it must be my fault.

Our marriage was publicly known to our friends and family as the model for “doing it right” but in private, in our bed, it was emotionally tortured and sexually just awful. In the first year I kept trying to get her to take this all to her doctor. I was a fix-it guy, something doesn’t work you go fix it. In the meantime you work around it. I had a vocabulary, I had some experience with a bunch of other fun things to do with two human bodies. I didn’t know what “vanilla” meant back then but I discovered She was a vanilla’s vanilla. Missionary only or nothing, well, almost nothing, She’d let me go down on Her, which I was all too eager to provide because all I wanted was to make Her happy. I couldn’t help but wonder it that was a response to our wedding night shocker or if She just really was “not into anything else” as She told me that first year. Over the first few years we tried to have sex and failed. Eventually intercourse, as brief as possible and as an afterwards She endured, was possible. Bottom line, She refused to go see a doctor and refused to try any workaround. I just wanted Her to be happy so I settled. That’s what a “good guy” does. I loved Her.

I was devastated but I loved Her. And it hurt even worse that Her body was (and is to this day at late forty-something) rockin’. It was like coming to the table every meal, every damned day, where the table is loaded with chocolate covered strawberries and champagne and never being allowed to even touch any of it, well, one strawberry, a couple times a year, and I had to down it quickly so it wouldn’t hurt her too much. That’s been our “sex life” for 23 years.

Somehow we managed to have two kids. We were stupid, thinking: well, maybe this will be something we can do right, in spite of the “problem.” Economics put me home as the Stay-At-Home-Dad. It was kinduva “choice” for me, I had already bailed on my arts careers in favor of a desk job but the economy was tightening up around the millenium, both of us wanted to raise our own kids and, since we couldn’t afford daycare anyway even with both our jobs, I had the time so I downshifted. Ha! More like “shifted-sideways” because any SAH parent knows kids are never “down” even when they’re unconscious.

Now that our kids were a distraction from our intimacy crisis, our silence about the “problem” continued until I went back to college to finish whatever-degree-was-cheapest-and-fastest-to-finish and could get me back to an arts-based career (I was always a better artist than a paralegal), and when our eldest entered kindergarten. One day, out of the blue she tells me matter-of-factly, no tears or anything, our wedding night devastated her. “It was one more thing in my hard life that was hard. I always believed sex was going to be something easy, natural, organic I could count on to not be more work. But it wasn’t and it isn’t and I’m done with sex for good.”

I was devastated, hell, beyond shattered all over again. I felt numb, surely She didn’t mean it. After two kids, birthed the way evolution geared it, she still had a body that was rockin’. That table filled with chocolate covered strawberries and champagne I was not allowed to touch? Not even on the table anymore. I blamed her for waiting until she was married. I kicked myself for being stupid for breaking the Rule for Her that I established when I was still in high school: no moving forward with a girl without sexual compatibility being established. It was a socially unpopular Rule (one my fundamentalist parents would have freaked out over had they known) but it had always weeded out girlfriends who liked the idea of me more than me. Until Her. And here we were thirteen years married, I broke my Rule for Her and I was getting’ spanked for it (not even the fun kind).

I had a shitstorm to deal with because I was around younger twenty-somethings every day on campus and four different women (older twenty somethings) made me an offer no man could refuse, except me. I was still head over heels in love with Her. I had thirteen years emotionally invested in Her and the last thing I wanted to do was complicate that—it was plenty complicated already, dammit—and I already knew Her shit; why would I want to have to learn to deal with another woman’s? And I kicked myself for it while simultaneously glad I still wanted Her more than those very appealing other women. I was noble, it’s what a “good guy” does, right?

Dr. Andrea and The Cases of Post-Vasectomy Sex Pain + The Ellusive Zoloft Orgasm

Welcome to today's installment of Ask Dr. Andrea.  Dr. Andrea is the IBWMW Doctor-at-Large, which is a good thing because the blog spends WAY too much time googling various "symptoms."

Dr. Andrea is a total bad-ass--not only because she's an osteopath at the Center for Sustainable Medicine, with specialties in women's/sexual health, nutrition and Ayurveda--but because she takes time out of her busy schedule (which I imagine involves lots of yoga and kale juice) to answer our questions.*

Dear Dr. Andrea:

I have been a reader of IBWMW for a few years. My husband and I have been together for almost 10 years – married for 6. I am 28. He is 31. He had a vasectomy in 2011. 

Our sex life is different than most (at least I think so). We are only having sex once or twice a month. I wish it was more frequent. When we do have sex I am satisfied – always able to have at least one orgasm and we try just about every position. No complaints about the actual sex.

Since his vasectomy he has slowly admitted to me that he has a lot of pain after sex. He understood it was a risk at the time of surgery. This pain has impacted our sex life in that I don’t feel he enjoys sex as I would like him to. I know that after he knows when I’m “done” he anticipates the pain and is not as hard. I think his inner monologue is something like this: “Ok. She is satisfied. Oh shit! This will be painful!”  I feel badly for him that he does not enjoy things as I do. I am extremely open to discussion but he is a bit more private when verbalizing his sexual needs.

Is there anything we can do to decrease pain? Is there something we can try to help accept the sensation of pain? Meditation? Icing? Breathing? Any insight would be very much appreciated.
--Anoymous
 

Dear Anonymous- 

First off let me express my condolences- this is a tough situation. Any time sex causes pain instead of pleasure can be really difficult physically and psychologically for both partners. 

The first thing I would suggest is going to a really good Urologist- perhaps whoever did his vasectomy if he had a good rapport with the doctor. Ordinarily I would love to suggest holistic or alternative things, but post-surgery several things can happen that need to be evaluated, especially since some of them can be treated so that the pain goes away entirely. 

In the meantime, here is what is likely happening--the sperm have to go somewhere when the vas deferens is cut, so sometimes they build up in the epididymis or in the surrounding tissue and cause chronic pain. If it's happening only during sex or upon ejaculation, it could be partially a positional issue from the muscles around the testicles tensing up right before ejaculation and then the extra pressure of some sperm being released and backing up in the tube (or leaking out and irritating surrounding tissue). 

Some urologists suggest trying ibuprofen, but that would likely work best for the chronic (meaning pain all the time) version. Although it's definitely worth a try. Take the suggested dose an hour or so prior to having sex (assuming you have no allergy to ibuprofen, no stomach bleeding or irritation problems, no high blood pressure, and no kidney issues, etc... of course!) and see if it helps. 

Surgery-wise, they can go back in and clean it up, or remove the epididymis of the side that's most painful, or remove any granulomas or scar tissue that have formed that might be causing positional/ejaculation pain. 

Also, reversal of the vasectomy almost always ends the pain if it's due to one of the above issues. But that requires some definite verbalization of what you're each needing and wanting as a form of birth control and how it affects your sex life. I always try to promote positive thinking in sticky situations--perhaps this issue will help open up the dialogue between the two of you and create more pleasure on both sides. Good luck, let me know how it goes and what works!

 --Dr. Andrea

*******

Dear Dr. Andrea:

I take 150 mg of Zoloft daily and experience the common side effect of having a harder time reaching orgasm.  I'm sure the 3 or 4 drinks I may have also had don't help.  Is there anything I can do to speed up the orgasm (for my wife's benefit, not so much mine) other than not drink?  What if I also smoke a little pot the same evening, how does that impact my issue?  Would it help if I skipped my daily Zoloft dose on the days I think I'm getting lucky?  Thanks.
 A.K.

Dr. Andrea on the Safety of Oral Sex and the Comfort of Anal Sex. For other kinds of sex, you're just gonna have to wing it.

Doing this? You're on your own.

Welcome, possibly troubled Gentle Reader, to today's installment of Ask Dr. Andrea. For you new subscribers (thank you!!!), Dr. Andrea is the IBWMW Doctor-at-Large, which is a good thing because the blog is a bit of a hypochondriac.

Dr. Andrea is a total bad-ass--an osteopath at the Center for Sustainable Medicine, with specialties in women's/sexual health, nutrition and Ayurveda--and I can still scarcely believe this, she's still willing to take our questions.*

************

HPV is in the news as causing throat cancer in Hollywood stars. Is it a danger to a, say, 57-year-old het? And if they can immunize kids against it, can they immunize adults? Oh, and if they can, why aren’t they offering it? Cost? Liability? We’re already doomed?

Dr. Andrea: Throat cancer is a danger to anyone who's ever had oral sex, including having had a penis in his or her mouth (especially one without a condom on it.). The reason HPV (the kind that, say, likes living on penises) loves the back of the throat, is that there are tonsils there ( = lots of folds and crevices to hide in) and the back of the tongue also has lots of bumps and stuff stuck to it (bad breath bacteria, adenoid/tonsil-like blobs, etc. yum. :/ ) that make for a lovely spot for HVP to stick.

As for immunizing adults- sort of. The vaccine seems to work well for females up to age 25 and males up to age 21. The thing is, once you've been exposed to the viruses, the vaccine we have doesn't seem to do much so it's recommended to be given before the first sexual encounter for best prevention. I wouldn't say we're doomed exactly, but prevention does seem to be our best (only?) weapon at the moment. That and decreasing risk by having fewer number of partners (the risk tends to go up the more you've had), not also having HIV, and using protection (although condoms aren't 100% especially if the skin that has the virus in it is outside the condom). The good news is, despite throat malignancies in general being pretty terrible, spread seems to be slightly rarer with HPV types, and treatment seems to be working as well as it can be expected to, with the usual gnarly side effects, but still not as bad as possible. Sorry for a not Mary-Sunshine answer, but you did ask about throat cancer. :/ [see also: this NYT article]

We are exploring open arrangements. What STIs are men at risk for when performing oral sex on women? (I'm as open to precautions as anyone, but sorry, dental dams are like I'm having oral sex with a love doll. And that I can do at home, alone. I mean, if I did that kind of stuff. )

The simple answer is: all of them. I guess I'm not being very Mary-Sunshine on this one either.  The reality is that beyond monogamy, things get statistically way more risky. I would suggest choosing partners and weighing risks of this idea carefully, discussing it again with your main partner at regular intervals to make sure you're both ok with it, and have full testing done on everyone before you are physically intimate with each new partner. And of course, do a thorough visual inspection of each partner before intercourse. [IBWMW note: I am immaturely picturing one of those miner's caps with a halogen light for said visual inspection.] Complicated, yes, but this is the world we're in- it's not just HIV, HSV, gonorrhea and chlamydia, but even bugs like syphilis are making a huge world tour comeback. Be safe out there!

****

My husband and I are interested in trying anal sex, but our attempts so far have been much too painful even with copious amounts of lubricant. Fingers are fine, and a tapered dildo smaller than my husband's penis, but any attempts with his penis are excruciating. I've not found any advice that was specific enough to help, just generalities about 'relaxing.' Any ideas?

Honestly, for some people, anal sex is not pleasurable. But it sounds like you've done a great job of trying various versions of it, easing yourself into it, and being creative, so what is the motivation for this if it's not an workable progression that is fun for you both? If the smaller items are pleasurable for you, it could simply be a size issue, which could be worked on (using increasingly larger sizes for a few weeks) along with relaxing breathing exercises to remind your body you are safe and shut down the sympathetics that may be causing reflexive tightening. (p.s. that can work for mild cases of vaginismus or size differences also. Think SLOW- slowly increase dimensions, use very slow movements). Just take it easy as you don't want to stretch yourself permanently or tear anything- pain may be an indicator that that's about to happen.

Aside from general cleaning preparation and lubricant, generally that suffices if it is going to be a pleasure-inducing activity. That said, this next part isn't directed at you necessarily, but in general, the psychological aspects of anal sex can be more pronounced than with vaginal sex (especially for women, in my experience with patients), which can be related to, yes, 'relaxing,' but also deeper sorts of things like vulnerability in general, and letting go completely of control and security to trusting the other partner. My suspicion in this case is that this is a size issue, but looking at your motivations and desire to do it in the first place (when it's excruciatingly painful) might be helpful too- there are many many things to try other than anal sex if it's not doing it for you.
 
Let me know if you figure out a way to make it happen and it's great--I'd love to hear about that for future patients!

-Dr. Andrea 

****
Say 'thank you' to Dr. Andrea everybody!  And remember, send questions in a comment below, an email or using the (fully operational!) contact form in the right margin.

Btw, the anal sex question reminded me of a time Sandra and I were pervishly browsing the "sex" section at a book store and saw a book called something like "Anal Sex, Volume 2."  I wish we would have looked inside it because it was a HUGE book. They must have been doing lots of padding to come up with that much anal sex info, perhaps adding pages and pages of anal sex word searches or something.

Now, I am not an anal sex expert (though I am, as I like to brag, an Anal Bleaching Expert) but it seems to me that there is not *that* much to know about the topic. Surely not two volumes worth? Perhaps an anal sex pamphlet could've done the trick. Or, fuck, maybe even just an informative haiku. Which I have thoughtfully provided here. Clip n' save to consult in times of need. 

Anal Sex, A Haiku

Want some anal sex?
Here's what to know: Use lots of 
Lube and go real slow. 

xoxoxo
jill

*(Note: This is NOT a substitute for individual medical advice or care. So if Dr. Andrea tells you to stick a rusty tin can up your butt or something, check with your doctor first. Go on, check with them. I dare you.)

(photo courtesy of my beloved Lady Cheeky)

Matthew Stillman's "Genesis Deflowered" and Other Readers Out Doing Stuff

While my primary accomplishment today was drinking an entire pot of coffee, IBWMW readers are out there making %&*% happen.

--Consider longtime Friend of IBWMW Matthew Stillman. He just released the book, Genesis Deflowered --a tarting up of the King James version of the Bible, written in the same language. (i.e. "Sedeqetelebab did pray for strength in the staff of Shem; and she did find her heart there.")

The idea wasn't so much to make Bible smut, but to start a conversation about religion and sex, in a scholarly sort of way.  “Religion and love get along incredibly well, but religion and sex don’t,” said Stillman in this interview with Fox News. “There is sort of this flirtation they have in the Bible, and so I felt that to be able to feel this more deeply and to speak it in the original Elizabethan English would be a way to have that conversation happen and have people connect to it in a new way.”

Even though his project was completely over my head and I was a terrible support team, pretty much only offering a "Yes, you go on and write that book" as my "help," Stillman dedicated the damn thing to me. So feel free to order a copy or two of Genesis Deflowered and throw a few shekels his way.

More at Chaffyn.com

--Meanwhile, longtime IBWMW Big Daddy Chaffyn has been working--mad-scientist-like-- on a IBWMW University site which grows stranger each day.  Right now, he reports, it's "feral, fetal, prenatal, unfit for human consumption."

In the meantime, Chaffyn had this to say about the post on Authentic Happiness.

"Anyone with an IQ above a fish (and fish are naturally happy) who isn't astounded perpetually by the miracle and luck of their amazing sentience and who isn't grateful for this brief chance to live on this gorgeous, fragile rock in the freaking middle of NOWHERE and who doesn't understand that there are far too few hours in each day to completely take care of what should be a plethora of interests and explorations, practice their native skills, create or appreciate something jaw-dropping beautiful, watch a tiny spider weave a web, make sure their friends are laughing and that the despondent ones get a few strokes, dote on their mate, stir up a couple of very tasty meals has got problems I don't know how to fix and I can fix just about anything. Oh, I didn't mention doing the laundry, folding it, and putting it away. Good grief. People are bored???"

Which, yes, yes, well said. See more of and/or order Chaffyn's artwork here.

--And finally, reader T wrote this response to True Husband's Tale, "Having no intimacy with her for 23 years is killing me."

My story is similar (37 year marriage) but rather than “vulvodynia” my wife suffers from depression and alcoholism.  Things changed after our daughters were born in the early 1990s.  My wife is angry that I did not know she was having problems back then.  But she did a good job of hiding it, I was busy trying to make a small business successful against difficult odds.  I could have been a more understanding partner.  When I asked about the no sex situation, I became a pig in her eyes.  She thought my only concerned was “getting some”.  I have never been able to make wife understand the deep emotional and spiritual connection that grows from intimacy.  She was raised to be a good Catholic girl that did not do whorish things – ever.  In her mind anything sexual is whorish.  The more I tried to fix our relationship, the worse it got.

I have been researching ours and other troubled relationships over the past 10 years.  Everyone asked, “When will you fix yourself?”  About 2 years ago I finally “got it” that I could not fix my wife.  I could only fix myself.  I needed to wake up to the fact that our sex life was over.

I’m 62 years old.  My mother and my wife’s parents are all in their 80s (and damn close to their 90s).  I see old age up close and personal every day.  It is sad and scary.  I will be there in 20 years and if I’m going to enjoy my life – I had better get busy.

This is only a test

Wish I was here

Fuck, I miss you all. Working to make money blows.  I don't recommend it at all.

Anyway, a few wee things.

1.  Dr. Andrea is in. Now, I am quite sure that every one of you aren't completely free of embarrassing health issues, sexual problems, genital questions and such. This is a chance to get your question answered by a real doctor, for FREE and anonymously (except for all of us, you know, reading about your itchy wiener or whatever). Man--or chick--up and send your question to: jillhamilton001@gmail.com or test out the snazzy new contact form at lower right and let me know if it works.

2.  Expert Predict Sexbots Will Be Part of Our Lives by 2050 is my latest article in DAME magazine. Go on over and give it some love if you will. Worst thing I discovered: Some sexbots are available for RENT.

3.  Some lady sent me this comment/unsolicited advice on Facebook: "Please try to use 'polyandrous' instead of 'slutty'. Thank you."  It was the preemptive "thank you" that got me, as though I'd be heeding her advice. 

4.  Naomi Wolf is now following me on Twitter. Squee.

5.  I was happy to see that some of you bought the aforementioned Naomi Wolf's book  Vagina: A New Biography via the Amazon link at right. Will love to hear what you think. (My 11 year old saw me reading it--as my daughter, this is her cross to bear--and goes, "Hey, what's that book about? VAGINAS?")

6. Someone also used the Amazon link to purchase "Cottonelle Ultra Comfort Care Toilet Paper, Mega Roll Economy Plus Pack, 27 Count," which means that in that person's brain there is now a tiny, tenuous neurological link between the blog and their mega/plus/ultra toilet paper needs. I am tentatively happy about this.

7.  And speaking of overly dramatic toileting-related product adjectives, my current favorite is Fresh Step Extreme Odor Control Scoopable Clumping Cat Litter.

No more Purina Hot Pockets cat food for you, little kitty

I am not a package designer but, really, trained professionals sat in on probably countless long meetings and not one person thought it was a bad idea to mark up the package with the words "EXTREME URINE & FECES"? In big-ass red letters? We are plenty crass in this country, but I think "odor control" would've worked just fine.

8. 8, 8, I forgot what 8 was for.

9.  Don't forget about your Dr. Andrea question...

xoxox
jill

(gorgeous photo from Lady Cheeky,)

Reader Mail Friday on Monday. Just Because.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.