In Bed With Married Women

Holidays I Forgot to Celebrate and Other Things That Are Not About the Man Fucking the Hornet's Nest

2013-05-16T14:43:00.000-07:00

Right, so I was all primed to write about that Swedish guy who died after fucking a hornet's nest (64 stings to the genitals! Hideously enlarged genitals!) except for the very annoying fact that the story turned out to be a hoax.

That's all I had, so I turned to you, dear readers, to come up with the rest of the post. And luckily, you were all over that.

Tricia, for example, shared the news of International Clitoris Awareness Week with the 1,065 citizens of In Bed With Married Women's Facebook page. The event was organized by "Clitoraid," a Las Vegas-based group usually devoted to helping victims of female genital mutilation around the world. Unfortunately, the holiday was last week, so you are free to resume your usual baseline level of clitoral awareness. I bring it up, however, just so that I can say that "Clitoraid" sounds like the worst drink ever.

However, if you bought a bunch of festive clitoral holiday lights on clearance, hang 'em back up over the mantle, because Leah emailed the important news of a Masturbate-A-Thon to celebrate Masturbation Month. "Are you participating?" she wrote, in what I took to be an unkind manner. I actually should have known about this since it was started in 1995 by my corporate overlords at Good Vibrations. (Enter GV104U for 10% off if you order something thru this link this month.) Unfortunately, Leah, I will not be participating in any of the festivities because public masturbation and ejaculation contests just make me want to put plastic slipcovers over everything. And not in a cool plastic fetish way, but a weird uptight lady way.

Meanwhile, lovely Brit Dicky Carter, who uses excellent words like "knackered" (translated from the British="tired"), sent along the article "Deep Inside the Biggest Little Dildo Factory in Texas" which is worth it for the pictures alone. Like this one of a woman facing yet another day of dildo vein-painting:

*sigh*

And finally, I have some new pieces up at DAME magazine that could sure fucking use some comments on them. If you're feeling wordy, see also:

Disney Princesses Want to Party With YOU!

Five Things Rich Moms Do

and this is probably the one you'd like best:

Five Things We Know About Societies Run By Women (matriarchy = more sex + flower rooms!)

xoxo

jill

P.S. I am housesitting and using my friend's computer. Should I leave the photo of the dildo-painting lady on her computer? Her search history is already now a ravaged, slutty mess and I've only been here a couple hours. (Moral: It is unwise to let me housesit.)

(photo: Lady Cheeky)

Beauty Hole Ass Vagina with Egg Vibrating

2013-05-02T13:31:00.000-07:00

This is like the third time this has happened, but I was looking up the Amazon link for Naomi Wolf's book Vagina: A New Biographyfor a post I always claim I'm going to write, but somehow never do, and AGAIN I went completely off-track via some other enchanting vaginally-related product (see also: my Jezebel-disapproved post Vagina Panty).

Beauty Hole Ass Vagina

This time it was Beauty Hole Ass Vagina with Egg Vibratingprimarily because it's called BEAUTY HOLE ASS VAGINA WITH EGG VIBRATING.

Not quite familiar with what a Beauty Hole Ass Vagina can do for you? Let's have a look at the product description:

This lifelike masturbator.sexy inviting. Make materials use the latest simulation material, virtual touch that is with an extremely realistic feel,like that of the human body,if you close your eyes and touch the material,you can't tell the difference between it and human body. The comfortable handheld size also allows you to control the tightness as you are enjoying every last inch of the amazingly lifelike penetration! The Sleeve Sensations Thruster is ready for action any time or place you need a release!Sex toys bring more erotic pleasure to the world!Body Massager!Gentle or strong,Its up to you!Enjoy your happy life everyday!

I like how it's not just a product description, but also includes a guilt-reducer ("sex toys bring more erotic pleasure to the world") as well as the random exhortation to "Enjoy your happy life everyday!" It's fine advice, but perhaps, well....unexpected in an product description for a disembodied Ass Vagina thing.

Anyway there's more:

Package include:
1x big ass
1x vibration bullet (batteries not include)

I heard nothing previously about this "big ass" but, to make sure you're not getting ripped off, please ensure that 1x big ass is indeed included with your package.

It also says this:

Size: about L13.6 x W9 x H6 (cm)
high qurlity tpr materibl
the feeline of mridens's skin

Which is....pretty fucking mystifying. Though perhaps not as much as the fact that there are only 2 of these Beauty Hole Ass Vaginas (new, thankfully) available for sale. Why only 2? Seems like if you were taking the time to get out the Beauty Hole Ass Vagina-Making Machine, you may as well set it to 50 or, hell, even 100.

And why is Beauty Hole Ass Vagina accompanied by a link for Adult Size Authentic Mexican Sombrero? What is the connection?

At the bottom of the screen, there is a little "ASK" box with the question "What do you want to know about Beauty Hole Ass Vagina with Egg Vibrating?"

But, you know what? I am not going to ask. I think that, perhaps, there are some things we are just Not To Know. Let's leave the haunting mysteries of Beauty Hole Ass Vagina with Egg Vibrating to the ages.

xoxo
jill

ps If you're feeling it, see my DAME article on a dating web site for men with penises 7 inches or bigger. Thank you to the Facebook IBWMWers (catchy? yeah. so not.) who helped in framing the assignment.

pps THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to the people last month who purchased stuff through the Amazon link in the upper right corner of the blog, the one (1) dear soul who bought something via the Good Vibrations ad, and the IBWMW Kindle subscribers who faithfully shell out their 99 cents every damn month. You all warm my heart more than you'll ever know.

Sexual Edumacation

2013-04-25T16:00:00.003-07:00

Couple demonstrating "sexual gateway activity"

Breaking news from my time machine that travels back to one week ago...

Reports Jezebel:
Yesterday, the Ohio House Finance Committee's Republican members voted to adopt a state budget amendment that mandates an abstinence-only approach to sexual education....The idiotic measure will "prohibit the teaching of sexual education coursework that endorses non-abstinence as an acceptable behavior or promotes sexual gateway activity." "Sexual Gateway Activity" — what's that?:

ORC 2907.01(B) “Sexual contact” means any touching of an erogenous zone of another, including without limitation the thigh, genitals, buttock, pubic region, or, if the person is a female, a breast, for the purpose of sexually arousing or gratifying either person.

In addition, teachers can't distribute contraceptives at school, because nothing keeps a teen not pregnant more than not giving them condoms.

***
So I want to be all mad about this, but not only am I far too aroused by the erotic writing of ORC 2907.01(B) to think straight, but the part of my brain that gets mad at people for being stupid does not want to become engaged with this. Especially the thought that spawns of these Ohioans, made sexually ignorant by their mandated sex-free sex ed, will predictably--yawn--fuck incorrectly and poorly, but not poorly enough to prevent unwanted pregnancy, thus producing even more of their kind. And so on and so on.

Nope, I'm gonna look the other way today. To good things happening in sex education, which I would define as sex ed that provides, you know, education. (This does not include my own 1970's sex ed in Georgia which was taught by the gym teacher and involved lots of talk of vas deferens. I learned nothing about real sex. The whole good part--attraction, arousal, or hell, even a basic how-to--was dismissed with a vague reference to "the sperm meeting the egg.")

So, yes, good sex ed, like:

1. The adult sex ed classes offered in San Francisco by Kink.com. They feature real life people demonstrating real life sex, orgasms and whatnot for the class.

Writes Tracy Clark-Flory in My X-Rated Sex Ed Class:

It isn’t just a live sex show, though. Before any pants were removed, [instructor Madison] Young passed around a diagram of the g-spot, reviewed the anatomy, dispelled myths about female ejaculation and goaded the audience members into talking about how they liked to be touched. Then she whipped out a speculum and brought her model Ava, or “stunt pussy,” up to the front of the room. In went the clear plastic device and then Ava began to stimulate herself with a Hitachi Magic Wand in an attempt at making her g-spot swell and become more visible.

.....My mind was blown by this sex-ed class even before the squirting began — but that was plenty mind-blowing on its own. Ava got up on the table in front of the class, spread her legs and began stimulating herself with a Hitachi and a stainless steel g-spot stimulator. Young explained what we were about to see: “It’s the release of all the juicy fluid that’s building up in the para-urethral sponge … and then it pushes forth through the urethra.” Young answered audience questions over the buzzing of the toy and Ava’s growing moans. And then there was a sudden burst of clear ejaculate that splattered inches from my feet.

After a vigorous demonstration of hand techniques on a melon, Clark-Flory leaves not only with an unsettling image of Gallagher, but the realization that there is still so much to learn about our bodies.

...Even having grown up in hippie-dippie Berkeley, Calif., having attended a feminist-minded women’s college, having read about hand-mirror-toting consciousness raising circles, having ended up reporting on sex for a living, I had never clearly seen what the vaginal walls actually look like — at least not outside of an illustrated diagram. I tell you, it was a revelation: I wanted to hightail it to the nearest Good Vibrations and buy my very own speculum — and one for each of my ladyparts-having friends. It made me angry that all those times I’ve had a gynecologist uncomfortably perched between my legs, they’ve never offered to hold up a mirror.

2. Meanwhile, the French, who continue to do, well, life, better than the rest of us, offer their postpartum women free classes in la rééducation périnéale, or reeducating the listless post-baby pelvic floor muscles so that they can actually work again. The classes include biofeedback and a coach to help teach proper Kegel techniques.

Writes Claire Lundberg in The French Government Wants to Tone My Vagina:

Despite the occasional embarrassment, these sessions actually work. There haven’t been extensive studies done, but what studies exist show that la rééducation significantly reduces incontinence and pelvic pain at nine months after giving birth. Frankly, I’m happy there’s a medical professional paying attention to what happened down there. Rééducation périnéale gets scoffed at in American and Canadian publications as one of the most lurid examples of the indulgent French welfare state, but as far as I can tell, we do exactly nothing in the United States to help women get back into shape after giving birth.

An American woman gets her six-week postpartum checkup and, if nothing is seriously wrong, she’s cleared to have sex again and sent on her way. If she’s lucky, the doctor or midwife reminds her to do her Kegel exercises, but without much guidance. Meanwhile, at least in the experience of many of my friends, she may still be experiencing a variety of symptoms that, while not medically serious, sure are annoying, embarrassing, and strange, and not at all conducive to reinvigorating her sex life. Elective “vaginal rejuvenation” through plastic surgery is on the rise in the U.S., though this surgical reconstruction is largely aesthetic and pays little or no attention to returning sensation or control to the woman. Americans’ lack of attention to the female body after giving birth is our own version of the modesty gown or the word vajayjay; we’re covering our eyes and pretending there’s nothing there to see, until it can no longer be ignored.

So yeah, there is good stuff happening. Just not right now, or last week for that matter, in Ohio.

xoxox
jill

(photo via Lady Cheeky)

True Wife's Tale: Nola, "I had an affair. Now what?"

2013-04-16T13:45:00.000-07:00

This is the latest "True Wife's Tale," an IBWMW series about real people (doesn't have to be a wife despite "wife" being right there in the name) telling the truth about their sex lives. As I've tiresomely overstated, the idea is that knowledge=power, the truth will set us free and any other number of slogans I learned watching Saturday morning cartoons in the 1970s. In that spirit, don't be a Judgey Judgerson and be criticizing dear Nola's choices. You haven't walked in her moccasins (see above: life philosophy gleaned from 70s children's TV), so even if you think her moccasins are slutty, amoral moccasins, keep that $%$% to yourself. Here then, is Miss Nola, or Ms. Nola, I suppose, since she's married:

I hadn't had sex with my husband for a year. Which in a way was fine. Not the no sex part, which was soul-killing, but the "with my husband" part. We had been together a very very long time and sex, which had never been the focus of our relationship, had dwindled down over the years until our sex life was only definable by its absence.

When we used to have sex, it was...fine. Orgasms were had, equipment worked, words of love were exchanged. But it was never hot. Or creative. Or after a time, something that either of us seemed to want. At first this was okay--I had kids to raise, a job to do, books to read. But after I turned 40, I experienced some sort of rebirth and, for the first time in my life, felt my own sexuality. I felt free and sexual and full of life. I tried to turn it back on with my husband. I'd ask him to have sex and though he seemed perfectly happy doing it, he'd never instigate. Whenever I tried to explore things a little further, I got the feeling I was making him uncomfortable.

Eventually I resigned myself to a sex life with my own hand.

But still... I felt so ripe and ready. I looked at my body in the mirror and it was still good. Maybe better than it had ever been. I wanted someone to appreciate the particular curve of my hip and the way my nipples poked out through my shirt. I wanted to be kissed well and hotly desired. I felt like my body and sexuality were going to waste.

This is the point where the old lover appears via Facebook. Mine did and he was just as hot and dangerous as ever. We exchanged insanely sexy texts, emails and pictures and had phone sex in which I came so loudly I was afraid the neighbors could hear. Back in college, Old Lover very blunt and very sexual. He would say things to me like "Your pussy is so wet" which, to me, accustomed to the earnestly fumbling boys I'd been with, felt so dirty and scandalous. I was so prissy then and the way he talked about sex and so relished it was incredibly freeing.

Talking to him 20 or so years later, I felt the same freeing feeling about sex which--depressingly--I hadn't experienced since him. My body still reacted instantly and violently to him. To this day, he is the only person who can make me go wet just from the sound of his voice. I concocted elaborate fantasies to tell him on the phone, and as I whispered the details to him, I relished the way his breath would quicken, the way he would gasp out "You have me so turned on right now" and his moans as he came. Once I sent him a picture of my boobs while he was at work and he had to go into the backroom to jerk off. I loved how sexy and beautiful he made me feel.

So yes, not only was he making me feel hot and gorgeous and letting me see my body in a whole new light, but in talking about sex and sharing these fantasies, I was--finally!--getting to share my sex life with someone who was not me. Which I was, and for the rest of my life will be, incredibly grateful.

When we finally met in person, the sex was amazing. But not in the way I'd pictured. I thought it would be all dirty and elaborate, perhaps ending with me crawling around the floor or something. Instead it was pretty basic, some very sweet kisses, a lift of my skirt and in.

As he kissed me and slid slowly inside of me, I felt something that was beyond sex. I felt the most sublime squishy glowing pleasure I've ever felt. I don't know if he was shaped differently than my husband or was just bigger (yes), but his cock was touching me in some deep deep place, both metaphorically and literally. It was fucking profound. Which I guess is the same thing as profound fucking, which it also was. For me, it wasn't a tensing thing that would lead to orgasm (and in fact it didn't), but something that was beyond orgasm. It didn't need to go anywhere because it was already there--in this amazing spot of squishy grand fuckiness and oh-god his scruffy cheek and sweet lips and floating in a sublime space that was like somehow existing inside an orgasm.

I couldn't do anything but clutch onto his big hairy shoulder and cling to him and feel just...gratitude. Gratitude for him and for this incredible feeling he gave to me. It was the best moment of my life.

"I contain multitudes"--Song of Myself, Walt Whitman.

*****
Of course it ended badly. (Who could've seen that coming?) And I've done a lot of furtive weeping. But I don't regret any of it. I'm glad I'm jumped into the fire and got to feel that feeling. I got to live in passion and threw myself into life, fully and with an open heart.

*****
A few days after it ended and the weeping continued, my friend recommended I have a toss with my husband. We did and it was...decent. It did stop the weeping. And I realized that one of the things I'd been crying about was the idea of going back to a sex life alone. I saw that I could have pretty good sex, in home, with none of the emotional b.s.

I'm still not sure if that's gonna be enough for me.

I have a little bag of sexy lingerie and some sex toys I bought when I thought I'd be going to see Old Lover again. Right now it's sitting unused under my bed. I'm thinking of it as my sexual Hope Chest.

Thank you to dear Nola and the rest of you who have been so honest and brave to share. If one of the rest of y'all has a tale to tell, rip your little heart out and send your story to: jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

xoxox
jill

(photo: Lady Cheeky)

Bill Gates and Condoms, A Big-Ass Tub o' Lube, Monsanto, and Other Notably Unrelated Things.

2013-04-13T16:53:00.000-07:00

Improper condom use

When I lived in Ann Arbor, I wrote for a magazine section named "Tidbits." "Tidbits" is a terrible name. Tidbits are a low-end dog food, or possibly something you have to sweep up from a rodent's cage. When talking about my work, I would use convoluted verbal arrangements--much like this sentence itself--so as never to actually have to call the little blurby things I wrote "tidbits." Because I have my dignity, you know. Fucking "tidbits." Still hate it.

However, today's blurby post proves that although I am now far, far away from Tidbits, I still have some tidbitiness about me. (Sweep those up, will you?) But hell if I'll call 'em Tidbits. Here...let me think of a Theme. Let's see, the theme today is Things That Don't Go Together. Which is lame, but at least it's not Tidbit lame.

1. Bill Gates and Condoms
Emily sent in the financially important news that Bill Gates is offering $100,000 to the person who can design a better condom. The idea is this: Although condoms have been around at least 400 years, people don't really like them. Yes, they're cheap, easy and very effective in preventing STDs and pregnancy--so calm down, no one's saying don't use them or anything. However, they do feel kind of sucky and I think we can all agree that they look a bit ridiculous. (Pssst, not talking about you. You look sexy as hell in a condom. Your condom-encased penis looks absolutely nothing at all like a burglar wearing pantyhose over their face.)

Anyway, the idea is that you develop a condom that's somehow...better. Maybe it gives more sensation, maybe it's easier to put on, maybe it just looks mighty fine. All up to you.

What walks down stairs, alone and in pairs?

This ORIGAMI male condom is an example of what the Gates people consider to be an innovative condom. Besides that fact that it looks like it might make a pleasing SPROING noise, the folding design offers the following "advantages," according to its makers:

1. Easy donning method slides the condom onto the penis in 2.8 seconds.
2. Consistent expansion/contraction of the condom provides a natural reciprocating motion of the penis inside the lubricated condom.

Still, I think they still have a way to go aesthetically, and hell, perhaps the condom you design will go on in 2.7 seconds. However, if you are timing your own condom-donning, keep it to yourself or your partner will be gone in 5.4 seconds. Deadline to enter May 7, 11:30 a.m. Pacific Time.

2. Vinegar and Douche
A question for you: Why are there vinegar douches? Vinegar smells horrible. There is no smell anyone's got going on down there that could be improved by adding vinegar to the mix. I get that vinegar's a weak acid (or I do now after Googling it) and it might have something to do with balancing flora or something, but is there no other weak acid to do the trick? Maybe a can of Sprite, or, hell, if you're shoving stuff up there anyway, how 'bout something inherently decent smelling like a basil leaf or an Altoid? (Btw, pretty much everyone besides the makers of Summer's Eve products agrees that douching is bad, unhealthy and not advisable. Especially using stinky-ass vinegar.)

3. Lube and Bulk Buying

The crush-worthy Firehorse_on_SL alerts us to the availability of this 55 Gallon Drum of Lube"Maybe a purchase for a very open-minded shopping club?" she suggests. It comes with a pump, weights 522 pounds and costs $1,235.94, which seems a bit steep, but the shipping is free so maybe it all works out. There are only "new" tubs available, which is probably for the best.

There are some semi-funny reviews over there--not anywhere near as good as the ones for the BIC Cristal For Her Pen (if you haven't seen them, go there at once) --and I am ashamed to admit that I laughed at one recommending the lube tub as being perfect for a session of schtupping the old, and presumably vaginally arid, Helen Thomas.

In case you're wondering, I just looked up the veteran newswoman to see if she was dead and she's not (Good news, Helen!), so I don't feel quite as bad. However, I don't want to malign her. Maybe ol' Helen is a tight and slick as...well, a Helen Thomas. "Oh God, watching you slide that Origami male condom on in 2.8 seconds is making me so...fucking...wet. Helen Thomas wet."

4. Monsanto and Sex Blog

I have a new piece up at DAME magazine, Monsanto: Six Truths and a Lie. It's about the various dickish things Monsanto has done, which, upon researching, were actually more numerous and hideous than I'd ever dreamed. Go on over and comment and/or share via Facebook or Twitter if you're feeling Fight the Powerish.

xoxoxo
jill

(umbrella image)

Dopamine Withdrawal and Litost

2013-04-12T21:21:00.000-07:00

Litost is a nearly untranslatable Czech word, a state of feeling miserable and humiliated. "Litost is a state of torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery," writes Mulan Kundera in The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.

Anyone who has experienced the end of a love affair and/or unrequited passion is well aware of litost, translatable or not, because there it is, living in your head, all fucking day and night.

There are already plenty of good reasons why the death of passion is so unbearable. I mean, hmm, there's the personal rejection of everything you are, the shame ("Why the fuck did I think it was wise to text him that picture of my butt?"), the anger/incredulousness at the other's person inability/fear/general fucktardedness at not seeing how flippin' incredible you are, and the sadness over that very same thing. I mean, well, it all sucks. Hard.

But in one of the crueler aspects of neurochemistry, just when you're hitting this personal low happens to be the exact second that dopamine decides to flee the scene. Dopamine, as you will recall, from Dopamine, The Cruel Bitch Mistress is a chemical that floods your brain in the first throes of love. (Oh, god, remember how good it was? I'll pause a moment here for anyone who needs to take a sobbing break...)

A dopamine high is great--there might be nothing better--but it's a harsh, difficult-to-manage kind of high. Someone giddy on the dopamine may be very creative, in love with the world, happy and open to the many glorious wonders of the world and their fellow human beings. Dopamine just hammers on your reward system in your brain and you feel good, man. Really good. This, however, is accompanied by less delightful effects like lack of sleep, loss of appetite and a need to keep the good chemicals coming through increasing intensification of the affair. But you kinda don't care because everything else is just so...amazing.

Dopamine acts in the same way as pretty much any drug of abuse, according to Helen Fisher in my now-dog-eared copy of Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Romantic Love:

If the beloved breaks off the relationship, the lover shows all the common signs of withdrawal, including depression, crying spells, anxiety, insomnia, loss of appetite (or binge eating), irritability, and chronic loneliness. Like all addicts, the lover them goes to unhealthy, humiliating, even physically dangerous lengths to procure their narcotic.

That is, litost. (a side note: As one who has well tried the whole "unhealthy, humiliating" etc... route, I can advise you with some authority that that's not gonna work out so well for you.)

So what the fuck are you supposed to do, faced with the one-two punch of psychological trauma coupled with, basically, a really harsh drug withdrawal?

Unfortunately, your options are not terribly exciting, but rest assured, they do work. After a time at least. A very unpleasant, suckfest of a time. For advice, I would steer you to my two gurus in matters of the heart, one modern, Helen Fisher, and one ancient, Roman poet Ovid (43 BC-17AD).

According to Fisher, the cure is basically--do other shit. (Fisher, a respected author and scientist, uses much more genteel language, of course.) Take a walk, go have a coffee, climb a mountain, get a dog. All non-"them" related activities that give you pleasure are fine. Meditate, don't eat sweets or hit the booze, get plenty of sunlight, and plaster a big ol' fake smile on your face to convince yourself and others that you are just fucking fine. (This actually works, according to Fisher, "The nerves of these facial muscles activate nerve pathways in the brain that can give you feelings of pleasure. Even imagining that you are happy can spur pleasurable brain activity.")

Also, you can't go around thinking of your former lover, that hideous, unappreciative, (too fucking sexy, no! wrong train of thought!) emotionally-stunted wreck of a person, because that just makes it worse. You must physically remove reminders of their wretched existence to eliminate chances of backsliding. Suggests Fisher:

You must remove all evidence of the addictive substance: the beloved. Throw out cards and letters or stuff them in a box and put it out of reach. Don't call or write under any circumstance. And depart immediately if you see your former lover in the office or the street. Why? Because as Charles Dickens said, "Love...will thrive for a considerable time on a very slight or sparing food." Even the briefest contact with "him" or "her" can fire up your brain circuits for romantic ardor. If you wish to recover, you must expunge all traces of the thief who stole your heart.

Meanwhile, back 2000 years ago in Remedia Amoris (Remedy of Love), Ovid was pretty much dishing up the same advice--do other shit.

Love is the child of idleness, as slothfulness begets sensuality. It behooves you, therefore, to be active, and you may succeed in breaking the painful shafts of Cupid and putting out his torch.

And Ovid goes further than having you burn letters and such (which he does recommend as well), he advises leaving town entirely. "I believe in drastic treatments only, for there can be no cure without pain," he writes. But the principle is the same, do anything to avoid re-fanning your ardor.

Remember that you must stay away, for it is possible that embers of the fire that consumes you are still smoldering treacherously beneath the ashes of your surface indifference. To return prematurely will undo all the efforts you have wasted on your cure. It will be fatal to come back and find that your absence has merely given you a keener appetite for what is bad for you.

If these sound too grim, there are three more methods that sound a little more fun:

1. Take on a second lover and "let your affection hover uneasily between the two," counsels Ovid. The idea is more lovers = a certain helpful detachment.
2. Overdose on the loved one. "Throw yourself at her night and day; have your fill of her in every way and manner; and she shall prove the means of curing your ills," wrote Ovid. For some reason, our brains refuse to continue getting a dopamine fix from the same person. Eventually, your brain just stops responding to the dopamine flood (see also: "The Coolidge Effect" in "Our Genes Can Be Heartless Puppeteers") unless you....
3. Find some other incredibly bangable mate. Writes Fisher: "Of all the cures for a bad romance, by far the most effective is to find a new lover to fill your heart." And start the whole fucking thing again--Wheeee!

(photo source: Frantisek Drtikol: Nude With Circles, 1928)

*Thank you to Nicole Daedone for reminding me of the lovely word, litost.

The Return of Reader Mail Friday, featuring "Insane Monster Bush"

2013-03-29T16:12:00.000-07:00

"Did you mail that letter to Emma yet?"

1. The Russians like their Mom Porn

This is why I love my readers so. One among you, Tim, forwarded me a link from PornMD, which is a porn search engine where dear Tim coulda been looking up any weird-ass thing he desired, including such videos as "Bianca's Insane Monster Bush" or "This Ass Ain't So New Anymore."

But what tweaked his fancy was a nerdy sociological chart, Global Internet Porn Habits Infographic. There, you can click on a state or country and learn brain-clogging information such as "monster cock (gay)" is the second most popular search term in Kenya. Or that the more racist a southern state seems, the more likely "ebony" will be the most popular porn. Or that the people of the Czech Republic have a thing for "castrated shemales" and Icelanders like "prostate massage."

I also learned that it was a bad idea to click on the term "old man porn." Though, in hindsight, that probably should have been self-evident.

2. Happiness is a Warm Bum

Not sure what "healing" implies.

Meanwhile, lovely reader Christina sent in The 10 Worst Products for Men Ever Created which included such products--attention people of Iceland--the Prostate Gland Warmer. Apparently you stick the pointy end up your bum and the light bulb is there to...I don't know...to indicate to others that you've fired up the prostate warmer yet again?

Wrote Luis at Cracked: "We were rather discouraged to find out that the light bulb was not activated solely by the mighty electrical currents generated by a human rectum like a potato in a 4th grade science fair project." Indeed. I also kind of want the light to make that little sound Rudolph's nose makes when it lights up, but I think the Prostate Warmer technology of 1925 was not quite there.

3. "Hey Emma"

Finally, in response to the Vagina Panty! labiaplasty post, A MALE READER wrote in shouty caps.:

HEY EMMA: I READ SOMEWHERE THERE IS AREA NEAR NEW ZEALAND WHERE THE WOMEN ALL HAVE EXTREMELY LONG INNER LIPS. THEY ARE CALLED HOT-IN-TOTs. THE ARTICLE CONTINUES TO STATE THAT THIS IS GENETIC, ESPECIALLY IN THIS AREA. CAN YOU EXPLORE THIS AND TELL ME IF I WAS FOOLED OR IS THIS A TRUE FACT?

Dear MALE READER,
Thanks for sending me off on a tangent of learnin'. Yes, people of Khiokhoi tribe in Africa were called Hottentots by European immigrants, though that is considered to be a derogatory term. They did and do have elongated labia and some employ stretching techniques to further lengthen their lips and enhance their sexual pleasure and desirability.

According to Wikipedia which, you know, may or may not be accurate, Stephan Jay Gould said, "The labia minora, or inner lips, of the ordinary female genitalia are greatly enlarged in Khoi-San women, and may hang down three or four inches below the vulva when women stand, thus giving the impression of a separate and enveloping curtain of skin."

The Europeans were aroused and fascinated with these women and their bountiful lips but, instead of just accepting that fact and seeing where it led them, they decided that such labia clearly indicated moral depravity, racial inferiority and all-around sluttiness.

Right, she is the morally depraved one.

The most famous Khiokhoi was Sarah "Saartjie" Baartman who traveled around Europe in the 19th century as a freak show performer so people could gawk in moral superiority at her long (though veiled) lips as well as her buxom booty, another clear indication of her wanton sexuality.

But that was all a long, long time ago. And certainly nothing like the porn watchers of Alabama and Mississippi surreptitiously searching for their "ebony" action, right?

xoxoxo

jill, or possibly, emma

Six-Word Sexual Memoir Contest Winner

2013-03-19T14:55:00.000-07:00

Six: A little review might be in order

The Six-Word Sexual Memoir Contest spawned over 50 entries and the unsettling knowledge that some among us are not the brightest of pennies. Said duller pennies include the more than one person who submitted a Six-Word story that was more like six-ish words, and me for not only not catching the 5 and 7 word entries, but sending them out into the world via Twitter and Facebook. (I mentally put the person who sent in a 4 word story into an even lower category because, dude, that's not even close.) Thank you to the sharp-eyed Stacey and Andy, now respectively the new IBWMW Minister and Deputy Minister of Word Countery.

The winner of the purportedly very charming Butterfly Bliss vibrator (courtesy of Good Vibrations) is: Samantha.

The Butterfly Bliss and friend

Yes, I know I said I'd choose randomly because I'm not gonna judge art, blah blah blah, but here's Samantha's entry:

He is broken; I am frustrated.

So yes, obviously Samantha must win. But there were a ton (equivalent to 47 pounds, metrically) of great entries. Here are some of my favorites, but do go back and check out the original post if you want to see them all.

Ophelia said...
Silent success, as dorm mate snored

Sandra Davies said...
Ignorance, insufficient imagination: inescapable, lifelong tedium.

Lizzies Valentine said...
precocious preteen found jewish erotica: eureka!

not exactly "Saint" Michael said...
Lonely, awkward. Learned women, happy now.

Anonymous said...
More often than not: my hand.

Yinna said...
After 30 seconds: "OH!...shit. Sorry"

Anonymous said...
involuntary virgin until marriage, always horny.

MySS said...
Good loving gone bad, New lover

Christina said...
Twenties, eh. Thirties, oh! Forties, YEA!

Just a girl said...
Multi-orgasmic. Need I say more?

tineke said...
Nice warm-up, too short, almost came :-(

lgettings said...
Experimentation nearly kills me. Lesson learned!

Stacey Shelton said...
Boys or girls?? I chose both.

Indolent said...
Too shy for reality; reads erotica.

Highly sexual woman said...
I am a slut. Love it!

Dicky Carter said...
No orgasm again, she buys dildo.

Wendy said...
Babies first, then bliss: Second marriages!

L said...
olfactory susceptibility drives brief inadvisable affairs.

fitzlurker said...
One spouse; too many other women.

Anonymous said....
Fake my orgasms, even when alone.

Anonymous said...
Online dating too frustrating. Home masturbating.

xoxox
jill

p.s. If you see one above with a non-six amount of words, please be my guest, and dub yourself an Honorary IBWMW Minister of Word Countery. Any sea captain can help you fill out the proper forms.

Contest: Write a Six-Word Sexual Memoir

2013-03-14T13:58:00.000-07:00

6 words: See-though partner kinda freaking me out.

Now that we've mastered the delicate art of bad erotic haiku, we now move onto the Six-Word Memoir. The six-word memoir was popularized by Smith Magazine spurred by a challenge Hemingway was reportedly given to tell a story in six words. He wrote: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." (Although since Hemingway was known to leave his stories at a good stopping point so he'd be inspired the next day, perhaps the first day's draft read: "For sale: baby shoes, never...") I told my 11-year-old about the six-word stories and she went off to her room, coming back with "Party after war--no one came."

So yes, you can go all dark like Papa and my dear daughter, or you can take it whatever direction you'd like. My instructions are just this: write your sexual memoir in just six words.

The winner, chosen randomly, because who the fuck am I to judge your Art, man, will be announced Tuesday March 19.

The prize is this Play-Doh-looking Butterfly Bliss Silicone Waterproof Vibrator courtesy of Good Vibrations. This g-spot intensive, plus outer stimulation set-up, according to my sex toy-selling friend, is good. Damn good. So you might wanna work for this one. Or if you'd rather just buy your way into it, click here.

Leave entries below as a comment or drop me a line at: jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

xoxox
jill

(photo source: Lady Cheeky)

My Most Failed Joke of All Time

2013-03-09T15:50:00.000-08:00

I have a thing for failed jokes. I love them. I collect them and savor them later.

One of my favorites is when I was returning a pair of pants and the clerk asked, "Reason for return?" "They're haunted," I said. Clerk edges away and speaks no more.

Or the time my neighbor and I were discussing a local vet's penchant for suggesting unnecessary surgery. "Oh," I said, looking at my dog, "Maybe I won't get Daisy that boob job then." Neighbor stares at me. Discomfort ensues.

I don't know why I like failed jokes so much. Maybe it's because it's so completely bad and awkward in the moment that celebrating them is only way to process it.

My latest failed joke, however, isn't gonna go down that way. It was a post I just did for Jezebel about vagina panties. (Sound familiar? It ran here first.) The idea was that instead of women getting unnecessary cosmetic labiaplasties they could instead just pop on a pair of these, panties with a vagina built right in:

You know, no muss, no fuss, fairly cheap, you can change 'em out as labia "styles" change... Ha ha--that was the joke. Whatever.

You may as well know this first. I also called this sort of cosmetic surgery "retarded," which was dumb. I thought that we had come to a point where we could judge from context whether retarded was a cruel and deliberate mockery of a mentally-challenged person vs. an adjective for something poorly thought through. I thought "retarded" had entered the vernacular, as did former medical terms "idiot" and "moron." But clearly it hasn't. I obviously regret that people felt hurt by my use of the term.

So yes, I get and am sorry for the whole "retarded" thing and my ableist ways.

However, here's what else Jezebel readers complained about: (I realize intellectually that Jezebel commentators are famous for being particularly vitriolic and uber-PC, but it was still pretty shocking to me how completely misunderstood my message was and how personal the attacks were. "Fuck you, Jill Hamilton!" being one such input. You can head over to Jezebel and view the carnage if you wish. You should probably take a pair of protective goggles along.)

Anyway, the complaints:

--I am mocking transfolk.*
This, I guess, comes from the fact that I wrote that the panties intended purpose was for "cross-dressers, transfolk and the like." Because that's what they're for. Their product description says:

"Wearable Vagina, Vagina Panty for Crossdressing, Tranvestite and Transgender (S/M (30-36" Waist), Nude)."

It was intended as a factual and neutral statement like "Skis are worn by skiers." Someone was furious because by saying transfolk instead of just folk, I was making transfolk different. Which I was, because in the one instance of who these panties were designed for--and that instance only--transfolk are different.

Perhaps I am wrong. Maybe there might be a day when I, a non-transgendered person, might want to pop on a pair and sport a double vagina look. Or hell, maybe two pairs and go triple vag. "You like what you see? I've got two more where that came from, honey."

--I am mocking women who had labiaplasty for medical reasons.
Jesus, how much of a jerk do they think I am? If you need the surgery, go to it, sister. If, however, you are like this woman who wrote to In Bed With Married Women a few months ago...

I was married to my high school sweetheart for 15 yrs. We recently divorced, and he has no qualms about telling me before, during, and after our marriage, how ugly my vagina is. I started looking into medical intervention...

...perhaps a bit of sisterhood support (i.e. your vagina is gorgeous and he was a controlling asshole) might negate the desire for the surgery. I highly recommend Large Labia Project, a site that empowers women to celebrate their different sizes and shape of labia via photos and reader letters.

--I mentioned Naomi Wolf's book Vagina: A New Biography which someone was angry about because they didn't like the book.
What? I like that book. Suck it.

--I used the term vagina for vulva.
That's because the panties are called "vagina panties"--officially, for fuck's sake. And everyone knows what we're talking about anyway. That's the term Naomi Wolf uses as well and since I've already tossed my lot in with her, I'm sticking with it.

I also used the term Kleenex today, when more properly I should have said Kleenex Brand Facial Tissues. Please take up the issue with your congressperson.

xoxox
jill, a total cunt, possibly

*If you are transgendered and were offended by this, please explain to me your objections. I do take that one seriously and since I'm non-trans (CIS), I could very well be completely tone deaf on the topic. I don't want to be that guy who's like, "What's she so mad about? I just asked her if she's on the rag?" If you could just tell me your concerns, instead of yelling and possibly avoid the sentence, "Fuck you, Jill Hamilton," I'd be grateful.

(image via Lady Cheeky, aka Smut for Smarties)

Should You Fuck a Robot? On Second Thought, Maybe Not

2013-02-28T12:36:00.000-08:00

"Let us do some sex at now."

As you may recall from Should You Fuck A Robot? Well...Maybe,* I was all hepped on banging robots. My main arguments being:
1) An article I ~~read~~ skimmed that predicted that one day doctors would prescribe sex with robots as part of a healthy lifestyle (orgasm=longevity). But mostly:
2) The sudden realization that if sexbots were as good as predicting what I liked, sex-wise, as Pandora internet radio is, music-wise--well, sign me the fuck up.

However, I'm not saying that you should rush to locate the nearest robot and start humping away. No, there are a few very important caveats. To wit:

1. I'm talking about robots in the future. WAY, WAY, WAY in the future. Like in 2050, the year experts predict sexbots will become indistinguishable from humans. (Although, by 2050, the only thing I'll be wanting my sexbot to do is bring me my slippers and juice.) Unfortunately sexbots of 2011 are quite distinguishable from humans.

The happy couple

Consider Roxxxy (above and left) the state-of-art in sexbots from TrueCompanion. She has five programmable personalities, a motor that makes her appear to breathe, and she talks in her sleep. She can hold a "conversation," "look" at you with her dead, soulless eyes and will fuck you senseless for 3 hours (at which time her battery runs out), never once mentioning the wretched fact that you have just spent the last 3 hours having sex with a household appliance. However, I think TrueCompanion could stand to do some re-jiggering on Roxxxy's general demeanor. I am not a robotologist, but in these pix, Roxxxy appears to be less "in the mood" and more "prepared to acquire human genetic samples to take to hostile home planet."

2. Expense. $7000--a sum of cash that's difficult to hide, even using the kind of highly developed "black budget" I've adopted in my own household finances. And don't be trying to save money on this kind of thing. Reader Belinda brought up the enchantingly disturbing possibility of cheaper knockoffs that would exhibit only a passing knowledge of human sexual desires. "You liiiiike arm," your cheapo doll would squeak in an unpleasant voice, using the twisted syntax of dollar store product instructions, as it poked your arm painfully. "Time to put sex on me!" Then its plastic eye would fall out.

3. Various and sundry concerns brought up by beloved In Bed With Married Women readers (among them dear Ed, Tricia, Annah, Candycan and The Barreness) including lack of relationship drama, loss of human interaction, and fear of becoming so smitten by robot love that you'd give up on flawed humans entirely. Not to mention embarrassing tech support calls. ("Well, the problems started when Roxxxy and I decided to get a can of peas involved...")

I will leave you today with a link to this wonderfully cheeky Cracked.com article, The First Talking Robot: A (Terrified) User's Review, in which Daniel O'Brien spends an evening with Roxxy. Is it a date? Household appliance review? You decide...

xoxox
jill

*Yes, this a rerun, okay? I would offer you an excuse but I can't really think of one.

IBWMW Smuts Up Dame and a Brave Reader Tries Zestra

2013-02-21T12:32:00.002-08:00

The Zestra Rush--big time.

1. In very squee-ish news, my article 50 Shades of Wrong: Erotica's Least Sexy Leading Men is running over at Dame magazine! Go on by, comment and feel free to share the living fuck out of it via Twitter, Facebook, and/or tin can and string phone system. I want that article to be good and sore by the time we're through with it.

2. Also reader Keppiehed was brave enough to try out possibly scary "arousal gel" Zestra (see also: Fire Down Below!!!) on our collective behalves. Here's her report:

First try:

As someone who can't smell or taste, I needed a partner-in-crime in this venture. Luckily, my best pal N is used to odd requests, and she didn't blink an eye when I showed up with a package of arousal oil and asked her to smell me.

“It's not like I want you to shove your nose in my lady parts,” I reasoned. “Let's just put some on our hands. I brought enough to share.”

We split the first pack between us. I even rubbed some behind my ears for good measure. Not wanting to ruin the validity of the test, I didn't tell her that there'd been some considerable online smack talk about the odor, or that the package warned that “the sensation may result in a temporary feeling of discomfort.” Being a great friend, I allowed her to cheerfully smear the stuff on, and we waited.

Results were almost instantaneous. “Oh,” N said, wrinkling her nose. “It … something doesn't smell right.”

“Be more specific,” I encouraged her. “This is for posterity. And a sex blog.”

She was shaking her head in disgust. “It smells like something's burning!”

I was disappointed in her description, since this had already been used before and was, therefore, boring. “Anything else?”

She sniffed at her hand. “It's terrible. It also smells like old people.”

This was encouraging. “How? Explain.”

“It's like they tried to cover up the burning plastic with something cloying and floral, like someone sprayed old lady perfume on a tire fire.”

“Tire fire ...” I tried to remember the exact phrase for later.

N licked her palm. “I can't believe anyone would make this for its intended purpose.”

“What does it taste like?” I asked. I licked my own hand but it was disappointingly free of tingles or any other sexy sensation.

“Metallic. All I can taste is metallic. If I don't eat a piece of the kids' leftover Valentine's candy to get the taste out of my mouth, I am going to throw up,” she said.

“Well, smell me first. Is it different on me? Behind my ears?” I asked.

She leaned in. “Nope. The same.”

“How bad is it?”

She thought a moment. “Well, I probably wouldn't notice it if you were just standing there. But if I had my nose buried in there it'd be pretty unbearable. I can't believe they made that.”

I kept flexing my fingers for awhile, but I didn't feel anything. The only thing that stood out was when I got home about four hours later my dogs swarmed me. They tried to lick my fingers and where I'd wiped my hands on my jeans, as if I gave off the odor of rancid meat. It was unsettling, to say the least.

Second Try:

Okay, this was the serious one. I was feeling as if it was going to be a dud, given my first trial experience, but I had to do this thing right. To be perfectly honest, I'd never tried a product like this before, so I wasn't sure exactly what it was supposed to accomplish or how I was supposed to apply it. The pack gave explicit instructions, assuring me that I was going to “feel more—effortlessly” and went on to say that it was guaranteed to “work within minutes by heightening your sensitivity to touch—for deep, pleasurable sensations, sexual satisfaction and fulfillment.”

Well, since I can't smell, the whole grandma/tire fire thing is a good trade-off for that kind of promise,

if you ask me. So I applied it, as per the kindly instruction sheet, and waited. I probably could have asked my husband for help in this venture, but he was all like “Wow, you really sold me on that! Why wouldn't I want to have sex with you when you smell like napalm?” so I decided to just test it on my own and spare him the (alleged) agony. It said that it took ten minutes to peak, and then I would experience what “we call the Zestra Rush” for up to forty-five minutes. I was really hoping that I would get to report that it was like an orgasmic roller coaster, but sadly, what I experienced as the Zestra Rush was just a mild sort of burn. Not unbearable or anything, but what I imagine it would feel like if I had a UTI. As in, “Wow, something is burning down there. That's not right; maybe I should go get that checked out.” I wasn't screaming from pain, but nor was I crying out in ecstasy. After a while, it subsided into a warm tingle, and I could easily imagine I'd sat on some Icy Hot by mistake. How such a mistake could occur is beyond my powers of imagination; I'm just telling you what I experienced. Also, at one point I rubbed my eye (before you think I'm gross, I did wash my hands! But it seems to have a resilient essence) and then it did hurt my eye, so be careful with your vision, people!

I'm not sure how anyone could have an orgasm from this stuff, unless they have a specific kink for being burned on their cooch by a stinky topical aid, but variety's the spice of life, after all, and maybe you like the flavor of Icy Hot/grandma/tire fire. If so, I highly recommend Zestra. You're welcome.

Thanks, Keppiehed, lovely job and brave work!

xoxox
jill

(photo: Ferenc Aszmann)

SEO and a Can of Beans.

2013-02-14T11:51:00.000-08:00

If you do any social media work, you're supposed to care about SEO. SEO stands for Search Engine Optimization or something. I don't really understand it, frankly, but I think the general idea is that you're supposed to tag your posts with phrases that people commonly search for, so when people search for "weight loss" or "Kardashian" or whatever, there's your thing, top of the rankings.

You'd think I'd have an edge in this since:
1. I write about sex (or at least in the near vicinity of sex).
2. Sex is an insanely popular search term. (Probably the most popular by far, despite that Yahoo! "Trending now" list that claims that most people are searching for "Katie Couric" or "easy soup recipes.")

However, I was looking through the tags I put at the end of my posts and never once did I put plain ol' "sex," thus cleverly luring the Googling masses over here to In Bed With Married Women (see also: self-sabotage? examine later....)

No, instead I put the most cockamamie tags that no one in their right minds would ever search for. I mean, "a can of beans"? "Ball sack aroma"? THESE are the terms I choose to lure readers/represent my "brand"?

Have a look at these, unfortunately, very real tags I've used and I think you'll see why I might spend a few moments perusing some "Improve your SEO" articles:

Sheesh,

Jill

Fire Down Below!!!

2013-02-11T13:42:00.001-08:00

1. We, as a people, can be unsmart
"Surely there's a blog in this," writes a reader from Long Beach, California, directing my attention to Ow! Public Hair Grooming Injuries on the Rise, Researchers Find. Feel free to click over to the article, though the title pretty much spells it out.

It's not horribly surprising news. Razors, scissors and/or hot wax + delicate nether regions = someone's goin' to the emergency room. I am more surprised by the fact that there are any researchers scoring funding to follow this important issue, let alone a team of them. The best part is they got paid to go through old Playboys where they were supposedly analyzing the amount of pubic hair on centerfolds, which is researcher-speak for "just reading the articles."

2. Stuff to Put Between Your Legs
I know I've become completely unhip when I'm getting sexual information from the Sunday newspaper coupon supplement--home of ads for pastel colored stretch pants, for fuck's sake--but that's exactly what's happened. This Sunday's coupon supplement, clearly working blue, had ads for a Vibrating Tri-phoria Intimate Massager and Trojan Intensified Charged Orgasmic Pleasure condoms, which judging from the packaging (left) are like Emergen-C for your junk. Or you could just put a few Pop Rocks and some Dr. Pepper in your condom and save yourself some money.

For display purposes only

Meanwhile, Playtex is hawking "Fresh + Sexy Before and After Intimate Wipes" in tampon box-like packaging that says both "New!" and "Nouveau!" to give them that continental flair. You are to wipe yourself with these before sex to make sure that your snatch smells clearly of hand sanitizer. Then, afterwards, you leap out of bed to OCDishly scrub yourself of your lover's offending essence. The product, btw, is marketed toward both sexes, so that men can enjoy the gender equality of frantically "sanitizing" their balls, pre-love. I say we all just encase ourselves in thick plastic, ala your old lady neighbor's "good" living room furniture, and be done with it. Or, if you're on the go, just hang a coupon pine tree air fresheners down there for a quick fix.

3. Experience the Zestra Rush. Because I'm too Scared.

Via Twitter, a reader suggested I try out an arousal oil called Zestra and experience something called the Zestra Rush. I watched a video of a middle-aged woman online who was experiencing said rush there on camera and she seemed happy enough, so I asked the company for a sample. I was all into the idea until my friend and I decided to look up the reviews on Amazon and they were wretched. Stunningly so. I became fascinated by the way the reviewers tried to capture the exact badness of the smell or horrific feeling it gave to the crotchal region. Behold these actual reviews.

--It smells bad, like a nauseating burnt candy smell, sweet and bad at the same time.
-- The smell is so disgusting powerful, basal and kind of oily soapy that it was hard for us to even stay focused.
-- ...the smell of the product reminds me of latex gloves.
-- It literally smells like a fast food restaurant.
-- The smell is so bad I gagged!....The worst part is I couldn't wash the smell away. I washed my hands 3 times and it wouldn't go away!
--I was so sickened by the stench of it that I was barely able to continue consummation!...My wife and I finished with the "process", but two minutes after we recovered, we turned to one another and said, "Ok, is it me or does this stuff smell like dirty bacon grease?"
-- It smells horrible. Like.. rotten pork mixed with plastic. And as if the smell wasn't off putting enough, after application I felt like I had fire crotch!...this just made it complete misery.
-- It was probably the equivalent of rubbing Oragel on your genitals. My husband said it was the worst thing he had ever tasted.
--My wife stated it was like rubbing kerosene on herself and lighting it.
-- I have tried the product and had a horrible burning sensation that would not cease. Had to literally keep cold water on the area to get some relief. DO NOT BUY, DO NOT ORDER A SAMPLE, STAY AWAY FROM THIS PRODUCT!!!

So now I am completely afraid to use it. But maybe some of you have no such qualms? I have four little packets of it that I am generously willing to give to four of you if you're into the fire crotch thing. (There were some good reviews...you might be one of the ones who like it...)

If you feel like playing fast and loose with your groin and trying some of this stuff, just drop me a line or leave a comment saying you want some. (Don't worry, if you leave a comment and don't specifically say you want some, I'm not forcing it upon you.)

Anyone feeling brave? First come, first served...
(Photo)

Reader Mail 2: Son of Reader Mail--It's Alive

2013-02-04T15:28:00.000-08:00

Happy Reader Mail Day, darling!

Apart from all those ignorant fucks who left in a huff when I outrageously wrote that gay people should be able to love whomever they want, IBWMW readers are a smart, open-minded, curious lot. And other readers are always asking what you all might think about...everything. Like the writers of these letters below. Feel free to answer if you feel called to do so, because I'm feeling a little Quaker Meeting-like today. (Note: I am very bad about responding promptly to reader mail, hence the post-Christmas theme in the first letter. Let's just pretend it's few weeks ago and make do, shall we?)

Letter #1:
From B: Have you considered an article (or poll of your readers) along the lines of "Did you get the sex you wanted for Christmas?" It could be only a husband thing, but I always want some kind of special bedroom stuff- something beyond the ordinary fucking- for every gift-giving occasion, and I never get it. I wonder if other couples do this... instead of buying something as a gift, do something nice in bed? Do wives like this as a way to save money, or do they hate the pressure of it, or think it makes the holiday "dirty?" I'd be fascinated to hear other wives and husbands talk about this...

Anyone? Thoughts on sex as holiday gift idea?

Letter #2:
From Lady J, who in lieu of the True Wife's Tale she's been meaning to write (a "really boring one," she says, "for balance"), got all hepped up on the Necessity of Foreplay after trolling about on mummy blogs and finding The Authoritative New Parents' Guide to Sex After Children.

I was a bit personally outraged by some of the advice, and I kept thinking that you and your readers would be the go-to people for opinions about this advice. In particular I really struggle with the author's assertion that "foreplay is icing.... and... wastes precious time." especially in the context of sex after you've had babies. In no particular order, here are the reasons why I object to this assertion:

* If you're breastfeeding (I am) it changes your hormonal balance and makes your vagina drier than it might otherwise be - so foreplay is essential for the necessary physical lubrication for penetration not to be painful
* If we skip foreplay it's difficult for me to even be in the mood for penetration (mental lubrication, if you will)
* Given that most women don't achieve orgasm from penetration, skipping over the bits that are pleasurable to women would seem to imply that their pleasure isn't as important as the man getting his rocks off
* Skipping foreplay for me is skipping the most enjoyable bit of the experience
* If the man is subject to erectile dysfunction, or doesn't last long once penetration has begun (not necessarily dysfunctional, just "short-fused" shall we say - not necessarily a problem either) then it's certainly a case of wham-bam-thank you-ma'am, where the man is replete and satisfied and the woman is just getting warmed up when it's all over (and then in the article it says you can have "afterplay, if there's time" - in other words, if there's an interruption and/or no time, mama misses out again)
* I think that foreplay and love play in general lead to a feeling of closeness between partners, and if you leave this out repeatedly then you are leaving out a level of closeness essential to maintaining a healthy relationship
* Just cutting straight to penetration seems to be privileging penetration over other sorts of closeness and lovemaking, which seems to be buying into/influenced by porn culture
* If you always leave out the foreplay (and this is a big fear of mine) you set a precedent for it not being a requirement /part of lovemaking any more, and it's possible that your partner might think it's no longer required at all in the future (my husband already has to be reminded to begin at the beginning, not in the middle of things, if he wants to get me in the mood for sex)
* (I have a whole bunch of issues surrounding sex, and or but) it feels to me as if by always saying "yes" to your husband, no matter how inappropriate the timing or how much you DON'T feel like having sex, and then JUST having penetration which does nothing for you, you really are just servicing him and his needs, and it feels very clinical and unloving (lie back and think of England/ a woman's duty etc etc).
I know that random mummy blogs are not necessarily the most reputable sources of information, but this one has really triggered some stuff for me. I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on this article and my reactions to it - and does anyone else think/feel like this?? (When you're new to a town, without many friends and also at home all day with 2 pre-schoolers it's hard to get adult input/feedback, especially on more sensitive subjects like this).
Thanks for the excellent content on IBWMW - I can't afford to pay for a subscription (every cent counts here as we're on one income with 2 pre-school children) and I'm exceedingly grateful that I can still access the content for free.

That's all for today, oh, wait except for this one that came via the sometimes wee bit sketchy IBWMW Facebook page from someone I will refer to as "Harder Fucker man."

Letter #3:
I am Harder Fucker man from Bangladesh.I have strong dick.My fucking during time minimum 45 minit,any unsatisfied lady can contact with me satisfied fucking.

I was notified via email that it had been posted on the page, but by the time I got there, it had disappeared. I'm guessing one of y'all deleted it, but I prefer to imagine that Harder Fucker man had a Great Enlightenment and re-thought his "I have strong dick" girl-wooing technique. Or, if not that, he is registering Harder Fucker Man at the International Kick-Ass Superhero Name Registry in Helsinki.

Until later,
xoxox
jill

(photo)

Kissless Marriage + Girl Crushes. That is, Reader Mail.

2013-02-01T10:26:00.001-08:00

I don't want sole responsibility for ruining a reader's life with bad advice, so I submit these reader questions to you, Random Internet Stranger. Be gentle with them, will you?

1. Kissless Marriage
This question came in via Twitter: Is it weird that my wife doesn't like to kiss me?

Hmmm, maybe. To me, kissing is somehow more intimate that actual banging. Maybe that's why prostitutes tend not to kiss their clients, saving that for their real lovers (Like I really know. This "knowledge" is based on, probably, 1980s Cosmo articles and the Xavier Hollander book-- The Happy Hooker--I snuck and read when I was a kid.)

Kissing is also important in all kinds of biological ways, only some of which we're beginning to understand (see also: On the Benefits of Someone Who Can Kiss the Hell Out of You.)

However, I have found that some of my older married friends have recently become way less interested in kissing their mates. Other sexual things are a-ok, it's just the kissing. I attribute this to:
--a). a subconscious pulling away from their mates.
--Or b.) my half-baked theory, as follows: maybe as women age and their hormones start to recede, some of them do sort of a reverse of what happens in puberty. Remember when you were a kid and kissing seemed so completely gross? Then hormones kick in, and kissing suddenly sounds like a very very good idea. Well, what if as hormones kick back out, kissing starts seeming a bit gross again? Maybe? Any opinions on my cockamamie theory?

None of this, however helps the poor Twitter fellow above because when I asked him if she'd liked kissing him in the past, he replied "No. Good point." So, if you've got some kissing insight for him, let's hear it.

2. Girl Crushes

Wrote Anonymous: Have you ever written on the topic of married women developing crushes on their girlfriends who are also married... having it be mutual, and openly discussing it with their husbands - and somewhat exploring it? Not sure if this topic is of interest to you. For obvious reasons it is of interest to me, ha!

I haven't written about it, so I told her if she was feeling brave and/or literary, she could write about it, True Wife's Tale-style.

Which she did:

Unfortunately I'm not literary... but I was feeling rather brave. So I wrote a VERY brief and light version of my true wives tale... however, I feel like I'm not able to actually do it justice. I felt compelled to share my little story, knowing that I'm not the only one that this has happened to.
Cheers!

Wow! She’s got a great ass! Oh, she’s beautiful! Look at her amazing boobs! We do that all the time to each other..to other women...to our girlfriends. Well, what happens when you start noticing every amazing part of one of your own friends, who you also happen to think is just an all around amazing woman? What happened to me when I started doing this was the development of a full-on girl-crush (and for the record, I've never been into women before.) I not only noticed, and appreciated every sexy curve, I started fantasizing about kissing her... then touching her, then fucking her in every way imaginable. This went on for months. Then I started to notice her looking at me. But I wrote it off, thinking that she was just that type of person who made really good eye contact with other people. It was not possible that we both had the hots for each other... after all, we were both happily married with beautiful children. And this shit only happens in porn movies (well, at least the porn movies that I like)!

After months and months of fantasizing, and really amazing eye contact and lots of ‘innocent’ flirting, I decided to tell her in a very innocent way that I had a girl crush on her. This took every bit of courage I had. I could not believe my good fortune, when she admitted it was mutual. So now what?! I had already shared my crush on her with my husband – who loves girl-on-girl dirty talk, and who was fully encouraging me to kiss her, or hell, let’s just all have a threesome!

To make a very long (a two-year saga with lots of emotional ups and downs) story short... kissing her was amazing, feeling her skin, was the most delicious thing I’ve ever felt, and while we’ve never actually fucked, I would do so in a heartbeat. However, now our relationship can be defined as strictly friends, who truly adore each other and who allow ourselves a private guilt-free self-indulgent wild fantasy from time-to-time.

And yes, I’m in love with her. And yes, I’m still in love with my husband. And most importantly I love myself for being able to balance being in love with two people. And I also love being able to compliment her on how damn sexy her ass is!

Thank you Anonymous for sharing your story, though I'm a bit unsatisfied. I want to hear about the "two-year saga with lots of emotional ups and downs" that you yaddayaddayaddaed away and why this is a fuck-free situation. But then, I am nosy, see above blog slogan, particularly the bit about "staring rudely."

3. ...And The Rest

The IBWMW Facebook page just hit 1,000 fans. Whee! It was kind of like watching a speedometer flip to zeros in a car traveling 4 miles/hour, but you know, better.

And a gigantic thank you to those of you who bought stuff through Amazon via the link in the upper right corner, thus allowing me to feed my young this week. I would love to thank you personally, but all buyers are completely anonymous. However, I do see what is bought and I have to admit I have a few questions for whoever it was that bought the Friday The 13th Jason Voorhees Axe Costume Accessory, Black, One Size.

(photo)

Vagina. Panty. Vagina Panty!

2013-01-24T13:31:00.000-08:00

I completely completely adore my friend Betty Fokker, the Stay-at-Home-Feminist Mom (slogan: "Do not try to oppress me with your patriarchal values. It will not go well for you."), but was so disheartened to read her post on an even more fucked up "development" in female genital mutilation aka "vaginal rejuvenation!" Not because of dear Betty, who writes beautifully on the topic, as is her way, but because--holy fuck, ladies!--can we please get our shit together, vaginal pride-wise?

This time, the supposed "trend" (developed by...who? way-crazy insecure chick? dickish, greedy doctor? asshole boyfriend?*) is slicing--yes, slicing, sliiiiiiiiicing--the labia minora clean off. It's called "the Barbie" which is retarded in about eight different ways. One of which being that a true Barbie would have a nice skin graft just sealing up the whole business. I call dibs on the patent!

Anyway, surgery is expensive and involves the aforementioned slicing, plus it's just so...permanent. And does anybody really believe that these vaginal "styles" will last more than, say, five years? I mean, if there had been a surgical way to get a permanent mullet installed in 1987, I'm sure some among us (well not us, because we are smart, but "us" as in us as a people) would have been lining up for perma-mullet surgery. Lining up, I say!

This crap has got to stop.

While looking up the link for Naomi Wolf's excellent book Vagina: A New Biography (and yes, don't you worry, little one, I will make good on my threat to present to you my new and improved Vaginal Worldview.) I saw this, and I knew it was The Answer.

This, my friend, is the Wearable Vagina, Vagina Panty. It's for crossdressing, transfolk and the like, but I'm seeing the bigger picture here. It's panties with a vagina built right in! Even better, it's a currently socially acceptable vagina! Styles change--get you some new panties. Done and done! Sure, the underwear is $130.00, but c'mon, it's Vaginal Surgery Results--In A Panty!

I don't know what the hell it's made of or how it feels during sex, but we've established that all of that is irrelevant. I'm sure hacking off important chunks lady bits affects one's sensations as well. Get over it, sister.

The panties come in black, but check out this beige number below. It's a g-string (sexy!) but also a bit orthopedic-looking (grandma fetish!) for a confusing mix of sexy, functional and forbidden. Sex is sometimes about keeping your partner off-balance and I think these would do the trick nicely.

If you're budget minded, there's also a strap-on g-string version, the Latex Vagina w/ Urinary Feature for $99. I am intrigued by the mysterious "urinary feature," however, the Amazon "frequently bought together" recommends something called It Stays Roll-on Body Adhesive (ouch) which costs about 10 bucks so, pricewise, it might be a wash.

xoxox
jill

P.S. I am suspicious of this notice (below) on the Latex Vagina w/ Urinary Feature. Anyone have a theory on the quote marks? They seem a little cheeky to me.

Under no circumstance can any of these items be returned or exchanged because of health considerations and laws! However, "with our permission", an "unused" garment may be returned for an exchange, if it is in its original packaging (for size or defects only).

*Update: It was choice #2 "dickish, greedy doctor." Via Twitter @wqbelle sent me this fabulous article in the Atlantic which points to one Dr. Red Alinsod as the guy who invented the process of amputating women's labia and had the balls (for now! perhaps those too shall soon be deemed cosmetically unsightly) to give it the perky "Barbie" name. He now travels about the country speaking to OB/GYN groups about the mountains of profit to be made but snipping off healthy and useful body parts.
(Hanes Hosiery ad, 1954)

Dr. Andrea and The Case of the Night Wank

2013-01-21T12:55:00.000-08:00

Welcome, possibly troubled Gentle Reader, to today's installment of Ask Dr. Andrea. For you new subscribers (thank you!!!), Dr. Andrea is our Doctor-at-Large with specialities in women's/sexual health, nutrition and Ayurveda. If you have an entertainingly embarrassing problem, or--why not!--even a regular ol' boring one, man up and email it to jillhamilton001@gmail.com. And don't worry, you can be completely anonymous so no one needs to be knowing about your personal business. Except in a broad general sense. (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.)

A few months ago, I noticed my partner was masturbating in his sleep. I've been aware of it happening a handful of times since then. It doesn't really bother me, but he thinks it's weird. He wanted to know more about how he's doing it, but since it's dark and I'm usually half asleep when it happens, I'm pretty useless. I suggested he film himself sleeping, then we could get some creepy Paranormal Activity action all up in here. He didn't really like the idea. Anyway, so far I haven't been able to collect much data on it for him although it did happen last night and I had my back against his left side so I knew he was using his right hand. He thought that was weird because he always uses his left hand (when he's awake). He started breathing hard for a bit, but then calmed down and then I woke him up. He doesn't think he's ever finished from this.

Anyway, we were just wondering if there are any known causes, cures, or magical potions.

Anonymous

Dr. Andrea: First, this is not unheard of and is likely not harmful.

If he's really concerned, my doctor-like inclination is to suggest a sleep study with a sleep disorder specialist, since these activities might indicate that his sleep structure is not quite normal for some reason (normal being a rather arbitrary word here- very few of my patients have totally 'normal' sleep).

But honestly this doesn't sound like a problem big enough to warrant all that. It sounds like an interesting combination of a sleepwalking-style sleep movement disorder (there's even a movie about it! http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2077851/ ), and normal tumescence and ejaculation during sleep (the phrase 'wet dream' makes me gag).

There is actually a name for this type of activity: "sexsomnia"!! I know, right? It does sound a bit funny, but that means there are enough cases for researchers to have given it a label. The technical definition is initiating sex while asleep, but I imagine it would pertain to your partner's activities as well. If it indicates that he's not sleeping enough or deeply enough for true rest, then it might be a problem. The things that I'd ask are whether he feels rested when he wakes in the morning (jumping out of bed vs hitting snooze multiple times), and whether there has been a change in your sex life linked to when this started.

If sleep structure is indeed an issue, and he'd like to stop, it may be he needs more 'quality' rest- the body wants to be asleep between 10pm and (at least) 5am. In Chinese medicine, there's a proverb that says "every hour of sleep before midnight is actually worth 2 hours of sleep." Making sure he's getting adequate exercise and eating a healthy diet (plant-based, not too much processed food) can be helpful too, as those affect sleep disorders in general.

You're welcome to email me directly and give me more details if you'd like!

******

If you wish the Wisdom of Dr. Andrea, bring the customary two chickens and goat to her mountaintop lair, or just pop your question into an email.

xoxoxo

jill

(Photo: Alfred Cheney, Muriel Gray, 1920)

Kindle Subscriptions, Sasquatch Erotica and a Haunted Vagina.

2013-01-09T15:28:00.001-08:00


Ok, fine, Amazon! I did solicit some reviews.

In Bed With Married Women subscriptions on Kindle are now ranked #48,174th among paid items on Amazon. Wheee! Which may or may not be due to my highly unethical plan of forcing Friends of IBWMW to write reviews of it. (In retrospect, asking people to shell out for a subscription would have been the smarter course of action. But I was a film major, not a business school grad. I can't be troubled with these practicalities.)

Anyway, #48,174 is nothing to brag about, but--fuck it--I'm going to brag anyway. By contrast, the erotic e-book Bigfoot's New Mate 3 (Sasquatch Erotica) is languishing at the #106,349 spot. In your face, Bigfoot, you sexy beast (literally, on the beast aspect). (In fairness to the Sasquatch, the 30 page Bigfoot book of love is going for $2.99, while IBWMW subscriptions are only 99 cents, so it might be a wash. The position of IBWMW Minister of Mathematical Calculations is as of yet unfilled, so I can't say for sure.)

Nonetheless, the experience of reading lovely reviews about oneself is highly rewarding and I recommend you have some people do it for you at once.

Thanks for all you do to support the blog.

xoxox
jill

p.s. I am reading Naomi Wolf's Vagina: A New Biography (Amazon ranking: #14,456) which is completely changing my vaginal worldview. And yes, I did just write that I have a vaginal worldview. Will report anon.

p.p.s. While looking up the link for the Vagina book, I happened to see a link for a book called The Haunted Vagina (ranking #654,820). And yes, OF COURSE I fucking well did click over to see what it was about and came upon this description, which I will leave you with today:

It's difficult to love a woman whose vagina is a gateway to the world of the dead...

Steve is madly in love with his eccentric girlfriend, Stacy. Unfortunately, their sex life has been suffering as of late, because Steve is worried about the odd noises that have been coming from Stacy's pubic region. She says that her vagina is haunted. She doesn't think it's that big of a deal. Steve, on the other hand, completely disagrees.

When a living corpse climbs out of her during an awkward night of sex, Stacy learns that her vagina is actually a doorway to another world.

(photo source)

"Wakey Wakey, Time to Shake Some Ass Girls"

2013-01-02T16:29:00.000-08:00

"So....how's this gonna work, exactly?"

It's a new year and I'm temporarily under the impression that this is the year I'll get my shit together. So I'm bustling about, making things happen. To wit:

1. Luring People to the Sketchy 'Hood that is the IBWMW Facebook Page:

As of this second, the In Bed With Married Women Facebook page has 943 fans or likes or whatever it is we're calling it these days. Which is great, except as you know, maybe 15% are people who stumbled over there thinking it's a site that somehow literally gets you in bed with married women. For example:

Meet the newest member of the IBWMW Facebook page family! It's someone named "Loving Hunk" who, judging from his profile picture, appears to be an erect penis. According to Loving Hunk's profile, he attended school at "3some" and works at "Club Swinger."

But I am not one to put words in an erect penis' mouth, let's let Loving Hunk introduce himself:

"hi my self 29 single male living in chandigarh and frequently visiting delhi, mumbai pune or jalandhar. having a great sex appeal, had a lot of experience with cpls for 3some or group sex. enjoy sex . ladies females , cpls looking for sex contact me , satisfaction and pleasure is assured. lets meet and enjoy"

"Satisfaction and pleasure"--that sounds good, right ladies females?

So if you, and those you care about, haven't already liked the Facebook page, get on over there (might want to lock the car doors first. Just in case.) Not only will you get exclusive updates, the very latest in Misguided Googlers and whatnot, but particularly vigilant fans can see if they can catch the various inappropriate posts from Loving Hunk and his ilk before I delete them. And I'm quick. Like I bet you missed this one just this from this morning from one Rohit Kalkatti:

"ne, married women from bangalore around here???? if so wakey wakey, time to shake some ass girls!"

So yes, shake some ass, and get on over there.

2. IBWMW Kindle Subscriptions and an Empirical Question:

I am asking friends of In Bed With Married Women to go over to Amazon and write a review of the blog to see if it improves our sales ranking. I was thinking this as "rigging the system," but the ever-wise IBWMW Minister of Science re-framed it as asking an "empirical question" (gaining knowledge by direct or indirect experience, duh) which sounds way less cheaty.

As of now, IBWMW Kindle Subscriptions are ranked #267,736 of paid items in the Kindle Store (#9 in "erotica"--whee!)

Will our ~~cheatin-~~, empirical research help boost sales? Can we hit the rarefied atmosphere that is the low 264,000s? Will more reviews convince the highly alert Loving Hunk to shell out some shekels or whatever currency erect penises use to buy a 99 cent/month subscription? I will keep you informed...

3. "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God! No really, I mean, oh you, God. Because I am literally having sex with you, God." That is, erotica about God. As in, possible mentions of God's jutting cockstand.

I know! I truly thought erotica could get none more weird that last week's post on the plethora of erotic ebooks featuring the likes of centaur gangbangs, Leprechaun doms and "Abraham Lincoln Fuck Machine"?

That was until @stillmansays alerted me to the existence of The Holy Spirit Came Upon Her (An Erotic Retelling of the Conception of Jesus Christ)

Here's its blurb:

Based on Luke 1:35. The Angel Gabriel told Mary that the Holy Spirit would come upon her and place the Son of God within her womb. When He shows up in her room late at night, she's surprised that He intends to do it in "the usual way" rather than by miracle. Will Mary still be able to call herself a virgin at the end of the night?

WARNING: This 3,000+ word story contains oral, vaginal, and digital sex between the Virgin Mary and the Holy Spirit. May be offensive to some readers.

I think I must be feeling jaded this morning because I have no inclination to write about the breezy blasphemy caveat "may be offensive" (could be!) or that it is in some ways just a continuation of the whole Greek god/mortal sex idea, like Zeus appearing as a swan to bone Leda (I would have preferred a man instead of a stinkin' swan--what the hell do you do with a swan?--but that's neither here nor there).

No, instead all I care about is the "digital sex" between the Virgin Mary and the Holy Spirit ("a Loving God" as one reviewer noted.) What is this digital sex? God is...texting? Sending unsolicited cockstand pics? It's quite perplexing.

Anyway I'd better just...stop. In the words of one outraged reader, circa 2010, "You are So going to hell. Have fun with that." Which, if true, I can be assured that at least I'll get a better room than the penner of "The Holy Spirit Came Upon Her."

xoxoxo
jill

(image: "Leda," Leonardo Da Vinci)

What if the Guy in 50 Shades of Grey was...a Leprechaun? And other really really bad erotica.

2012-12-19T17:03:00.001-08:00

My Twitter friend @stillmansays sent the following missive:

"@Jill_Hamilton please write about this... Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine."

I dutifully clicked the link.

And, well, Holy Fuck.

Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machineis an e-book about, well, I'll just show you the blurb:

Few people know that Abraham Lincoln was the greatest fuck machine of all time. His sexual prowess is unmatched in the history of American presidents. When he gets word of a nefarious plot hatched by the insane Emperor of Japan, he must learn to use his most potent power--the power of his cock!

Uh, what??? "Abraham Lincoln" and "fuck machine" in same sentence? Cock power as 1800s foreign policy position? Possible need for insane Emperor to do anticipatory waxing for diplomatic summit?

The book is on Amazon, and has one of those "Click to LOOK INSIDE!" buttons. So--of course, yes!--I fucking well did click, immediately. And I am so glad I did because, well, behold this opening:

April 22, 1863

It was a balmy spring morning and the White House was abuzz with activity. I rose early, as I always did, and paced restlessly around the bedroom. Mary looked angelic in sleep, so I didn't wake her. As I stripped my nightclothes and prepared to dress, I noticed that my cock was fully erect and ready for duty, most likely due to some dream or humour that had overtaken me in the night. My birthmark itched, as it often did as such times. At first I considered mounting Mary and using her soft familiar slit to relieve the pressure in my prick but she was never very agreeable in the morning. Do not judge me too harshly, dear reader, but I must admit that, at that moment, I had an overwhelming urge to visit Martha instead.

As you know, I completely adore the idea of people's odd specificity in their porn/erotica, and this whole Lincoln thing is so...exactly that. The reference to humours, a man speaking of his "nightclothes" and even, gak, mention of his birthmark--even worse, an itchy birthmark. (Oddly, I find the birthmark detail much more off-putting than the idea of a pantless Lincoln and his "iron hard prick.")

The Lincoln porn turned me on to (note to self: think of different way of putting that) a whole new world of weird-ass e-book erotica. Holy crap, there are all kinds of these short ebooks about humans getting it on with every manner of literary creature, both mythical and beastly. Lincoln, at least, was both real and a human. Something which cannot be said for the other romantic leads in this genre.

For example, at the bottom of the Lincoln book page under "Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought" was the title...Snowballin': I Fucked Frosty. Yes, that Frosty. The Snowman.

Of course--of course--I immediately pressed Look Inside! but there was no snowy, snowy action on page one and I had to content myself with the cover blurb:

When a boyfriend fails to fulfill his sexual duties, sometimes the only option is to turn to the cold embrace of a snowman.

"That is someone who is not looking at their options realistically," said my husband when I told him about this, as he tried with increasing desperation to move the conversion in directions far, far away from snowman fucking. As a result, I was alone as I tried to figure out how things might have gone down with Frosty. I suppose his carrot nose is an obvious place to start, but I just read somewhere that it's dangerous to insert carrots in one's orifices. (Can't remember why it was dangerous, just retained the salient point--"do not fuck carrot.") Though I suppose, in this case, carrot loss is less of a concern than genital frostbite.

I eagerly looked under the Frosty book's "Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought" and found all kinds of crazy-ass shit, including The Horny Minotaur, Fucked by the Lake Monster, Bred by Trolls, Merlin's Magic Wang, and Bred by the Boogeyman. I never knew this, but there is a whole sub-genre of these "Bred by" books. "Well, of course I didn't want to fuck the Boogeyman, but he forced himself on me."

However I found myself most intrigued with The Horny Leprechaun 1 not only because it has spawned a sequel, The Horny Leprechaun 2, but for fuck's sake, it's about a Leprechaun. Not only that, but this particular Leprechaun sounds like he's kind of a dick. Here's the blurb:

Some Leprechauns are not so nice........

All Karen wanted to do was go to Ireland. That is until she goes out hiking one day and finds the rainbow's end. Unfortunately, she runs into one pissed off Leprechaun who thinks she is after his gold. Now the Leprechaun wants payment for trespassing with sexual acts that some called depraved while others might call it magically delicious. Karen finds herself with a bit of a sadistic man who takes what he wants and Karen finds that she likes it.

"The Horny Leprechaun 1" also starts with possibly the most alarming book preface I've ever seen:

"Warning: This story contains oral sex, forced seduction, and anal sex" ...WITH A LEPRECHAUN! A JERKY, BOSSY LEPRECHAUN! [ed note: yelling typeface part added]

This stuff must be getting to me because I'm already writing a scene for The Horny Leprechaun 3 (maybe 3-D? seek funding?)

Karen: "Helloooo, I'm in my hotel....What are you wearing?"
Horny Leprechaun: "Green booties with curly toes, ya filthy whore. Now get ye gigantic human-sized ass over to me mushroom house and I'm gonna pound ye with me wee green prick."

Fuck, that's hot.

To someone. Else.

Anyway, I'm gonna go keep looking at these. Need to figure out which first: Goblin Gangbang or Cum For Bigfoot 12 ? Or maybe I should just go seasonal with Bred by Santa (An Impregnation Sex Story). Oh, quit your judging. I read the first page already. Santa's not cheating or anything. Mrs. Claus is dead (one of many of his mortal wives over the years, apparently) and Santa needs to have a male heir. Anyway, I don't want to, like, fuck Santa, he forced me--for breeding.

Or maybe I should just stop. I just had the suddenly sobering experience of seeing "Your Browsing History" for this session and am realizing that for the foreseeable future, whenever I log onto Amazon, I'm going to see messages like, "Recommended for YOU: Taken and Milked (a forced lactation sex fantasy)."

Right. I'm gonna go now.

xoxox
jill

(image: The Grinder by the beyond fabulous and completely strange Mark Ryden. He is also obsessed with Abraham Lincoln, though probably not in the "fuck machine" way.)

"Ridiculous Tips For A Miserable Sex Life"

2012-12-12T17:22:00.000-08:00

I'm all hepped up on Ridiculous Tips For A Miserable Sex Life from Nerve.com, a recurring feature that looks at men and women's magazines like Cosmo and Maxim to uncover what sorts of crappy sex advice they're dishing out to their love-challenged readers. This month is mighty good, if only for this bit of misguided love advice:

If things get too hot, "keep a spray bottle filled with ice water next to the bed, and give each other a strategic spritz to extend the encounter... Aim for the nerve-packed, thin-skinned areas on each other's body, such as the nipples." (On an unrelated note, this is also a great way to train your cat not to pee on the rug.) Once you've climaxed, take a big sip of the ice water you keep nearby and "envelope his balls."

Now, I don't own a pair of balls myself, but I can't imagine that having an ice mouth on them would be particularly pleasant--especially unexpected ice mouth. Though maybe expected ice mouth would be even worse... (Note: I just called my husband--the poor man!--and asked him apropos of nothing, "Soooo, would it be pleasant if someone put ice water in their mouth and 'enveloped your balls'?" Through the phone, I heard a noise that I can only describe as a man version of a shriek, and my husband stated quite definitively, "NO, that would be godawful!" He then paused and asked cautiously, "Uh, why do you ask?")

I especially love the tips from last month. Writer Ben Reininga so gets the crazy-ass worldview of male-female relationships that is Cosmo--from their penchant to calling body parts by silly names (I mean, hoo-ha? Seriously?) to their strange insistence that sex should involve lots of slathering "your guy" with various food products. I don't know about you, but if I want some chocolate syrup, I'd rather just have it on some ice cream instead licking it off "my guy's" icy cold balls.

But you want the tips anyway? Oh, fine. Here then is a tip from Cosmo's "The World's Best Orgasm Tricks."

1) Turn "up the volume on your moans." Say "things like, 'Omigod, right there feels so good.'"

Did you write that down? "Omigod, right there feels so good." Maybe you should take some Post-It notes to bed with you so you can robotically say your proper line. And here's another tip, which is gross and makes me sort of sick to even share with you:

1) What happens if you're out of lube? Cosmo suggests, "Mix 1 tablespoon of saliva (the kind deep in your throat works best — its viscosity makes it a good substitute for lube) with one tablespoon of water to stretch the spit." (They don't really explain if you're supposed to whisk it together in a bowl in the kitchen, or if you should just hock a loogie onto his junk, then reach for your measuring spoons.)

Okay, I am making myself sick now (and FYI, really lovely non-spit-based lube is readily available at Good Vibrations for as low as four bucks) so on to one last Cosmo ridiculous sex tip, this stencil (shown below) for pubic hair grooming:

I'm willing to accept that a couple so misguided that they say "hoo-ha" and need their orgasmic groans scripted might actually need a pubic hair arrow directing them to said hoo-ha, but they need a stencil to make the arrow? Not to be advocating a master race or anything, but should folks who need a stencil to make a flippin' arrow even be having sex?.... Er, but I seem to be veering from my notes. What I actually meant to say was, "Omigod, right there feels so good."

The Blow Job as Path to the Divine

2012-12-11T11:36:00.000-08:00

I am not a religious person. I don't even know that I want to be. I have sort of tried, a little, but for better or worse, I don't seem to have the God gene. The closest I ever get to the sublime feeling of connection with the universe that religious people describe is generally through music. Walking at night, the wet smell of the evening mist, a full moon hanging overripe in the sky, and Pandora radio seducing me with exactly what I want to hear before I know myself (Damn, Pandora, I will tell you again, I would so fuck you if I could) is the closest I get to experiencing the Divine.

Except for sex. I think what's appealing to me about sex is not the actual friction between body parts-- although that's pretty damn good, too--but the out-of-body, out-of-your-fucking-mind, brain/body explosion that happens during the best sex. Good sex is just somehow...beyond. You're extremely focused on the Now, the line between you and other is blurred, and, in the best moments, you feel like you and the Universe are sort of throbbing together as one. Which sounds a lot like religious ecstasy. (Other times it's just you and your partner, or your hand, or your vibrator--you get off, then go about your day. Which is fine as well.)

In an article in the January 2011 issue of Playboy, Samantha Gillison wrote a wonderful essay "The Platonic Ideal" on this idea of sex as route to the Divine. I would link to it, but--incredibly in this day and age--it is not available on-line! Well, unless you pay. This is why this month, I am a member of iPlayboy.com. For my $8 (paid happily because I care for YOU, dear reader), I get to go into the link that says "Members Only," which in Playboy parlance = "swanky". I can also look at every issue ever made, which would be great except my computer is so old that every issue ever made is slightly blurry, rendering the copy barely readable and the voluminous boobs semi-impressionistic swipes of pink and white.

In Gillison's piece, she describes the moment she became illuminated on the joys of giving head. It was after a Bad Brains concert, and in the darkness of the parking lot, she knelt before her date.

We could have been strangers--we almost were--and somehow the darkness, the anonymity of the situation liberated me from worrying about doing something wrong or feeling self-conscious. I allowed myself to sink deep into the fantasy of what it must feel like for him--the pressure, the warmth, the wetness. All of a sudden the only thing in the world was that cock and my connection to it.

Previously, Gillison had thought of blow jobs as something you gave, like a gift, or something you did as a favor. Plus there was some fear and uncertainty.

It was just that I was unsure of cock when I got up close to one; it contained unreadable male mysteries. I might hurt it or maybe just do nothing right. Maybe I looked ridiculous. I didn’t really know which parts of it wanted to be touched, or how. It seemed to be its own creature, almost uncannily separate from the man who owned it. Perhaps simpleminded but authoritarian and judgemental.

This time, however, she had a revelation.

But starting that night in the parking lot, I began to understand the profound, dirty pleasure of giving blow jobs. It isn’t just that I discovered how much I like being in control, how much I like giving the kind of pleasure that makes someone helpless, and how intoxicating it is to be on the receiving end of hurricane-levels of desire. But, that night, it was also the revelation of the particular male smell you get up close with a cock and balls that turned me on in ways that are almost beyond description. It was like being inside sex.

Which is so completely hot. Are you still with me here?

Plato said that human beings can only truly access the divine through sexual ecstasy, Eros. This has always made so much sense to me. When else are humans as rapt by feeling as when they come and when they touch God? That feeling of connection to the universal, the feeling of having exited my own body as I orgasm is nothing other than touching the infinite.

Yet I have never been able to get close to that Platonic, out-of-my-mind kind of sexual ecstasy unless I can satisfy a primal hunger: Whether in fantasy or reality, I need a connection to another equally raunchy human being. It has always been the case with me, since I was a teenager, that I have to see someone else’s horniness in order to feel horny. What I happily realized on my knees in the parking lot is that an erect cock in my face is among the most blatant ways of experiencing the realness of someone else’s desire I’d ever encountered. And every time, it spurs a response in me, hot and dark and if I’m doing something transgressive in the best possible way.

Blow jobs! Philosophical talk! The phrase "erect cock"! Gah, I am a goner! LOVE this $%$#!

I'll add a little bit more of her essay, because I want to make sure I don't stray from "fair use" territory to "stealing" and "copyright infringement." Here's Gillison on the experience of blowing a long time friend and feeling, then overcoming, the awkwardness inherent in that particular situation.

But then a supple communication started between me and his penis as I began to suck, a communication beyond words and much deeper than any we had ever had before.

His cock felt so sexy in my mouth, hard and hot and aching with desire. But I could also feel how much of this man was being revealed to me: his sexuality, his vulnerability, his musky smell.

Soon the connection started to feel like a merging, as though I was experiencing that blow job too. It felt crazy, off-the-charts raunchy, to fantasize that I was not only giving head but getting it. All of a sudden I was overwhelmed by pure animal pleasure. I was so turned on that I came.

Since that night’s discovery I always revel in the double fantasy of giving and receiving. And I honor the wisdom of the old Greek philosophers who pointed out that although the Divine is inscrutable, it is easy to find while sucking on a dick.

And there is no better way to end a post than what Gillison ended with right there, so I will leave you to your day.

xoxoxo
jill

* Afterword: Do NOT do a Google image search for "penis public domain." Hideous medical photos! "Lesion on the glans"! Holy crap! Look away! Look away!

photo: William M. Rattase

"Our Genes Can Be Heartless Puppeteers"

2012-12-10T14:06:00.000-08:00

Note the grim, bored faces.
Too many orgasms for the Coolidges?

"Pete and I haven't had sex for awhile," said a friend. "I'm not particularly in the mood, but I feel like we should. You know, for the good of the marriage."

I murmured in an affirmative manner, conveying something along the lines of "Yeah, go hit that dutiful marital sex." After all, sex--even possibly tepid sex--has all kinds of benefits--the immune system boost, happy endorphins, lower incidence of incontinence and all that.

But, at it turns out, not only am I a sucky friend for putting her personal business all up in my blog, but I also might have given her exactly the wrong advice. At least according to the limbic system, a primitive part of our brain that doesn't care a whit that we've based our entire societal structure on the responsible-sounding, seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time ideal of monogamy.

By having sex with good old Pete, my friend would be inadvertently setting off a chain of neurochemicals that would actually increase marital ennui (it means boredom/lack of interest, if you happen to be afflicted with dictionary ennui). Surprisingly, sexual satisfaction kicks in a biological impulse full of monogamy-unfriendly side effects like making a couple more irritated with, and less attracted to, each other.

Marnia Robinson in Psychology Today reports that sexual satisfaction, specifically orgasms, actually compels us to want to move on to a new partner.

[A] mating frenzy (hot sex, lots of orgasms) resulting in sexual satiation (that "I'm done!" feeling) plays right into Cupid's plan. Decreasing dopamine (after the delicious neurochemical blast of orgasm) tells your limbic system, "Fertilization duty is done here; time to find this mate less alluring-and respond to any potential novel mate with gusto."

The same cruel, cruel swirl of chemicals that make you swoon over another's perfection and general dreaminess, then:

--makes you think it's a swell idea to bear children with this lovely person,

-- fills you with a fiery rage toward this person who can't seem to fucking realize that wadding up a wet towel makes it moldy,

--makes you think a new partner would be a much more suitable mate. (I'm keeping a shortlist, just in case.)

Our bodies are, annoyingly, designed to make us stop desiring a mate once we've had our way with them. It's all about creating genetic diversity in our young, maximizing our fertility and all sort of other biological constructs that don't go over too well with a certain monogamous mate.

It's called the Coolidge Effect, and refers to the tendency in mammals to develop deadened sexual responses to their familiar mate while miraculously having no such problems with a novel mate. The name comes from a story about Calvin Coolidge and his wife touring a government farm. After hearing that a particular rooster spent a good part of each day mating, Mrs. Coolidge, in a moment of First Lady TMI, supposedly remarked, "Tell that to Mr. Coolidge when he comes by." When told, the president asked the farmer, "Same hen every time?" "No, sir," answered the farmer. "Tell that to Mrs. Coolidge," retorted the President, thus ensuring that no one in the Coolidge house would be doing any mating that evening.

In the Coolidge Effect, a male rat will mate with a receptive female (so made that way through chemical injections) until his libido dies out and he gives up and ignores her, doing whatever the male rat equivalent is of grabbing the remote. However, if a new receptive female enters, he jumps out of his stupor and begins banging her with a fresh vigor. The effect repeats--Mr. Rat rising to the occasion with each fresh female and giving them sweet, sweet rat love--until the dude is overwhelmed with exhaustion.

I know this is science and all, but part of me wants to take the Creationist Approach to Science and just declare that, hey, I don't believe and/or like this idea, ergo, it's untrue. Despite all the testing, data, chemical analysis, carbon dating, friggin' dinosaur and early human bones littering the whole fucking globe...er, sorry, off topic.

I mean, I get the whole fresh-excitement-with-new-mate part. Anyone who takes a look at the latest celeb pairing on US Magazine's cover can see that clearly enough, but the rest of it is so counter-intuitive. Having sex with your mate is...bad? And orgasms are especially bad because they make you want to leave your mate and move on?

So where does this leave us? We live in a society that at least nominally supports families and lifetime pair-bonding. But our uncouth biological impulses are fighting us with every one of our well-intentioned, sanctioned-by-marriage thrusts.

It is a bit of a pickle and I don't have any great solutions for you yet. In the meantime, should you have sex with your mate? Hell, I don't fucking know. Play it by ear and we'll figure it out next time.

xoxo
jill

"Our senses crave novelty. Any change alerts them, and they send a signal to the brain. If there’s no change, no novelty, they doze and register little or nothing. A constant state--even of excitement--in time becomes tedious, fades into the background because our senses have evolved to report changes, what’s new, something startling that needs to be appraised, a morsel to eat, a sudden danger.” Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses

The Appeal of the Experienced Lover, Or Why Older Women Are So Very Fuckable

2012-12-08T13:41:00.000-08:00

I am 46 years old and I have never felt hotter. Never. Hotter.

Really.

And I'm not just saying that to dull the pain of some Horrible Truth like when people tell you men only care about a woman's inner beauty or that if you just breathe in a jaunty, can-do manner during childbirth, it won't hurt.

When you're older, sex is just...better. Way better. You notice more, you feel more, you just enjoy it more. In the post, In Search of the Elusive Third Type of Orgasm, dear reader Anonymous had this theory about it:

AS we get older, we are less concerned about how we look when screamin', whoopin', full heartedly ENJOYING mind-blowing sex.

True. Plus once you hit 40, you get a delightfully useful "Fuck it" attitude that makes life much more enjoyable. Things you don't want to do? Don't do them! Fuck it! Boring people in your life? Don't talk to them! Only deal with people who enchant and entertain you. (And if you don't agree, piss off! I've got no time for you!)

Not only do I feel way hotter than my 20 year old self, I think I probably am, in some sort of observable, measurable manner, actually more smokin' hot. But in lieu of a complex and probably cost-prohibitive science experiment involving a time travel machine, a startled (and most likely drunken) version of my 1980s self, and an intrepid team of embarrassed/aroused scientists in lab coats calculating orgasm response times, we will have to test my hypothesis with empirical evidence. That is, observation and experience.

Exhibit A, Experience: A 43 year old friend of mine recently bought a sex toy (It was something like this, with an inner dildo-y part plus so-called "rabbit ears" for outer stimulation) and quickly discovered that she could have g-spot orgasms. She had never known this about herself. For 40-fucking-3 years! This information can be nothing but good, I say. Nothing but good!

Yeah, it's definitely his Inner
Beauty that's got us.

Exhibit B, Observation: Here I will have to go with Benjamin Franklin, favorite of old broads everywhere. Franklin was not a looker, but he had a good brain which is ten times as hot, and was thus quite popular with the ladies. Here in his (once banned!) Old Mistresses Apologue (June 25, 1745), he advises a friend on why older women are clearly better Amours.

I repeat my former Advice, that in all your Amours you should prefer old Women to young ones. You call this a Paradox, and demand my Reasons. They are these:

1. Because as they have more Knowledge of the World and their Minds are better stor’d with Observations, their Conversation is more improving and more lastingly agreable.

2. Because when Women cease to be handsome, they study to be good. To maintain their Influence over Men, they supply the Diminution of Beauty by an Augmentation of Utility. They learn to do a 1000 Services small and great, and are the most tender and useful of all Friends when you are sick. Thus they continue amiable. And hence there is hardly such a thing to be found as an old Woman who is not a good Woman.

3. Because there is no hazard of Children, which irregularly produc’d may be attended with much Inconvenience.

4. Because thro’ more Experience, they are more prudent and discreet in conducting an Intrigue to prevent Suspicion. The Commerce with them is therefore safer with regard to your Reputation. And with regard to theirs, if the Affair should happen to be known, considerate People might be rather inclin’d to excuse an old Woman who would kindly take care of a young Man, form his Manners by her good Counsels, and prevent his ruining his Health and Fortune among mercenary Prostitutes.

5. Because in every Animal that walks upright, the Deficiency of the Fluids that fill the Muscles appears first in the highest Part: The Face first grows lank and wrinkled; then the Neck; then the Breast and Arms; the lower Parts continuing to the last as plump as ever: So that covering all above with a Basket, and regarding only what is below the Girdle, it is impossible of two Women to know an old from a young one. And as in the dark all Cats are grey, the Pleasure of corporal Enjoyment with an old Woman is at least equal, and frequently superior, every Knack being by Practice capable of Improvement.

6. Because the Sin is less. The debauching a Virgin may be her Ruin, and make her for Life unhappy.

7. Because the Compunction is less. The having made a young Girl miserable may give you frequent bitter Reflections; none of which can attend the making an old Woman happy.

8thly and Lastly They are so grateful!!

I'm especially fond of number 5, with its talk of "what is below the Girdle" and Franklin's trying to explain to his friend that below-the-girdle action remains oh-so-good by invoking sciencey phrases like "Animals that walk upright" and "Deficiency of the Fluids."

Franklin wasn't alone in his love of experienced older women. Men throughout history have come to the same conclusion. In this article in The Smoking Jacket (a site from Playboy, Worldwide Headquarters of young nubile boobs), writer Chris Lathrop cites Franklin's letter and his "centuries-ahead-of-its-time awareness of something that's become common knowledge among modern men and anyone who watches Sex and the City or Desperate Housewives: Older women fucking rule."

The Roman poet Ovid* (43 BC- 17AD) also noted that older women fucking rule, albeit more eloquently (i.e. "enjoy the fruits of Love in their full and ripe maturity") in The Art of Love--Ars Amatoria, a sort of instruction manual on Love:

They are well versed in all the mysteries and attitudes of Love, and are thereby able to enhance your pleasure...Their appetites do not need to be provoked by wearisome titillations and they will share their pleasures with you equally...Dutiful embraces repel me, for nothing can be more pleasing to the ear of a lover than a trembling voice of the beloved when she whispers ecstatically of her joy. What can compare to my happiness when my fair one pleads with me to prolong her rapture? Naught can be sweeter than my beloved, inebriate with ecstasy, holding me at arm's length and pleading with swimming eyes that I slacken my pace.

So what do you think of all this? Men, do you agree? Have you known the pleasures of an older women? Women, are you feeling sassier these days? Is your body more responsive? Less so? And does anyone else besides me wish that they were gazing upon the face of their beloved "inebriate with ecstasy" instead of sitting here at the fucking computer?

xoxox
jill

* p.s. If you want to feel smart and read something pretty sexy at the same time, I urge you to read The Art of Love at once.

Beware: some of Ovid's advice can be:
--practical, yet not currently socially acceptable, i.e. take two mistresses instead of one so you don't get too attached, or,
--comically weird and outdated, i.e. this recipe for a face of "dazzling whiteness" which begins "Pulverize the first horns dropped from a lusty stag." (note: Ovid provides no clues on determining which stag is the lusty one.)

But most of his advice is still perfectly good. Here's Ovid on taking your time in Love, which, more than 2000 years later, is still damned good advice.

If you will listen to me you will not be too hasty in attaining the culmination of your happiness. Learn by skillful maneuvering to reach your climax by degrees. When you are safely ensconced in the sanctuary of bliss, let no timid fear arrest your hand. You will be richly rewarded by the love-light trembling in her eyes, even as the rays of the sun fitfully dance upon the waves. Then will follow gentle murmurs, moans and sighs, laden with ecstasy that will sting and lash desire.

Yes.

photo source