Plushies and Friends. Oh, you are so in for it, Snuggle.

Snuggle, watch your back.
That's all I'm sayin'.

As I often profess, I'm down with whatever consenting adults want to do. You want to fuck a can opener? Go to town. That said, I am simultaneously fascinated with the fucked-up $%#$ that consenting adults actually end up doing (note: I mean "fucked-up $%#$" in the kindest possible way. I use it here to mean "everything I personally don't want to do." And embarrassingly, I am coming to realize that this category includes a lot of items including: having sex with people in chipmunk costumes, bleaching/dyeing/vajazzing delicate body parts, calling balloon phone sex lines, and, well, I could go on. It's a shamefully long list, really. )

So naturally I was delighted when a wonderful (aren't they all?) In Bed With Married Women reader emailed the results of this plushie survey taken from a plushie website.

Now, if you don't know what a plushie is, well, it's someone who loves stuffed animals. The term encompasses a range--from people merely liking and collecting stuffed animals (like that nice old lady down the street) to people wanting to fuck the living hell out of stuffed animals (like that nice old lady down the street). (Social acceptance hint:  if you're not actually into having sex with stuffed animals, you won't want to refer to yourself as a "plushie.")

Anyway, like I said, I was thrilled to see the survey, because, oh lordy, it was awesome. For example, here are the results to Question 3:

3. What odors do you prefer or desire on your plushies?
    [ 66 ] - new, or with no specific aroma
    [ 47 ] - cum, mild
    [ 43 ] - body sweat, mild
    [ 40 ] - musky, ball-sack aroma from yourself or other people
    [ 26 ] - pee, mild
  * [ 25 ] - musky, real animal scent (ferret, fox, rabbit, deer, etc.)
    [ 19 ] - cum, very strong
    [ 18 ] - body sweat, strong
  * [ 16 ] - incense
    [ 15 ] - perfume or cologne
    [ 15 ] - pee, strong
  * [ 13 ] - musky, tail-hole aroma (fart, poop, etc.)
    Other:   Cinnamon (1), Vanilla extract (2), Bubble Gund (2),
             Tobacco (2), Chocolate (1), Leather (1), Licorice (1),
             Ocean/saltwater (1), Just washed/fabric softener (1),
             Strawberries (1), Mild lemon (1)

I loved it. I mean, c'mon. "Ball sack aroma"? Not only are you going to have your way with poor Mr. Bunnykins, but you are also going to insist he smell like "ball sack aroma"? And, what, exactly, is the polite method of collecting "ball sack aroma" from other people? There was a lot to think about. I pondered something called "plush necrophilia." Did this mean a plush toy doing it with a dead human or a live human with a dead plush toy? And if the plush toy was dead, how was this different from a regular non-living (i.e. dead) plush toy? I learned about plushie porn, she-male plushies and the plushie subcategory that is Beanie Babies (conclusion: Beanie Babies are sexually arousing, yes, but generally too small to fuck. Okay to wear inside your pants). It was all completely fascinating.

But after my initial thrill wore off--Plush toys wearing bondage gear! Plush toy on plush toy action! Something called plush slavery!--I thought, Thank God for the Internet. Seriously. I mean, can you imagine being some kid in Utah who not only wants to have sex with stuffed animals, but also prefers they have "cum smell, mild"? You would feel so completely alone. It's not like you could really bring it up to someone, even a close friend. "Hey Joe, this is kind of weird, but did you ever get really really drunk with your stuffed animals and one thing led to another and...?"

But with the Internet, these folks found each other. Being a plushie in 2011 must be immeasurably better than being a plushie in 1973. Now, Mr. Beanie-Baby-in-his-underwear can find someone who not only gets it, but offers the hint that a pee-covered Beanie Baby makes the experience all the more erotic. Can you imagine what a relief it would be to find such a kindred spirit?

Now, I'm not saying that I want to smear a stuffed animal with poo and have my way with it (Boy, am I ever Not Saying that) but I am glad that if someone does want to do that--and they really do--that they have someone they can talk to about it.

Viva freedom and all that.

Contest results, black pasties and whatnot

Not that kind of pasty, though they would offer more coverage

The Pick Your Prize winners have been notified and if you didn't win, fear not, I have a TON of really really good stuff coming from Aneros and Doc Johnson that may soon be throbbing away up your wherever.

In the meantime, the following readers are gonna be "in a meeting" for a bit.

Reader J, winner of the much coveted Ohmibod Mini (98% of you wanted that, as well you should), responded "Thanks for the dog toy."  J was cruelly referring to my misadventures with my previous Mini as well as a Dog Toy or Sex Toy quiz which, given my my shockingly bad score, I will be re-taking this summer in Remedial Dog Toy or Sex Toy Recognition.

Another J, a dude who lives Canada, decided he didn't actually want his winning anal beads after researching "sketchy, unsafe-for-your-body jelly anal beads" thus saving me from having to declare "sketchy...anal beads" when the postal worker asks what I'm shipping internationally. For his research and good-heartedness, as well as a bit of flattery (that would be: "You have such a wonderfully refreshing, funny and frank voice." #PraiseWhore), J will get his pick of the next litter, if a group of sex toys is called a litter.

A, an assistant principal in an undisclosed location, won the Fin finger vibrator and it's not because she wrote "Thank you for being wonderfully funky, intelligent, quirky, sexy you!"--that was after. A, if you must know, also reports that she attended a BDSM class over the weekend and learned that there is a proper way to spank. In the old days, assistant principals already knew that, but there you go.

C won the Talk to Me conversation cards and it was uneventful.

And finally, not one of you pussies even entered to get the black nipple pasties with fake piercings. ("Casual for the day, sporty for the beach!") And... I was at a loss. I hate hate hate wasting things and I couldn't just throw them away unused so, as any one of you would do, I put the damn things on while I was home alone, as my 400 cats looked on with disapproval. The pasties stick right to your nipples and if you move them up a bit, you can give yourself an inexpensive pretend boob lift. However, the sticky is not that sticky and I would think twice for before heading out to Trader Joe's in them. 

I then decided I should take pictures of myself all pastied up for you because there may be something wrong in my brain hole. I was even gonna post one here, but it suddenly felt a little porny, like I was sexting you. Perhaps getting a surprise be-pastied boob shot is like getting an unwanted dick pic, that is, no bueno. I should probably have a talk with HR about it.

xoxo
jill

ps As I was finishing this, my UPS man delivered a truly huge box from Doc Johnson. I know it was my usual man because, uncharacteristically, he just screeched "UPS!" before dropping 14 pounds of excessively non-discreetly packaged sex toys and fleeing for safety. 

Hmm, wonder what this could be?

Anti-Semen Candy, Masturbating Ancestors and Christ-Honoring Anal Beads, aka Reader Mail

Just...one...more...episode...

Hey there, gorgeous. It just dawned on me that the contest deadline was yesterday. Crap! Let me pick some damn winners and come up with some cash to mail the prizes. (I plan on looking in my other pants where I hope to have left a $300 bill.) I'll contact you if you won.

In the meantime, please time travel with me back to this 2012 post, when streaming Netflix was new and I made fun of George W. Bush a little. Poor innocent 2012 In Bed With Married Women--blog had no idea what was coming down the pike.  

*****
I am such a sanctimonious ass when it comes to TV. Whenever someone asks me if I've seen some show, instead of calmly replying, "No, I haven't yet," I invariably sniff, "No. I don't really watch TV."  As though my excessive loitering in coffee shops and sneaking off to Barnes and Nobles to read celebrity magazines (which I also publicly purport to "hate") is a somehow superior way to spend one's time. (See also: Jim Gaffigan's "McDonald's")

I think my virulence against TV watching is because I fear that I don't really hate it, but might actually love it too much. Perhaps if I started watching, I'd soon be glassy-eyed and unresponsive, watching 24 hour marathons of "House Hunters" and sitting in a pile of my own waste. It's kind of like how George W. Bush had to become uber-religious to stave away his ever-present mighty urge to become a coke-snorting ass-grabbing drunk again.

My theory was proven to be semi-correct the other day when we got a month of free streaming Netflix. When you sign up, they ask you what sorts of things you like to watch. I selected "cerebral indie films", "foreign films," "documentaries" and the like, but when it came down to it, I sat my ass down and started watching episode after episode of fucking..."Hoarders." I even watched part of an episode during the day, which is especially shameful to me since I consider to daytime TV watching to be the absolute height of slovenliness and a complete moral failing.

I did learn something. Well, actually two things. One is that I am a disgusting hypocrite. Two is that now I want to clean the living hell out of everything.

Today, then, I am cleaning out saved messages from readers so that they don't build up in unsightly piles, forcing me to crawl through a goat path to get to my blog.

1. Cagey-C alerted me to the Little Rooster, an alarm clock that "wakes you gradually, tenderly, sensuality." After I waded through the site's Brit-speak suggestions on placing it inside your "knickers," I figured out it's a vibrator that wakes you up by pleasuring you inside the general knicker area. Which doesn't sound half bad, though I suspect they could come up with more alluring ad copy than: "Beautifully shaped from sensual polycarbonate."

2.  The IBWMW Minister of Science sent this enticing missive. "You have to see these pictures. I'm a biologist and even I find these pictures incredibly creepy." The link, if you dare, shows all manner of creepy-ass baby shower cakes. Warning: Contains cake fetuses.

3. Reader T.P. sent this impressively-titled sciencey report "Australopithecus erotimanis, and the evolution of the human hand" which suggests that the human hand's shape didn't develop for using tools but, well, let's just let author Ken Weiss explain it:

It is obvious upon looking at the fossil hand, that its most likely purpose was, not to mince words about it, masturbation.  Just look at the hand itself and its reach position (figure 2).  Think about it:  deft and masterly self-satisfying would yield  heightened sexuality, indeed of keeping one's self aroused at all times, ready for the Real Thing whenever the opportunity might arise. Unlike having to wait for prey to amble by, one could take one's evolutionary future in one's own hands--and use one's tool in a better way, one might say.

Honoring Christ through anal chains

4. My neighbor Wendy (penner of Relax, It's Just God, a blog for secular parents) discovered--through I'm sure absolutely no prurient reasons whatsoever--Sex Toys Aren't Just For Heathens Anymore, an article on the burgeoning business of selling sex toys to religious people. For example, Covenant Spice, "a Christ honoring sex and romance site for couples," honors Christ by not showing nudity on their sex toys' boxes. You can "bless your spouse with an orgasm" with products such as the Christ-honoring Fun Factory Felix (at left), a 10" anal chain "with a friendly face."

5. And finally, JB alerted me to a product called Masque. "These orally-dissolvable, flavored gel strips will take the intimacy between you and your partner to the next level," the copy reads mysteriously. Decoded, it's a strip you eat so you're not subjected to the presumed horrors of the taste of your partner's semen. It comes in flavors like watermelon and mango. This is wrong in about 8 different ways to me--I mean, how fucking insulting is it if you pop a mango strip in your mouth before you'll take him in your mouth? "Sorry, just need to cover up the disgusting flavor of, well....you." (I would also submit that if you don't like your lover's taste, biology might be trying to tell you something.)

If you're not doing anything else, such wasting your life watching TV, I suggest you look at the Masque FAQs if only for this one:
          
          DOES MASQUE TASTE GOOD?

Through user research, we’ve found that a vast majority of our customers love or like all of the flavors. They are certainly not candy and were created for an intended purpose. However, we have many people in our office that eat them merely for the taste. [Emphasis added. By me. Because that is fucked up.]

xoxox
jill

(Alfonse Mucha, Model for Medea)