For those of you who aren’t familiar with female genital piercings, a hood piercing is having the skin of your clitoral hood pierced.  A lot of times, if a bio-female tells you she has her clit pierced, what she means is that she has a hood piercing.  Most women don’t have enough clitoral tissue for a proper, safe piercing of the clitoris, and some piercers won’t even perform it.  My hood piercing is vertical, and I’m very excited about it.

The shop was empty when my piercing was performed, which was good, because I screamed.  My boyfriend accompanied me and was extremely disconcerted by watching -because- of my screaming, and the blood, and the fact that he just watched part of my gorgeous sexybits get a needle rammed into them.  Realistically, though, it hurt less than when my nipples were pierced.  The difference is that a ton of people said, “Oh, having your hood pierced doesn’t hurt at all!  It’s really thin skin, it heals quickly, you’ll hardly feel it!”  They are either numb from the waist down (and I often suspect that I am, so that’s saying something), or they’re lying.  I’d say it was on par with my eyebrow, which hurt more than my tongue.  However, if I had been prepared for that pain, it would have been okay.  I expected that I would hardly feel it… and so the shock made the experience seem ten times more painful than it was.  However, it was a very brief pain, and even though it hasn’t even been a full week yet, I’m delighted with it.

The point of this post is not to share my piercing tale, really… if that was the point, I would have made all of that information much more lengthy and entertaining.  The point of this post was to share what happened afterward, when I was hanging out in the shop while my piercer consulted another client.

Two young women came in with the client, and through some part of the grapevine (probably the tattooist that returned to the shop a few minutes after we finished my piercing), had heard that I’d gotten my genitals pierced.  They were incredibly curious, and I was (and am) more than happy to answer questions.  The conversation went a bit like this:

“Are you the girl who got her clit pierced?”

“I got my hood pierced, yeah… you don’t usually pierce the actual clit.”

“Holy crap!  I don’t think I could do that… did it hurt?”

“Oh, definitely.  But not as bad as nipple piercings do.”

“Well what about when you pee?  Won’t it burn?”

That’s right, kids.  Two young women who were definitely over 18 but under 25 were under the impression that their clitorises were either involved in the process of expelling urine, or were at risk of being in the path of a stream of urine during expulsion.  Now, genitalia can vary vastly in configuration, especially when we’re talking about the configuration of a vulva, but for most individuals, the urethra is located below the clitoris.  It just is.  That’s usually what you’ll find on any diagram of “standard” genital configuration for biologically-female bodies.  It reminds me of when I was five and I assumed that my urine came from my vagina.  (At the time, I had no idea what a “vulva” was, must less the rest of the kit.)

I was both dumbstruck and amused by the situation.  They also asked what I would do if my tampon string got tangled up in it.  Since the strings do have a tendency to run a bit wild when you have thicker outer labia, that wasn’t a particularly stupid question, but when I stated that it was a moot point because I wore a menstrual cup, these women were kind enough to ask more questions which restored my faith in the belief that most American bio-females are walking around and have no fucking idea what is going on in their pants.

<standard comprehensive sex education rant here.>

I don’t even remember the specific questions asked about the menstrual cup, but there were many, and some of them also demonstrated the fact that these women didn’t know too much about their anatomy.  I don’t deliberately intend to ridicule the anatomically uninformed… and I’ll happily educate them on how their bodies actually work.  But when you are informed, it’s moments like this that walk a very fine line between hilarious and outrageous.

“You two can talk until you fall asleep – I won’t mind.  It won’t keep me awake.”

“What about moans of pleasure?”

His raised brow hints at mischief.  We all chuckle, but as my friend continues speaking, my lover is teasing me by playing one of my favorite games: “Shut the Fuck Up, Sugarcunt.”  It’s much like another one of my favorite games, called Concentration.  He deftly squeezes my nipple between two fingers, rolling it back and forth.  It’s not enough for him to win – my eyes meet his, and he interprets the challenge correctly.  The squeezing intensifies, and the stinging fire begins building between his fingertips and shoots straight to my loins.  My mouth opens wordlessly and he pinches harder -

- harder

- harder

until a trembling whimper escapes my throat as my nails climb his broad shoulders.  His attention moves to the source of the sound, long fingers embracing my neck and cutting off my air.  I squirm, and my lover’s nails tickle my groin through my panties; they travel north, and the aching disappointment is so strong that it nearly forms words of protest.  He stifles them before they happen by moving the hand back down, turning the tickling into lazy, tingling-trail strokes.  My hips quiver, lips hang open, eyes wide,

 then I feel it.

My friend’s hands, slipping along my arms.  She tugs them behind me and captures them at the wrists, pushing her body against my back and forcing me to open myself further.

“Don’t struggle, cunt.”

My lover’s lips hang over my ear while his fingers push harder, dragging my panties into the growing well of slickness between my legs.  My friend’s other hand manipulates my other nipple while her tongue plays along the back of my neck.  I’m going insane – two objects of fantasy meeting in an unlikely scenario.  Teeth overtake my earlobe.  The warm strokes have moved beneath my panties, combing through my hair, brushing my clit, and dancing over my opening so coyly that I want to scream.

I’m readjusted now – upright, into her lap, with her arms around me, bracing me, while she shoves my panties aside and pulls my outer lips apart to expose me entirely.  Her teeth nip at the skin where my ear meets the neck, causing a violent tingling sensation at the base of my spine.

There is a warm, wet probing at my clit.  Liberated, my hands are now free, and they clutch for anything – sheets, pillows, my friend’s thighs.  I dig my nails into her flesh as I’m licked from the perineum up, his tongue fluttering double-time across the hood of my clit and then back down.  Over and over, harder, circling, sucking my inner lips, tongue tracing naughty words and sweet nothings and fingers pumping now, thrusting up and forward, pushing deep, in and out hitting behind my clit and it feels sogood and sohardandsosweet and FUCK.

- D. Eaton & J. Hardy, The Ethical Slut

Still no sexy posts, you guys.  Believe it or not, even when my visible sex organs are being constantly stimulated, I insist on writing about what goes on in the one in my head.  Shame on me for thinking!  Jack Hutson would be so disappointed.

I ruminate a lot on the monogamy myth.  It actually leans heavily on another myth, which is the myth of the “incomplete person,” and it also leans on (American) economics.  (I live here, so I can’t address international situations.)  Keep in mind that once I start talking about the economy, I might be missing something, because I don’t study economics by any means – these are just economic “necessities” that I have seen influence relationships.

Let’s break the title down.  If I lose you, just smile and nod like you normally do when you read my posts and I start to wax verbose.  If I don’t lose you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

I’m sure that if you’re part of a community with a significant poly population (certain areas in the queer community and the BDSM community, for example), you’ve probably heard people say that monogamy is a myth.  You can find some poly people who are assholes (not to imply that all polyamorous folk are jerks) on Fetlife who will march around touting the superiority of polyamory.  “We’re just more ‘evolved’!”  “We’re TOTALLY beyond jealousy!”

That isn’t the myth I’m talking about.  Being monogamous doesn’t make you less evolved.  That’s just stupid shit that some poly people say.  What they don’t address (and may not acknowledge) is the fact that poly relationships actually may involve jealousy, and to get past that, you have to communicate.  In fact, you probably have to communicate even better than monogamous people.  (That doesn’t mean that poly people DO communicate better than the monogamous.  Just that it’s of more importance, because the more people you involve, the bigger the shitstorm gets when you fuck it all up.) 

When I think about the monogamy myth, I think about the idea that you’re supposed to be together.  With one person.  Forever.  Here’s where it ties in with the myth of the “incomplete person.”  It’s actually kind of a Möbius strip, if you think about it.  Both ideas are on a continual plane.  You can’t flip the ring and say, “Here’s the monogamy myth and on the other side is the incomplete person myth.”  They’re not separate ideas, really.

The incomplete person myth… where to start?  You see it all the time, right?

• “I’m searching for my soul mate.”
• “This person is my other half.”
• “You can’t be truly happy until you’re in love.”
• “They’ll complete you.”

Shut the fuck up, Dr. Phil.

Seriously.  I don’t necessarily disagree with the concept of having “soul mates,” but, having multiple myself (unquestionably two, currently: my hetero life partner and a very dear friend/former romantic interest), I’m certainly not buying into the idea that my partner(s) will complete me, and I’m UNQUESTIONABLY not buying into the idea that each person has one soul mate in their entire lifetime… and that they have to marry that person ASAP.  That’s crap.  I am a whole person and I don’t need someone to complete me.  I want another whole person to be my partner and walk beside me, rather than to live nestled in my hollowed-out carcass.  A thousand people are spouting out some fragmented form of that aphorism that you “can’t love somebody until you love yourself.”  Yeah, I’ll buy into that.  A lack of self-esteem from one partner can be a huge drain on the other.  But so can the feeling that you’re going to be alone forever if you don’t have a partner… yet we don’t say, “You can’t be in a happy relationship until you can be happy alone.”  That’s really what we should be saying.  The idea that you NEED someone (your soul mate, duh) to fill your life and complete your existence?  That’s a piss-poor way to look at things, don’t you think?  And this idea that we are incomplete, that our lives are sad and lonely because we’re single and that there’s one puzzle piece to fit us?  That just turns into the myth that a monogamous relationship is right for everyone.  If one person is needed to “complete” us, then we’re obviously going to lock that fucker down for the long-haul.  We don’t need anyone else, and we have a model for this long haul.  Ohhh, do we have a model for it.

The monogamous relationship (which you enter into because you’re terrified of being incomplete) doesn’t have to be the nuclear family anymore.  I mean, sure, you can be June Cleaver and squeeze out as many tiny little cockblocks as you want, but you can also be the newly-married couple that doesn’t plan on having children.  But god forbid that you break the real, serious-business, fabled tenants of monogamy.

• God forbid that you do anything sexual without your partner… so just forget about masturbating.
• God forbid that your partner watch porn.  Aren’t you enough for them?

As a note, the above two myths are pretty closely interlinked.  I see a lot of, “My partner shouldn’t get off to anything but me, with me.”  That is the most damaging attitude I have ever seen that we have woven into our view of how monogamous relationships work.  And it’s ALWAYS found among the most insecure people I’ve ever met, and it only feeds their insecurity.  Am I telling you to change it, if these descriptions ring true of your relationships?  No – I can’t really do that.  But I can suggest that you take a good look at yourself and figure out why it really bothers you… and what you can do to improve on a personal level, rather than just restricting your partner’s behavior and being miserable if they don’t comply.  I’ve been that person, and not because I was in a monogamous relationship, or had a problem with porn or masturbation… but because I felt unloved because my partner never put in the effort to have sex with me (or the sex I wanted to try having), and because these partners were also dishonest with me about their activities and needs… and at the time, I made the mistake of failing to communicate my own expectations clearly until I reached the boiling point.

• God forbid that your partner look at someone else and find them attractive.  You should be the only one they have eyes on, right?
• God forbid that you don’t live together (eventually, if not now).
• God forbid that you don’t sleep in the same bed.
• God forbid that you do things (and I’m talking about hobbies, here) without one another.

In fact, if you tell someone you live with your partner and aren’t sharing a bed every night, they’ll go, “Whoa, what did they do wrong?”  Because we expect happy monogamous couples to follow the standard model that Hollywood sets in the 21st century – we sleep in the same bed, we do everything together, we only have eyes for one another.  We write non-standard wedding vows on the backs of menus where we had our first date.  We’ll eventually fall in love with you again if we get amnesia.  (Oh, sorry for those last two bits; I watched The Vow a few weeks ago because I was experiencing a random case of brain damage.)

We never consider that some people need a certain amount of space, and just because it defies the expectation of domestic partnership (the expectation that you’ll just share a bed for the rest of your life, for example) doesn’t mean that their relationship is any less valid.  My dear friend Elle M. would be happy having her own apartment or condo beside the person with whom she might decide to become “involved for the long haul,” if ever that were to happen.  I need a little bit less space than that, but I definitely need a room to myself for work, play, and decompression, even if I’m dating someone that I can “recharge” around.

I’m an introvert.  Recharge and decompression can done at the same time, but are both totally different concepts in my life.  Recharge is just holing up (with or without my partner) without being required to deal with the things that drain me (such as the rest of the fucking world).  But decompression is different.  Even if I can be totally devoid of self-consciousness around a partner, decompression really allows me to be well and truly alone and enjoy the perks of that.  My partner may never dream of judging me, and ideally, I can be vulnerable around them, but sometimes I don’t want to have to be.  Trying on a new harness, or desperately attempting to get my latest butt plug into my ass without dropping it?  That’s really something I’d just rather do on my own.  I need time to decompress beyond the amount of time I spend reading on the toilet.

So here’s where my rant has brought us:  We grow up watching romantic comedies and teen shows and children’s movies that clearly display two people who were “meant to be” hooking up and magically completing the other person.  They get hitched, move in together, do everything together, and sleep together every night, and they live happily ever after.

So what happens to real people?

We go to those extremes, and most of us hardly realize that we’re chasing a pipe dream.  We promote a codependent concept of love, which is inevitably poisonous, and it’s not solely limited to monogamous relationships.  Because we expect our other half to complete us, we just figure they’re going to know what we want without having to ask… then we get pissed and passive aggressive when they don’t pick up on our venomous, overly-subtle hints.  It’s confusing when the person we’re supposed to complete is suddenly angry and we have no idea what to do about it.  And because we’ve been rushing to make sure we shackle “the one,” by the time we realize that something here isn’t working out, we’ve been married for five years and have entangled our lives so deeply that trying to wriggle out of the knot is like trying to untie a fine piece of thread.

The thing is that our emotional assumptions aren’t the only reason that we entertain these relationships… our economy encourages us to!  And better still – it encourages economical codependence, not just emotional!

It’s hard to get by when you’re single.  Theoretically, you’ve got to deal with car payments, insurance payments, student loans, credit card payments, utilities, and your rent or mortgage payment.  You have to buy groceries, work on your retirement fund, and feed your 200 20 3 cats.  You’re already dealing with the stressful fact that you’re 30 and your soul mate hasn’t shown up for some godawful reason!  (Get used to being late to the party.  Once you get hitched and pop out your 2.6 kids and a dog, you will never be on time for anything ever again.)  You’re working to pay for a bunch of stuff that basically ensures that you can stay alive in order to work more and reproduce with someone else to create more workers.  (Apparently Marx is the devil on my shoulder when I’m writing blog posts at 4 AM.)

Take alllllll that debt up there and look at your personal finances.  Chances are that your yearly income doesn’t comfortably cover all of those things.  But hey, when you find your one true soul mate, you’ll get married and they can help you pay off all that shit!

Except they have it too.  The car, insurance, loans, credit cards… the only thing you two, collectively, will save money on by combining your lives is rent, assuming that DO opt to live together and that you DON’T move into a bigger place when you decide to co-habitate.  People who want to maintain separate financial lives do not (and will not, if my prediction is correct) have it easy in the future.  Elle M. is going to be feeling a lot of pressure to move in with Mr. Gerard Butler Elle M. if they decide to live in adjacent condominiums instead of cramming into one space.  Entering into some legally-binding shit and turning your bank accounts into one joint account seems, on the surface, like a pretty good way to slowly but surely chisel away at the monetary burden on your shoulders.  But really, ultimately, everyone is suffering in this economy.  Millions of couples are still struggling… and their relationships are struggling… and things aren’t getting much better.

The goal of this post is not to argue that monogamy is inefficient, that polyamory is better, or that you shouldn’t get married.  I very firmly believe in chasing your happiness in whatever manner you desire.  Shack up with one! two! ten! people if it makes you happy.  Raise a child in a family of two people, or a family comprised of 15.  If, somehow, you are one of two human beings on the planet who can blossom by doing LITERALLY EVERYTHING together (with the exception of bowel movements), then more power to you.

But if you’re like me, then maybe things haven’t gone the way you’ve planned in the past.
Maybe your relationships have suffered because of economic strain.
Maybe your relationships have suffered because of codependency.
Maybe your relationships have suffered because you’re only in them ’cause you’re afraid of flying solo.
Maybe your relationships have suffered because you need to share your love, life, and body with more than one person at a time.
Maybe your relationships have suffered because of unrealistic expectations that have kept all involved in totally separate chapters of the same book.

If you’re like me, I can’t really tell you what to do to fix it.  I can’t tell you to go poly, or to denounce marriage (hell, I consider marriage pretty regularly), or to let the mob take care of your debt problem. I can’t tell you to shove your offspring back into your uterus until you can afford it… which will probably be never, unless you’re well-off.

The goal of this post was mostly just to think about how you got to this point.

Sucks, doesn’t it?

There is also a warning beneath that list:  “Failure to adhere to any of these will have you publicly humiliated on the internet.”

One of these “don’ts” is that one shouldn’t message me if we have nothing in common – “if you only mention hunting, sports, and your fraternity, then I know you’ll bore me.  I didn’t list any of those things in my interests.  Don’t message me to talk about them.”

An enterprising redneck (talks about how he likes hunting and sports in his profile!) messaged me with this gem:

So what are you looking for on here because most the stuff i read is what u dont?

Points for having the balls to send that, dude.

If you want to skip to the drinking game, in which my dastardly machinations promote death via alcohol poisoning, just scroll to the cut.

Jack Hutson e-mailed Epiphora asking her to review his book.  She had heard of his attempts to snag a review, and had also heard that all of her fellow bloggers had either declined or just ignored the e-mail.  Appalled that no one had told him off for being a moron, she said, “Hell to the no.  You’re a sexist pig.”

He then proceeded to solicit every sex blogger that she links to on her site.
I’m on that list.

We knew about Jack Hutson and the book because we’d been ridiculing the site a few months earlier.  “It’s so misguided that it’s funny,” we said.  “It’s gaudily designed! The information is crap!”  We NEVER expected that he’d e-mail us asking us to review it.  I invite you to formulate your own opinions about the site – his marketing method, his design, and the contents of his book cited there!  To my understanding, you can find it by googling it. (At least, that’s what Jack told me to do when he introduced himself and mentioned his book.  If you click the link to Epiphora’s tumblr, you can see the e-mail he sent to all of us.)

He seems pretty legit, you guys.

We, two 20somethings having relations with cisgender males, wondered, “Are we supposed to take blowjob advice from a poorly-vectored man with a mullet?” The answer is the same that it would be if you replaced “blowjob advice” with “candy”: No.

Instead of curling up in a corner and wailing, “I NEED AN ADULT,” repeatedly, I agreed to review his book because I didn’t really expect it to make me do that.

(Spoilers: Sometimes, it does.)

But really.  Surely I don’t know every blowjob technique in the book.  Surely I can improve.  That’s what I told myself when I responded.

Jack selflessly dedicates the book

to women all over the world.  I genuinely want to help them to free themselves, learn how to give great head, and have the best time ever with the men they like.

Jack sells this book hard.  It’s a $47 book that is only available as an eBook.  Jack tells you that “buying this book is probably the best investment you’ve made in the last few months.”  His endorsements read a little bit like something out a pageant, as if he’s hoping to be crowned Miss America: Blowjob Queen.  But the site says it wants to teach you how to be “The One.”  <insert tired Matrix reference here.>

So enter the world of Jack Hutson, the Man of 1,000 Blowjobs.

Jack Hutson writes in a style similar to Tucker Max, who aims to be the 21st century’s Bukowski without wasting his time on poetry.  He thinks nothing will get your man off more than you (an assumed cisgender female) taking your role in the “natural order of things” by being a “submisive slut.”  In fact, in the book and the website, he tells you that if you don’t give good head, your man will find someone who will.  He says most guys will leave you for a girl who gives better BJs than you.  He says his divorce was necessitated by that fact that she gave bad head.  On his website, he utters the “horrible truth,” that, yes – that other person your man could go to might even be a prostitute.  (GASP!

My friend Elle M. summarized it best when she was reading his website, “So if you don’t suck it right he’ll hire a hooker?  And it will be YOUR fault?  HIS DICK WILL PULL HIM TO A SEEDY CORNER OF TOWN LIKE A MAGNET.”

Elle is convinced that the man who drew up a contract of wifely expectations even though there was no consensual master/slave dynamic must have written this.  I agree with this theory, and we intend to investigate extensively.

The biggest thing Jack stresses is “the winning attitude.”  Why?  “You have to be horny if you want him to get horny.”

As I already said, how you feel is how he will feel.  So, let’s recap – you have to change

“He should be happy that I made the effort to be on my knees and suck his dick, I hate doing this”
Into >>>
“I looove sucking his dick, mmm, it feels so good, I love the taste of it, I wish I could keep on sucking it forever, God, I’m so happy he let me suck on it, it’s the most beautiful thing on Earth, Aaaah”

“I am giving him head”
Into >>>
“He is giving me incredible pleasure from letting me suck his hard, tasteful cock”

Okay, y’all.  Here’s the thing.  I don’t hold back.  I go down there without asking.  I voluntarily stick my face down his pants when I’m ready to roll.  And yes, he is letting me suck his cock, and yes, I am getting pleasure from it.  But let me be totally honest.  While I care for my partners, and find them sexually appealing, the opportunity to put a cock in my mouth isn’t exactly a privilege that I had to pry from his cold, dead fingers.  Sure, he’s letting me administer fellatio, but it’s not like I had to beg him for the chance to make his eyes roll back in his head.

Jack admits that he’s homophobic, sexist, and generally an asshole.  (I haven’t even scratched the surface in that list.  He’s a bigot in all ways, and this book is one entire cissexist tirade of crap.)  He’s actually kind of proud of it.  That just makes you want to punch him more.  When he says that it’s hard to get STDs from giving a blowjob and says he never got anything from getting blowjobs from hundreds of different girls?   I want to spit on him for thinking he’s the authority on this.  He tells you to know who you’re dealing with, make sure he’s clean or make him go get a test, and don’t swallow his load if you’re not sure he’s clean.  WHAT ABOUT CONDOMS, JACK?  He has a section on how important it is for you to look good.  He has some sections on… oh, fuck it.  You don’t care.  Neither do I. Let’s just cut to the chase.

If you buy this book, you’re basically paying $47 to hear one guy talk about what he likes to see in porn and what he looks for in a woman (winning attitude!  submissive and gentle in all ways!  feminine!  slutty!  swallows unless it’s a facial!).  I only recommend making “the best investment that you’ll have made in the last few months” if you intend to find Jack Hutson and convince him to marry you so that you can kill him and inherit all the stuff he’ll leave in his mom’s basement.  (If that’s your plan, I apologize that you’re that hard-up.)

I’d like to share some of my favorite gems from the book:

Blow jobs are in some way a method to convey male dominance over the female.  It is natural for a man to be dominant in sex, and by giving him a blowjob you are showing ultimate submissiveness – and thereby giving him ultimate pleasure.  Remember girls – this is NATURAL, that’s the way it should be by nature.  So forget about feminism when giving head.

You’re right, Jack, I’ll just put equality out of my mind while I’m sucking dick to promote the “natural order” of the world.  After all, anthropologically speaking, blowjobs are a much stronger human biological imperative than penile-vaginal intercourse.

And be feminine… you have to be a real woman, not some feminist. I don’t know how a lot of you girls got the impression that guys love tough, dominant chicks – no, we don’t. And the guys that tell you that only tell you so you’ll think they’re nice. These guys make me throw up.

Because real women can’t be feminists.

No, we don’t want a manly woman; we want a woman to be a real woman, feminine, gentle and loving – and most importantly, sexually submissive to her man.

Oh good, I’ll keep that in mind when my boyfriend is begging me to tie him up, sodomize him, and call him a little slut.  Sorry if  we made you barf a little, Jack.

You can also have great sex with soul and r’n'b music – I love music made by black folks, they really have a sense for music and they know how to make really good grooves for sex.

If you really master giving blow jobs, all doors will be open for you.  I can’t even explain how many girls suck at giving head – just by being better than them, you are in a major advantage.  Sex is important, and sex without blow jobs is like driving a car that has really small space for gas.  It gets boring to go to the gas station every five minutes – so sooner or later, that guy will want to buy a new car – a car that has A LOT of gas space.  Funny example, but that’s how it is.  I never cheated on girls that gave amazing head – because all my needs were satisfied – so I didn’t even need to think about cheating.  I broke up with them for different reasons, and it was always hard for me to leave those girls – because a good blow job is hard to find.

So is a good blowjob instruction manual.

Oh please god no.

While reading this, my brain actually needed something to do.  (That tells you how much brainpower the text required.)
I’m not a big drinker, but this book made me want to pick up the bottle… and smash it over his head.

Instead, I proudly present to you the Jack Hutson Drinking Game!

Optional partnered version: Go through the book with your partner, each of you reading a page at a time.  The person reading has to drink alone, unless an article below has an asterisk (*) beside it.  If a condition fulfilled has an asterisk, you and your partner both drink the mandatory number of shots.

Drink when:

*He mentions being dominant or submissive.  (Take two shots if he uses any variation of the word “natural” in this context.)

*He says that the man is a king and you are his queen.

He uses a smiley face.

He suggests something you’ve already done as if it’s the most inventive and original idea ever.  (This alone could have landed me in the hospital.)

He instructs you to say, “Cum in my mouth.”

He encourages you to get liquored up.  (Hey, you are!  Take three drinks for being so acquiescent!)

He uses the word “naughty.”‘

He (or “Tanya J”) uses the word “slut.”

He implies that you may not get/keep men because other women are more attractive

He uses the format “x’x'x,” such as r’n'b, hot’n'sexy, etc.

He uses a statistic that he has no citation for.  (Take two drinks if it’s a stupid-sounding statistic.  This will be the case with all of them.)

He reminds you that your man needs to see as much of you/your face as possible.

He references any of his past 1,000 blowjobs.  (How many do you think actually happened?  Take that many drinks.)

He botches up some explanation of the anatomy of the penis and bio-male sex organs.

He says something disparaging about feminism/feminists.

He reminds you about “the winning attitude.”

He insinuates that sex is the central point of every relationship.

*He reminds you that you LOVE being given the gift of cock.  You LOVE cock.  (Break the bottle and hunt him down if your sexual orientation precludes this.)

The “I Want To Drink Myself To Death, Literally” version:

Anytime he says something bigoted

Anytime he says something blatantly stupid.

Anytime he randomly bolds a quote.

Want to read about his idiocy from the other brave bloggers who reviewed this?

Insane Hussein

Bedroom Blogger

Scarlett Seraph (Her post goes live tomorrow!)

Epiphora didn’t review the book, but did an awesome round-up about our posts.

So naturally, now that I’m single, every rock-hard infinitesimal cock with an ego the size of my ass is messaging me on OKCupid.

The A&F Chubby Chaser mailed me, and I was immediately skeptical.  We had a 58% match percentage and his profile included information saying that he was s student, an Abercrombie & Fitch employee, as well as a day trader.  It also said that he was good at sports and”schhol” (sic).  The six things he couldn’t do without were “God. money. women. my friends. clothes. and i guess more money” The most private thing he was willing to admit?  “umm… your ugly.”

So clearly, we were going to be a good match.  But you know, despite how poor his profile was, he had impeccable spelling and grammar when he first messaged me… so we exchanged a few messages.  He pretty clearly had a one-track mind.  He went from asking me why I was up so late, to saying he liked me because I was different, to asking if I liked weed, if I liked threesomes, and if I had girlfriends to play with.

Then he asked to swap nudes.

Sorry dude, I mean.  My naked body is on the internet, but I’m not handing that shit to you within five minutes of messaging.

“Well I would eventually like for you to place foreign objects in my ass and spank me like a naughty toddler. ”

Well, I mean… I’ve done that before.

“Do you have a phone number?”

“Of course I have a phone number. How else would my parents contact me?”

Clearly, my values weren’t getting through to him, because he then sent me his number, and told me to text him.  There was no way in hell.  After ten minutes with no response, he said, “I, ned [sic] you to make my penis orgasm.”

And that was that, and I thought that chapter was OVER.

Apparently not.  I got a message from him three or four days later (last night) that said, “Stick a finger in your butt.”

TAKE A HINT, DUDE.  I realize that you’re probably very popular with women because your neck is as thick as your head and you work at a store that won’t even let me take two feet inside without all eyes falling on me, but if I have stopped messaging you, we are done talking.  If I did not give you nudes or swap texts with you, it’s not going to happen.  Moreover, I keep getting an increasing amount of anecdotal evidence that for some men, working at Abercrombie & Fitch correlates with being a chubby-chaser… and believe me, while I only want to fuck someone who is aroused by the very sight of my voluptuous frame, there’s something about a chubby-chaser that I have nothing in common with contacting me that pretty much tells me that he just wants to fuck me ’cause I’m fat.

Did I mention his profile says he’s looking for women ages 18-99?

IF YOU’RE WARM AND WILLING, MY BODY IS READY.

To explain this unfortunate phenomenon, and what college sex is like for me in general, allow me to present

Sugarcunt’s Dorm Sex Flowchart.

Go ahead and click that shit so you can actually read it.  And read the line key!

No, I really am.  I’m not “model fat,” where I’m actually average (between US size 10 or 14) and Torrid is using me to promote a site geared toward people who are actually plus-sized.  My body is strangely-proportioned.  I’m 5’ tall, with enormous hips and thighs, a big, round ass, a short waist (or maybe it seems that way because of my hips), and broad shoulders that accompany not-overly-generous breasts.  (I’m a strangely-shaped C-cup.  It’s not an impressive cup size for a female-bodied person of my body shape.)  I’m literally somewhere between “pear” and “hourglass” shaped… hourglass because of my shoulders, though – not that you can tell much about my waist under my clothing.  My hip measurement is twenty inches more than my waist measurement.  I buy the biggest panties that Lane Bryant offers, and they do not all fit equally or ideally.  Most sites, when they offer underwear catering to anyone that’s actually my size, strictly offer tummy-sucking, high-control, high-waisted underwear.  Plus-sized clothing companies, especially anyone producing lingerie, believes that the women they’re actually building for are over 5’6 and have little-to-no hip span, and no ass.  They also believe, for the most part, that the bigger we are, the more we want to suck and tuck so that we look as smooth and tiny as possible, rather than wear something that lets us get naked and bone the nearest thing with legs.

Are you beginning to detect that I have a problem with this?  You can read much, much more below.  Or you can ignore the text below the cut and wait until I post about sex again – that’s your prerogative as the reader.

The general attitude that American culture has about fat people is that they’re asexual… or, at least, we want them to be, because we also think that they’re slovenly, unwashed, gluttonous, disgusting lumps of air-sucking lipids that have intentionally doomed ourselves to an early death (wrong) because we “chose” to be fat (wrong) through our unwillingness to run ten miles and starve ourselves every day.  And we can’t imagine wanting to have sex with “that.”  In the minds of the small-minded, fat women must have vaginal cavities of cavernous proportions, which only the extremely drunk or extremely desperate would dare to go spelunking through.

When we tell our friends (as a Twitter follower told me when I mentioned working on this post) that we don’t think they’re fat, what we’re telling most of them is: “I don’t think you’re gross.  I know you bathe!  You have a sex life!  I don’t think you’re embarrassing, I let myself be seen with you (or date you, instead of jerking off to you privately) in public!  I don’t think you should be ashamed.”   At least, consciously you don’t think we (your fat friends) are embarrassing.  (You might be surprised by your own subconscious judgments.)

Even for people who are average-sized, our culture promotes this idea that we must be thinner.  We must be a size smaller!  We must be healthier!  (As if health and body size were mutually inclusive in all circumstances.)  And there’s a myth that we hand down as these resolutions (to become thinner, to weigh less, to “be healthier”) are made: that everything we don’t like now will be different when we’re thin.

This is especially prevalent for those of us who actually are fat.  People who do find it harder to pick up dates with the majority of the population; female-bodied people in particular, because cisgender men are prized for their intellect, and cisgender women are prized for their trophy-wife appearances.  So people just make a lot of assumptions that things will magically clear up and opportunities will appear around every corner if they shave off 50 pounds.  “My monogamous partner committing infidelity won’t cheat on me when I’m thinner.”  “My partner will have more sex with me if I’m thinner.”  “My friends will spend more time with me when I’m thinner.”  “I’ll get more dates when I’m thinner.”  “I will look in the mirror and think that I look hot today.”  There is some fantasy life of our thin self that we staunchly believe in; they will have more sex, better social lives, and, more importantly, will be less ashamed of their appearance.

No.  Because the fact of the matter is, if I sucked all the fat out of my stomach, thighs, hips, ass, and underarms, I would still not be a size 2.  I would still be an introvert that is exhausted at the end of the day.  I still would find 90% of the population to be too stupid to be worth dating.  I still would feel a teensy bit disappointed when my partner wasn’t in the mood to fuck for three hours straight. That “thin Sugarcunt would go clubbing” thing?  That’s not true.  The idea that I’ll get more people interested in having sex with me holds a bit of merit, but quite frankly, I still wouldn’t want to have sex with them (see “too stupid,” above), and hand to god, I get solicited enough without dropping down to a size 8.  I currently, at the time of writing this, have two photos on QueerPornTube that are on the front page under “being watched,” meaning that someone out there, right now, is staring at my fat-ass body.  Including my vagina.  (Oh no, fatty sex!)  I receive a barrage of OKCupid messages which all contain the reassuring and captivating line of, verbatim, “id do u.”  But I think that’s because I “have a pretty face.”  (Backhanded compliments are also popular among the OKC community.)

If all of this is true (and it is, because I only speak the truth), then why am I still, mentally, pressured to diet?  To go to Zumba five days a week?  My blood pressure and sugar are both good.  My heart is good.  I have no problems with mobility other than poorly-developed ankles and a case of tendonitis.  I know I am a sex god(dess), and I know I’m going to spend the rest of my life having some kick-ass sex with myself and everyone around me that will hold still long enough.  I am not going to die alone with twenty cats that eat me before my body is found, or choke to death on a microwave dinner in my apartment.  In fact, as much as I can ramble about how being fat makes it more difficult to date and/or hook up, I’ve had a hard time staying single ever since I ended my five year relationship.  So why in god’s name did I feel guilty when I didn’t make a New Year’s resolution to drop twenty pounds?

You’re like, “Well if you don’t like it, lose weight.”  Shut up.  I was on Slimfast when I was ten.  I was on sports teams.  I played outside as a child.  I had gym every day.  My mother was periodically putting me on diets.  None of this made a damn bit of difference.  I was the “fat kid” from the ages of five until I aged out of the category of “kid” and into the category of “bitch.”  “Well cut your portion sizes and be more active!”  I’ve lost more weight during extended sedentary periods than I have from doing this.  I have remained in the same weight range for about four or five years.  It is fucked up that I have spent this many years trying and failing to lose weight only to find myself, on a REALLY bad day, envying people with anorexia.  Anorexia is a serious and deadly eating disorder.  It doesn’t make you attractive.  It KILLS you.  I would never wish that on my worst enemy, much less the best person that I know (me).

Why do I seriously consider gastric bypass, or a severely harsh “cleanse” where I drink nothing but water and broth for a month, or potentially-harmful, untested weight-loss pills when there are rumors that they’ll cause heart attacks?  Why do I have fantasies where I cut off giant chunks of my body and feed it to my pet piranhas?  Why do I even have a tank of piranhas when I fantasize?

Because fat oppression is a real thing, as is the policing bodies of all sizes.  (How many times have you heard, “That bitch needs to eat a cheeseburger”?)  While we police the underweight frequently, there’s still definitely some more substance in the claim that thin people receive more privilege than we fatties.  More attractive people get more promotions – being thin is a crucial component to attractiveness in the eyes of most Americans (and if I recall, there’s research out there stating that the overweight and obese get less promotions).  Not-fat people are less likely to receive scrutiny for eating in public, or taking public transportation when they could walk, or for existing, period.  People who aren’t fat don’t have to live in fear that the plane seatbelt won’t fit, or that they will be asked to purchase two seats, that they will be asked to go to an amusement park and will not fit in any rides, or that they will be criticized if they sit down on a bus and accidentally touch someone with a part of their body.  Hollywood is comprised of thin people, for the most part, especially the female population.  While fat men are allowed to be funny, or evil, or just “average men” in movies and television, fat women are featured less.  When fat chicks are shown, they’re on a desperate quest to lose weight, or they’re clumsy and always eating, or they’re characters that don’t even merit “secondary character” status, or they’re the scary, almost-violently-obsessive blind date that the main character stumbles into.  Very few (almost no) movies feature the main character as quirky, snarky, balanced, intellectual, filled with self-esteem, and fat.  (If they made a movie about my life and I had no say in it, my character would be played by a thin actress that could pass as “gender queer” by virtue of being flat enough in all areas to be considered androgynous.  Not a woman who wears size 26/28 panties from Lane Bryant.)   Not-fat people can generally be assured that they’ll be able to find something in their size when they enter a clothing store.  Not-fat people can also buy attractive clothing at a much lower price.

Let me delve back into that one.  Do you know how much my parachute-sized Lane Bryant panties cost?  Generally a minimum of $15, unless there’s a 5-for-$25 sale (which is the only time I buy them).  Because I’m a fat chick that isn’t a DD cup, my bra-buying options are extremely limited, because my band size is limited to D and DD in most stores… unless I buy them for about $60 from Lane Bryant.  If I find a bra in my size elsewhere, it’s not a “sexy” bra – it’s for utility only.  I’m not saying that lingerie (or any other clothing) for average-sized and/or thin people is always cheap, but I know for a fact that one of my roommate’s favorite stores has penny sales – buy one item, get the other for a penny.  One of my former friends used to be able to buy panties from a bargain bin in a mall store where she could get several pairs for $10 or less.  And more importantly: out of the clothing items available to these two individuals, they had options that were figure-flattering, and many were “sexy.”  They were able to find their sizes in-store, rather than being told by a salesclerk that “plus size clothes are only available online.”  If they shop online, they are able to attain a vague approximation of what the clothes will look like on a body shape similar to theirs, whereas most plus-size clothing sites (or sites with plus-size options for their clothing) use models that are model-size.  Lane Bryant, for example, seems to show a mix of regular-model-sized and “plus-sized”-model-sized women.

Allow me to also educate you on why most female-bodied people of a size 20 or greater are reluctant to accompany you to the mall: because we are the victims of terrible marketing generalizations.  The assumption is that we have an inordinate love of sailboats, ugly florals, and animal print.

Let me be proactive in defending myself, before someone accuses me of just hating water because it implies that I will have to wear a swimsuit.  I am a fat female-bodied person, and I enjoy being on boats, although I’ve never been on a sailboat.  Perhaps I have been uninformed about what a life changing-experience that it would be.  Perhaps, after riding in a sailboat, I would be so focused on adorning myself with them that I would consider having one tattooed on a portion of my plentiful ass.

Until that day, I will continue to feel absolutely resentful every time I am browsing the plus-sized section of my nearest Goodwill or outlet store.  I swear to god, if I see one more sequin-covered sailboat on a shirt, I’ll just burn the place down.  What connects fat women and ocean liners?  (Insert fat joke and rimshot.)  Is it that a boat, no matter how small and masted, is JUST wide enough to appropriately decorate our plentiful bosoms?  Perhaps the scalloped waves that cut across our widest point are meant to be flattering?

Or maybe, despite endless pattern images and styles that span the fashion world, a white, loose-necked, unflattering t-shirt with a boat on it is the best thing that reasonably-priced clothing companies can come up with.

Naturally, oversized white shirts in inconvenient cuts are not what sensible fat chicks want to wear… which is why “plus sized clothiers” take it a step further.  Animal print.  Grandmotherly florals that my nana would spit on.  Ill-fitting babydoll cuts that ensure that your breasts look like triangular hocks of meat.  Empire waists guaranteed to ensure that no one remembers that you have a waist.  Massive, blotchy, eye-searing shapes that are having tantric sex on an overly reflective, clingy fabric tent that some asshole has the audacity to market as a “tunic top.”

So here’s the thing.  We’re pretty much faced with shitty prints, too many sequins and shiny things, and cartoon characters beside “sassy” slogans.  You know how I mentioned that “thin privilege” thing, where my non-fat friends have an idea of how something will look straight off the rack?  These “chic fat chick” cuts look GREAT on those size 6 mannequins; it’s only when you take that top home and tear off the tags that you suddenly realize that the lines separating each breast and the neckline are not flattering on you.  Instead, this top turns YOUR body into some disturbing topographical map.  Here are the mountains, with a huge gorge separating them, with some rolling hills everywhere else.

That blows.  When were we, the fat, not allowed to look damn good?  Why the fuck can’t I opt to look dapper in a cute vest and a decent button-down (that didn’t cost me $40) that doesn’t gape in places?  This quarrel with clothing companies extends back to the bedroom, again – why the fuck does all of my underwear have to separate! support! smooth! suck in! shit that doesn’t really need to be changed?  I mean, quite frankly, I’m not going to keep those panties on once my partner has begged to shove their face in my cunt long enough.  They’re going to see me naked.  All that shit that starts with s isn’t going to do a damn bit of good once I’m on the floor basking in the afterglow.  That smoothing and support doesn’t last once I remove the matronly underpants… so why not have -fun- getting to the part where I get laid by having some cute panties?  Don’t even ask me about boxer-briefs and style.  I can’t even find any that fit… ditto on briefs.  They are not made to accommodate my hips or thighs, so I have no idea what male-bodied people with similar proportions are expected to do.  (Do you free-ball it?  Do you just wear roomy boxers?  What if your junk needs as much support as my packer does?)

This seems like a good stopping point, because it’s going to segue into my next post: my fat chick beef with sex toy manufacturers.

Fear not!  I’m back, still alive, and more importantly, still having sex…. with myself, especially.

Until I’ve got some new reviews up for you (and believe me, I have a stack of things piling up - Courtney Trouble’s Live Sex Show, Tristan Taormino’s Advanced Guide to Anal Sex, Wet For Her’s Toy Four, a bevvy of products from Good Vibrations and Babeland, and tons of sexy books), let me post about something you might have missed: My affiliation with Jiz Lee’s Karma Pervs.

You’ve probably heard me gush (no squirting pun intended) over Jiz Lee countless times – possibly my favorite gender-queer porn star of all time.  Jiz’s porn career is a hobby, and they’re quite the philanthropist, since they’ve used their porn star cred (can I trademark that?) to launch a fundraising program called Karma Pervs.  Karma Pervs is a membership deal on Jiz’s site that offers unique, fun, artsy (and above all, sexy) photosets that are only available through membership, as well as extra blog posts and a few other neat little extras.  Where does your membership money go?  To awesome charitable causes!  To quote the site:

Past organizations include STOP AIDS Project, Center for Sex & Culture, St. James Infirmary, San Francisco Sex Information, and Lyon-Martin Health Services and many others.

The most recent organization is Service Workers In Group (SWING), which supports sex workers in Thailand.  Syd Blakovich is also a longtime supporter of SWING, and because of that, the photo set released while Karma Pervs raises money for SWING is a bundle of unreleased photos of the two of them.

So really… while you’re waiting for all the sex and snark of my posts, you should go check out Karma Pervs.  It has a Facebook page, and a Twitter account (@KarmaPervs), and the cheapest membership is only $10 for a month!

Only $10 for delicious, sexy philanthropy.  You can’t get much better than that.