Warning: Excessive Bliss May Be Good For You

I would have said that “the Guy has this saying,” but according to Google, there’s 14,700 hits for the phrase “post-coital bliss.”

It’s all about the PCB. Blissed out and riding that wave back to normalcy. Nothing recharges the batteries like a good lay, don’t ya think?

It’s Saturday morning (as if you didn’t know) and it’s cooler than it has been, but not cold. There’s 94% humidity – yep, count it, 94% -- and the air’s got that built in chill-enhancer that’s not so friendly in the morning. Still, I’m in bare feet, just not happily naked like I normally am in the morning. Oh, well. The headache burrowing into the back of my skull’s not really a high point this morning, either, but I’m ignoring it and listening to Gomez over my headphones anyhow.

The gym was supposed to be my destination, but I have that all-over-body sore that says somethin’ physical’s been up of late. (The dirty s-e-x, that’s what. I tell ya, the death-grip with your legs around the waist, hiking him towards ya, good fer thighs and ass and abs, ladies.) I figure instead I’ll do some ab work, play with free weights, write, watch TV a spell, and then that’s my day. The Guy hobbles over, crutches and all, to my place this evening. (I live on the third floor of a walk-up, people. Poor bastard. I try to make it worth it, and something tells me I do – he keeps coming back. Nifty.)

Back to the more interesting of topics thus far, PCB. It was after the dirty s-e-x that the conversation steered towards the PCB. Nothing takes a sting out of a working man’s week better than getting him laid by 10 on Friday, you know. My guy’s cut from a slightly different cloth. Instead of having sex (the dirty s-e-x, even) and rolling over to sleep the sleep of the dead, he gets energized. He actually enjoys cuddling and talking after a good shagging. How do ya like that? Now that’s serious PCB, folks. He even gave me a couple decent writing topics. (Okay, well, this thing’s a posting for the ADHD-afflicted in my audience, but still, the Guy contributes.)

I, for one, am a big fan of the PCB, baby. Sex for everybody, says I. Didn’t you get the memo? I took over the duties of World Domination and Universal Autocrat as of midnight last night.

Lucky for you fuckers, too.

Sex for everybody. Yep. Just step right over here to your frequency lanes and pick a number you’d like as your sexual quota each week. What, three times? Four? More? All rightie, then. Pick a lane, any lane. That’s the number of times you’ll be getting’ your love on each week, my friends.

Ah, if only. I would make such a KICK-ASS dictator. None of the genocide crap, man. No illegal law enforcement. No intimidation. All about the bliss, baby. Personal freedoms for everyone, medical insurance discounts for anyone getting shagged often, sex toys would be tax deductible… If only.

In my pie-in-the-sky utopia, I’d have sex four to six times a week. A couple double-dips and such in there, of course, as well as lazy sleep-in, clothes-off, shaggin’ Sundays.

I’m looking forwards to next month. We’re on the verge of warm, warm nights now, and I’m thinking how much I’m gonna love those late-night just-got-laid departures – riding through the fragrant streets on warm, breezy nights, my scooter weaving back and forth under canopied streets as various perfumes from flowers assail me and cooler air pockets surprise me. Sigh. That’s always the best time to be out commuting in the world: a summer night after sex.

(There you go – a road rage solution. Road rage is all because people aren’t having sex enough. C’mon, people! Spread the sex around. Let’s reclaim our streets. Nice, happy drivers who just couldn’t give a shit if you go faster. They’re thinking about getting a little more of the shaggin’ they just had. A far better traffic pattern would emerge, I bet.)

Y'know, I went out for years with this guy who lived about 35 minutes away from me, and I still, to this day, remember loving the ride home almost as much as I enjoyed the sex and/or his company. It’d be 4am, and I’d be driving out on a highway that always had this awesome turn-off that made it feel like you were driving literally into the sunrise. Whoosh, around the bend, and back headed south-east, towards the sunrise again. I almost always took the long way home.

There’s just something great about sex in the summer. It’s better when you have a fan to cool yourselves off after all that work, but hey, seasonal shagging’s all good. I love staying in for sex in the winter, but if you have to leave, it’s such a bitterly cruel contrast – the cold, cold nights against the warmth and sweat and fury of your recent encounter. Yeah, I’ll take this… summer and the PCBs.

(The photo's one of the rare ones that are actually mine. Cherry blossoms were out here recently, and the last are just changing to wine-coloured leaves now, but this was the height of 'em 2 weeks ago. LOVE this city come blossom time.)

You Asked: My Take on Cheating

My life is going insane. I need to run away and pitch tent on some distant beach, living only off Mai-Tais and cheap sex. (You free, Guy?) It’ll be me and books and sand and sun and orgasms and orgasms and too many dehydrated afternoons. I’ll send people emails, not postcards, because they’re cheaper and I won’t need to leave the house to do it, or leave the sand, as the case might be. I’ll save the emails as drafts and wait out the mandatory 12-hour pride/holding period, and make sure nothing Untoward is evidenced to the world in regards to my life of slack and debauchery. My blog postings will be filled with elliptical moments of fantasy and remembering… about a life half a world away that seems so strangely chaotic and abnormal to the life now being led by this sand-locked beach-bum with literary leanings.

Instead, here I am, trying to fend off the urge to snack on chocolate chips, trying to remember that drinking more water makes me think better-faster-stronger, and being grateful it’s cloudy enough that I can concentrate indoors.

So, hi there. You were saying?

___________

There’s an old saying, “A man never introduces his wife to his mistress,” or vice versa. Last night’s episode of Boston Legal made for good breakfast fare this morning, and the closing line was that.

It reminded me of an email from a reader, to whom I’ve yet to respond (sorry about that, you), inquiring as to my opinion on what “cheating” means today. That email is excerpted here:

At what point do you consider someone to be cheating on another?

I've been poking a few friends with this one and been getting back some interesting answers, but outside of my older brother's girlfriend, I'm getting generally 20-something's answers. So I figure I should get an older woman's view too :)

In case you're curious this whole thing got started because a female friend (that's an oxymoron when you're a guy isn't it?) was doing one of those Myspace surveys and the question, "Have you ever cheated on someone?" came up. And I just saw her freeze up for a second and give it some serious thought. So now I'm just randomly poking people for their opinions :)

Well, apart from the ass-kickin’ I wanna lay on this boy for calling me an “older woman” at the sweet age of 32, I found it an interesting question. (I ain’t “older,” I’m just right, baby. I look young, but I got the wisdom and know-how my age speaks to. We’re women of the good age, the women that teach youngun’s like you how to shake and move the world. Calling us “older” is like uninviting yourself from the party, honey. Be careful.)

When this question came in nearly two weeks ago, I didn’t hesitate to bring it up with the Guy. I wanted to see what he’d say. I was quite happy with his take on things, and in the end realized something: This is a great conversation for every couple to have, and soon. What is YOUR perception of cheating?

Does it matter only if it includes Bill Clinton’s definition of “sexual relations” or is it something more intrinsic, maybe even innocuous, than that?

Fidelity is a complicated web. Some women feel betrayed if their guy eyes an ass wiggling down the street. Some men feel betrayed if their girlfriend only watches sports and drinks beers with her best guy friend and never him. Who’s to say where the line is?

Every couple needs to set parameters. I’m in an interesting situation here, since I write this sex blog and about sexuality in general. That puts my man in a very interesting situation since he is constantly learning new things about my perspectives on relationships, sex, and everything else under the sun. It also means we’re often in the situation where we’re talking about things other new couples might be deliberately not discussing for a while, since there’s the chance of making it all seem more serious than things really are.

There’s that whole theory of push/pull when it comes to relationships. One partner becomes needier and pulls the other in closer than they should, sooner than they should, and the needed partner then becomes spooked and pulls back. Like rocking a boat, regaining balance (and FAST) is a major challenge, and if not met, the relationship will then be doomed. I did my “pulling” on this blog, and the Guy patiently let me.

In that time, we’ve talked about a great deal of “serious” issues, and nothing’s really spooked either of us, since we’ve confronted it. Cheating is just one of the many topics we’ve broached, but out of all of them, finding his stance on this topic was the thing that made me feel most comfortable about where we stood.

His response was that anything that smacked of intimacy (ie: beyond flirting) could be construed as “cheating,” with the stipulation being that you’ve declared “exclusivity” with your partner. (The Guy and I have declared that long ago.) I brought up the point that I occasionally receive sexual emails and I have been known to do semi-extreme flirting in one or two cases with correspondents, and I said that my role in those emails stopped as soon as I began seeing him, since I started to feel as though I would be betraying a trust.

I know my views on “cheating” are fairly old-fashioned; it’s anything that makes me feel like I should be saying or doing that with my Guy, not that other person. I have high standards for what I expect of friends, for what I expect of lovers, and even what I expect of myself, and not often do those standards get ringingly endorsed, but this time, Guy & I are on the same page.

In this day and age of cyber worlds and information highways, “cheating” can take on a million different looks. You can engage in cybersex, have a long distance literary love affair while still involved with a lover, you can ignore your sexual obligations in a relationship and spend all your time digesting porn and masturbating instead, or you can simply do the old-fashioned stalk-and-hunt of an extramarital lover via internet dating. It doesn’t matter. To me, if you’re in a relationship where you’ve vowed to be exclusive, there are things you unequivocally should not do – such as kissing someone else, exchanging love notes, or an afternoon rendezvous in a $39.99 motel. And you must, without a doubt, seek to have a strong and passionate sex life with your partner. It’s not called “roommates,” people.

But there are fine lines to what may or may not be construed as cheating, and the only way you’ll ever know what your lover would feel is a betrayal is if you ask.

Oh, and if you need to stop and deliberate as to whether the action could be construed as cheating? It’s cheating. I mean, use your fucking brain. Really. If you have to ask how much, you can’t afford it, baby.

But enough about me.
What do YOU think constitutes "cheating"?

Handjobs: Things You Need to Know, Part Two

I wrote a rambling introduction to the topic of Handjobs here, and part one of this instructional bit is here.

Pressure:
Ask him, for god’s sake! It’s his penis, he’ll know. This isn’t your ex-lover’s cock, or your high-school boyfriend’s cock, or your college fuck-buddy’s cock. This is his cock, and it feels differently about things than those other dicks did. If you ask, he will think you value making him feel good. It’s a smart way to go. Let him tell you. He’ll be glad you asked. Not all guys are comfortable telling you when it’s too hard, and some men will even endure pain to avoid offending you. Be a real woman, and ask.

Lube:
Covered this before. Most guys’ll say it needs it. If you want to avoid clean up and have better grip, you can put a condom on him. Start with oral and even end with oral, but it doesn’t need to be only one or the other. When it comes to using lube, start with only a little, and increase the quantity as needed. Too much will compromise your control.

Positioning:
It doesn't "really" matter. He should be comfortable, and reclining or lying down is a good thing for him. I like to begin by lying down next to him, or snuggling up, whatever, and typically begin with oral if I’m in the mood (see below) and then will sit up by his waist when I’m making progress and getting serious about the work. This gives you use of both hands, and more flexible access to all his parts, but begins with greater intimacy.

The Moves:
First off, every single one of these moves changes according to pressure and speed. Doing it nice and gentle will give him one set of feelings, but picking up the pace and gently increasing pressure as you go will take him to a whole new galaxy of feelings. Speed up, slow down, speed up, slow down. When you’re wanting to finish him off, pick the move you’ve seen the best reaction to, and just go to town. Once he comes, he’s going to get super-sensitive super-fast, and when he says stop, STOP. If you like, after a couple minutes, when he’s resting, you can just rest a hand on his cock, as if to say it was good for you, too. Or you can go have the beer you’ve earned. Whatever. ;)

Starting out, just play with everything. Caress his balls, place your open, flat hand over the length of his member and begin doing gentle-pressure circles over the whole region. Play with the tip of his penis, whatever you like. Better yet, take his soft-ish cock into your mouth, or nibble it with your lips, or lick it with varying degrees of pressure.

Then, once it’s harder…

The Ring-a-Ding-Dink:
For this, you make a “ring” of your index finger and thumb, or use the middle finger if he’s got greater girth, and wrap it around the base of his penis. Start tugging up and down, with firm pressure, but slowly, just around the base. So, this move has about a 1” rise on it. You’re not ascending the whole shaft, just staying right there at the base of the penis. Do it with more pressure and faster, and you’ll see him responding. A lot of nerve endings are at the base of the cock, hence why guys love penetrating you deep and hard, so it fires up those basal nerves. This is a great one to use during oral, too, while you have your mouth on his shaft’s head, and toy with it using your tongue to flick and lick around the head.

The Piston:
Standard move, girlies. But not, and I repeat not, a go-to move, not in my book. It’s a transitional thing. If he wants a piston job, let him do it later, and you know he will. Do a little piston work here and there, particularly when you’re wanting to move towards taking him to orgasm, so you can indicate speed’s about to pick up. This move’s just basically you wrapping your hand around the shaft and going up and down, from the base to the tip. If you’re using proper lube or a condom, it’ll make it easier to do full moves that take your hand up, over the penis’ tip, aka the “glans” or head. The head region’s crazy sensitive, so doing the piston via ascending over the head will be pretty hot for your man.

The Tweaker:
With both your hands around his penis (like you have them wrapped around the top of your steering wheel; your thumbs will be next to each other), you want to rotate your hands in opposite directions. One’s rotating towards you, the other’s rotating away from you. This gives him a pretty wicked set of feelings, and this move’s got a lot you can do to vary it. Such as:

• Stop rotating the hand by the shaft, instead, start pumping a bit, like you would with a stress ball, or if you were checking your blood pressure at the doctor’s, squeezing that rubber bulb. Now and then, just squeeze firmly. All the while, the hand wrapped around the top of the shaft continues what it’s doing.
• Or… Continue rotating around the shaft area, but flip your head-hand around, so your palm’s facing you and your thumb’s up at the top of his penis. Now your thumb can play with the head. This hand now does a mini-piston, while you rub and tease his glans at the same time. (So you have both the rotating and piston action at the same time.)

Knob-Polisher:
This is a fun one to do, and needs either a well-lubed condom or lots of lube on your hands. One hand’s around the shaft, maybe doing a mini-piston, while your other hand is open, with the palm on top of the head of his penis. Press down and do circles. That’s it. It gives him a lot of stimulation through his head. Press firmly, too, and harder as you go faster. Some guys get desensitized a little too quickly at the head of the penis, so you need to be aware of what your man’s tendencies are that way. You can do circular movements or you can do rapid side-to-side movements, but either way, his glans is gonna be happy.

Collision Course:
This is a bit of a mind-fuck, and one he’s virtually guaranteed to love. With your hands again in the “steering wheel” position mentioned above, you’re doing “opposite” pistons. Meaning, you’re doing the piston move, but your hands will be colliding – one’s going up from the bottom of the shaft, and the other’s coming down from the head. This goes against what his penis has been conditioned to feeling, so it’s a pretty wild departure. You can reverse this, so your bottom hand is moving down to the bottom (and emphatically colliding into his public wall, putting lots of pressure against his basal nerves) and the top hand goes up over the head, which it gives a good squeeze to as it does, and then back down. You can also change hand positions a la the second variation of the “Tweaker” above, but still maintain the opposite movements.

The Garden Hose:
This one’s just a nice departure. It's a softer move, but it should be done reasonably well-paced, and will give him sensation over his entire penis. In between some heavy action, or even starting out, just pretend you’re pulling out a length of garden hose… One hand goes gently up the shaft and off, followed immediately by the other, again and again and again, and as quickly as you can manage. Doesn’t work with a condom, but lube does the trick.

Diversions:
There are many ways to say to a penis, “I like you, you’re cute.” Tracing a finger up the shaft, either at the front or the back, can be fairly arousing. Playing gently with his balls can be lovely. Tickling his cock can be a pleasant shocker in the middle of a handjob, particularly if you have a feather nearby. Leaning down and breathing hotly on his moist cock can also be titillating sometimes.

I think those are all the “A” moves, and I’ll see if I can think of some more on the weekend. These are at least guaranteed to get you some results in the meantime. No promises about any more postings on this topic for now, though. But the point is, get creative. Bring in props, use your mouth, take moments here and there to nibble his thigh or tease his anus, if you’re wanting to prolong the experience. Don’t be afraid or awkward, and talk to him about what he’s liking. The more you see his enjoyment, and the more intense the orgasm you provide, the more you’re going to be enjoying this, too.

DISCLAIMER: I've had comments about uncircumcized guys v. circumcized, and the unaltered boys say they need little, if any, lube. Well, being your standard-edition Canadian girl, I've only ever met cut penises. They make lovely friends, but I'm sure I'd like there uncut companions, too. Unfortunately, I remain ignorant of more than just their company. So, their penis heads are apparently more sensitive, and lube is less of an issue. Duly noted.

Hand-Jobs: Things You Need To Know, Part One

Handjobs can be one of those awkward moments for women. It seems so… odd. How hard is too hard? How soft is too soft? Where’s the sweet spot? What in the hell should be done, just tugging, rubbing? What, what, what?

Every chick’s had a moment when they’ve caused a man to wince, or even cry out, from accidentally hurting his testicles or penis. We’ve all seen that terrible moment on the playground when some kid inevitably kicks another in the sack, only to see the victim crumple to the ground and begin crying like a girl.

I’ve only ever been violent once, and it was in a 7-Eleven, when a boy started clawing at me and trying to grab my then-growing boobs. I told him to stop, he didn’t, and I kicked him in the nuts, which surely looked different with me in my Catholic school kilt and dress shoes (poor fucker). I was 12, then, and didn’t really mean to kick as hard as it looked like I did, but boy, oh, boy, did I feel badly when I saw him balled up into a fetal position on the floor, whimpering like a kid whose dog just got mowed down by an 18-wheeler in front of his eyes.

Even as little girls, we learn that the cock is oh, so very sensitive, and yet, there guys are, tugging viciously on their members, it looks like, and so we think, “Well, that’s how to do it, then.”

Naturally, we reach out, manhandle that cock (or we do the opposite), and invariably hear, “Not so hard! Gently!” (Or "Harder, more like this.") Our synapses start firing. “What the fuck? Look at YOUR technique, buddy! What’s wrong with mine?”

Let’s see if we can clear some of that up right now. Oh, I should mention, specific moves come next time. This topic deserves some depth.

First off, guys need to be lubed up. Hand cream, baby oil, Aquaglide, whatever, but lube up. Chicks might sometimes use spit, but it dries quickly. Try tugging your finger, repeatedly, the way you would normally tug a cock. If you just rub up and down with no lube, two things happen: one, it burns, and two, it becomes raw. Not exactly the sensation you’re going for. And don't forget, when it comes to sensitivity, there's a world of difference between your digit and his.

Lube’s a great way to go, since you get the glide-effect going on. Personally, I find too much lube makes it hard to keep a little control over my hands. I mean, I’ve made good friends with my friendly neighbourhood penis, but really, I’m not sure I quite have the key to his house yet, if you know what I mean. Too much lube loses that little bit of control, and I’m more liable to overshoot my mark and have my hand keep slipping off his cock. Moderation.

Another great option that more chicks need to explore is that of using a condom for handjobs. If you’re wearing rings and forget to take them off, it’ll protect his crown jewels. If you have dry hands, it won’t be an issue. First off, the condom’s lubricated anyhow, but then there’s the pre-cum that also adds to his lubrication. (You can even use studded or ribbed condoms to heighten the experience further.)

The bonus, though? No need to worry about sperm shooting half-way across the room, or landing on you, or sullying the sheets, sofa, rug, or whatever. It’s tidy, it’s easy, and it takes the awkwardness out of the experience. Personally, it’s my favourite way to give a handjob. Starting to use condoms transformed how I felt about the experience (and made me realize how anal I am about having sperm shooting randomly across the room or wherever it’ll land, given my snazzy digs). Now I love giving a handjob and try to prolong his pleasure as long as I possibly can, since I know I can give a really, really intense orgasm, yet don’t have to exert myself too much, which means I can give him a handjob no matter how tired or not in the mood I may be. And, really, seeing the end result and knowing how satisfied I can make him, that’s a reward in itself, no matter what my mood was previously.

Handjobs, and some may not like the word since it seems so perfunctory, can truly be a beautiful, intimate moment between you and your guy. You’re able to keep eye contact, yet smother his body with kisses in between, as you stroke him towards nirvana. One reader even states he gets a much more powerful orgasm from a handjob than a blowjob, and perhaps it’s because more control can be had over what’s done and where, plus, you’re better able to see the reaction to all you do and gauge your actions as a result.

I wish I could have a penis, just for a day, so I could learn how everything feels. When I see what touching different parts of the penis can do to a man, it makes me curiouser and curiouser. Every time I give a handjob, it seems I learn something new about his penis. If, just as an example, I rub the base of it between my thumb and forefinger (always the flat part of your fingers, never the tip), just as if I were playing with a stone or something, rolling it back and forth, the reaction is pretty amazing… far more than I’d have expected, just seeing the standard rub-and-tug guys seem to get engaged in.

And that’s the thing women need to realize works to their advantage. Guys typically have a favourite method of masturbating, and they seldom vary it. Because of the angles we can have over them when it comes to doing the job on their behalf, we’ve got so many more approaches we can take. Because it’s foreign to us, even exploring new moves and ways of handling it will surprise and shock him, usually in positive ways -- if you’re watching the pressure you’re applying. It’s in the way we vary and switch things up that we’re able to bring that pleasure to a new plateau for them. It’s a new peak, a new high, and it’s never, ever what they would do for themselves.

Next time, I’ll be writing about specific moves. What you need to know now, though, is this: Every single part of the penis and the balls are sensitive to touch, even the inner thighs, and none of them should be neglected during a handjob. It’s not about “tugging one out,” it’s about variation, changes in speed, changes in technique, watching his reaction, knowing when to pull back, when to speed up, when to move your hand down to massage his balls or trace a finger up his thigh, and no guide book or scribe will ever be able to explain that. Every time you deliver a handjob, it should (and likely will) get better and better and better, because your knowledge of your lover is escalating… if you’re paying attention to him, that is.

Handjobs shouldn’t be awkward or strange. They should be something you can do for your man when he’s had a bad day or is feeling a little out of sorts, or when he’s hot and bothered but you’re tired and have a headache. It’s five, ten, fifteen minutes of your life, and hardly difficult to do, but immeasurably rewarding to him, and a terrific tool to use in keeping your relationship healthy and happy. If it’s clean-up and lube and grip that trouble you, keeping a pack of condoms around just for handjobs makes giving them far less of a chore, and really transforms them into the go-to move for keeping your lover happy. And becoming a master? Well, he’ll probably never be sorry you’ve compromised to give him manual stimulation, and in fact may come to look forwards to it. And hey, a surprise handjob during his favourite show or when he’s just lying on the couch might be a great way to shift gears for the evening.

You can do it, grasshopper.

You Asked? My Take on Tit-Fucking.

I’ve opened the topic of handjobs, and I’ll continue on them, too, but first a foray into titty-fucking, as one male reader has asked my thoughts on it.

I don’t know the numbers for how many women enjoy titty-fucking, but I know I’m one of the ones who’s actually turned off by the thought of it, and I simply won’t engage. I wish I wasn’t actually turned off by the idea, but hey, it is what it is.

Fortunately, it’s never been a problem. I’ve actually never expressed the dislike until a conversation with the Guy tonight, but no guy I’ve ever been with has been interested. Why not? Maybe it’s not as common a fetish as porn would have us believe. Nonetheless, I have a couple reasons for why it’s not my thang.

First off, depending who’s doing the measuring and my time of month (breasts swell and reduce in relation to the cycle), I’m between a generous B-cup and a smallish C-cup. I don’t care, I’m fine with my breasts as-is, but their size would limit the benefit for titty-fucking, IMHO.

Second, I just don’t find it attractive. It’s not my thing. I won’t apologize for not liking it, either. I won’t judge others, since I really don’t give a fuck what you do in your home. It gets you off? FABULOUS. Not me.

There’s an interesting dichotomy in the sexual world. One aspect is the woman who enjoys almost any sexual act. She’s often portrayed as lewd, slutty, easy, or loose, just because she’s an enthusiast. And that’s bullshit, my friends. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the activities you enjoy surrounding sex should not judge who you are as a person.

But then there’s the flipside. If you’re hesitant to do some of the so-called edgier/pornified things, you get painted a bit as a vanilla lover, or someone who’s “conservative” in the bedroom, which is also bullshit, my friends. There are many things I’ll do, and I’m caught between both extremes on the perception of what kind of woman I am, too. I’ve probably had more public sex than a lion’s share of the people out there, I’ve dabbled in bondage and many other little game-type scenarios. I dirty talk, I’m creative, and I sure as hell take the initiative. I’ll talk about nearly any aspect of sex, but there are things that pull me back into my shell a bit, things that sometimes daunt me, things that even turn me off. I shouldn’t be judged for knowing what I like or dislike, and that’s precisely what happens too fucking much.

There are sex-bloggers who might even snicker at me for admitting I have found handjobs awkward, or that I’m not as come-friendly as others might be, or that I view titty-fucking with great disdain, but you know what? Get the fuck over it. It’s my prerogative.

Being a good lover is: A) Knowing what you like, dislike, and love. B) Knowing how to express your needs. C) Being open-minded without compromising yourself, whatever that might mean for you. D) Not judging your lover’s desires, but being true to yourself so you’re not going to resent them after the fact. (Always, always consider how you’re going to feel if you perform an act that’s not generally your cup of tea. Some things I’ll do because I know how “he’ll” feel, and thus, I know I’ll feel great seeing that expression on “his” face. Some things, “his” response just doesn’t matter because I know I’ll be left feeling like I’ve compromised who I am as a result of my actions.)

Sex and love and intimacy are minefields. There are things that will hit and miss with each of us, and our likes or dislikes need to be respected, or the collateral damage leaves all players pretty frickin’ fragged.

Honestly, titty-fucking’s just one of those things that I suspect every woman has a multitude of thoughts on. Personally, being a woman with a little more to grab around the mid-section, there’s nothing that turns me on better than a guy who navigates my entire body and who enjoys every inch of me. I’m fortunate in my present relationship to have a great guy who appreciates the whole of the female form, not just the three money-shot areas that many guys obsess over: Twat, tits, and ass.

And that’s one of the problems with titty-fucking. It takes some of us back to the boring same old shit that focuses on specific regions of our bodies when not enough of our bodies get explored during the rest of the act. When’s the last time you kissed her behind the knees? Or nibbled her low back? Or sucked the folds of her elbows? Huh?

My opinion on tit-fucking isn’t going to change any time soon. It’s one of those things that’s just true to who I am. I’m open to anything from anal to bondage to outdoor sex and sex toys of all kinds, but there are some things I’m just not in the mindset to ever enjoy, and I don’t even want to humour the guy and do it, just because I know how I’ll feel at the end of it, and it probably will be something along the lines of feeling cheap. No, thanks.

Again, this is MY perspective on tit-fucking. There are women who absolutely love it, and kudos to them. Whatever gets your rocks off, baby. But don’t judge me for what I dislike. Instead, realize that my knowing not only what I dislike but being able to express why takes maturity, insight, and self-knowledge – things I wish more people had the courage to express. Until, however, we stop judging people for what they do or don’t do, the sexual self-knowledge club might remain on the exclusive side of things. A real fucking pity, that.

Handjobs for everybody!

The handjob is one of those topics I’ve been putting off.

I’m about to confess something that no self-professed sex writer should ever confess. Giving a handjob feels really fucking weird sometimes. There, I said it. Yep. It’s how I feel, people. Deal with it.

Wanna know something? I’m not alone. I’ve chatted with more than a few chicks “in real life” who’ve expressed the same sentiment.

I’ve been trying to figure out what’s so “weird” about it, too. Let’s face it, aspects of feminine masturbation are really quite delicate. Into clit orgasms? (Me! Me!) All a gal needs to do is lie there and do some 1-2” finger rotations, and whomp, there it is. Hell, I’ve masturbated in public places and never got noticed. (But let’s not talk about that.) It’s just that simple as a chick. Whatever we do, it tends to look pretty sophisticated and subtle, and it gets us off.

When a girlie needs to stroke a boy, though, it’s so utterly foreign to us. Worse yet, it’s so obvious and so clumsy. Most of the time, it can leave us feeling useless. Up and down, up and down – oops! I did it again! I just slipped my hand right off your cock again! Oh, MY.

It takes a while to get used to giving handjobs, for sure. If you’re gonna tug one out, it’s best to have a user’s guide, first.

I’ve been working on technique – enough said, thank you very kindly – and believe I have a couple suggestions for things to be done a little differently.

First, though, let’s address the girls’ concerns. “Why bother masturbating him when he’s so much better at it?” Well, because he knows what to expect if he’s gonna get himself off. He knows when he’ll change paces, he knows what the next move is, and he even knows the exact point he’ll stop. You, though, girlie-girl, you’re the mystery factor. You doing it is like he’s being taken for a drive blindfolded. He knows he’ll get there, but the route’s gonna be one hell of a different experience without a direction to be aware of.

Guys go through their teen years praying they’ll get a handjob at the end of the night. And while, as a grown-up, the money-shot’s really in a good blowjob, going for manual stimulation’s never too much of a disappointment. Except when her awkwardness and insecurities are too obvious, that is.

Have a chat with your guy, let him know you’re a little awkward driving stick. Tell him to let you know if you’re grinding the gears or shifting in all the right ways. Ask him to tell you when he’s enjoying a specific technique, or if he can’t speak at the time and it’s real, real good, to bite his lower lips and close his eyes.

Watch his face. Study him. Learn what he’s loving. This, unlike giving head, is basically a two-way experience, because you can soak up so much useful information as to what gets your man off. Is it the nib under the tip? Ringing the base? Stroking gently with just a finger up the top of his shaft? Maybe it’s the old knob-polishing routine that’s too under-used? Giving head, you can’t really follow his reactions as much, so use this for what it is, a learning experience, and an opportunity to give him a nice orgasm.

Always, always, always make mental notes about what your lover enjoys, I don’t care who you are or what you think you know. Bodies aren’t one-size fits all, and not every trick works on every dick. You’re on your own, mostly, sister. I’m only trying to make it a little less daunting, is all.

But right now, coffee beckons, plus a few other things. I’ll write more on hand-jobs in the coming days/week, since it’s not done yet (eeps) but I’m curious if there’s other women out there who can share their feelings about giving a handjob, whether they too have felt odd performing them previously, or if guys want to volunteer things they’ve enjoyed having done to them in the past.

*Honestly, I mean, giving head's great, but if you're like me and you've been in a half-dozen vehicle accidents or so, the neck strain can be a killer sometimes, despite my fondness for impromptu oral. Something like a handjob is a great way to do something really nice for your guy with a minimum of exertion, comparatively. So, yes, there are very good reasons to give handjobs, and more on that very soon. This photo's from Pornoperv.com. Doesn't look like that inspired of a handjob on either side, though, does it? Hmm.

Stress and Relationships

Life’s hard. We’ve all come to learn this through our own experiences. Adversity finds us, and it finds us with ease. Sometimes we deal well, and sometimes we don’t.

Almost always, the ones who bear the brunt of our emotional duress are those around us. Keeping our heads straight and keeping our emotions intact are what we’re told ‘adults’ do. So, we struggle. We keep ourselves under control, or at least we delude ourselves in thinking we’re managing to do so.

But then we snap. Little things piss us off, bend us out of shape. Inconsequential things, like other people’s bad driving, meaningless comments from our lovers, or so-called disappointments like the movie we’re wanting to see being rented out already. Then we grumble, moan, erupt.

Last week, a couple things sort of sent me headed towards Tizzy Land. My lover snapped at me once, and then said something a little crass and thoughtless the next day. Two things, two days in a row, was enough to make me start thinking, “Is this worth the effort? Don’t I deserve better?”

In reality, though, each of those moments couldn’t even amount to a molehill. Considering the weeks since we started seeing each other, all the adversity thrown at each of us, the fact that we’ve managed as well as we have in the face of those, and have had as many long and good and wonderful conversations as we’ve had, and that we have only had these two itty-bitty things to grouse about, things are going pretty fucking good.

The problem I’ve found with my relationship is that, with any new relationship, you get the “honeymoon period.” How doth I love thee? Let me count the ways. It’s the period when everything is bliss and sunshine, when you feel you’ve been blessed with something wildly great. It’s that time when everything you do is interrupted with those too-frequent giddy little thoughts of, “Mm, I’m seeing him/her tonight. Boy, I can’t wait! Mm… kisses!”

This relationship didn’t really come with a honeymoon period. It began with my being sick, followed by mutual money fears, followed by his short-lived good luck of being hired on permanently to his job, and then, whammo, a couple days later, he was felled with a serious broken leg that required two operations done same-day. Now, he’s on crutches still for about another month.

Me, I’ve been playing nursemaid, and I thought I wasn’t resentful about it. I really did. I’m the kind of gal who wants to be of use, who wants to help. Even more importantly, I’m a gal who spent a total of 20 weeks on crutches over about 13 and a half months, the last instance being just over a year ago. If anyone can relate to how fucking hard life on crutches is, it’s me. So, help I have, and as much as I’ve been able.

But then I snapped last week, and all because he had a grumpy moment. It’s fine and dandy to relate to someone’s problems, but when you think they have a reason to be grateful to you for putting yourself out for an hour or two, it’s far too bloody easy to forget that their frustrations are much greater than the few you’ve encountered in the recent hours. So, I disregarded how hard his life’s been of late, and how angry he probably is at all this, and let myself feel sorry for myself as a result, and then took it out on him.

A few years ago, it’d have been enough reason for me to walk away from the relationship. “Mmf, he doesn’t appreciate me.” I’d petulantly walk away, all in a huff, and take it personally. This time, I’m an adult with a little accumulated wisdom behind my years. I started to realize my anger wasn’t at him, not really. It was because we never had a honeymoon period, and now, here we were, in a “real” relationship, with disagreements and miscommunications, and it dawned on me… we probably would never have that honeymoon period after all. We’ve gone from meeting to having a mature, measured relationship, without any of the carefree bliss in between.

Caring for a person doesn’t necessarily mean you’re always going to be able to treat them as they deserve to be treated. It’s hard to be honest with ourselves about how difficult our adversities are. It’s even more difficult to be honest with ourselves about how overwhelmed we’re feeling in the face of those adversities. And let’s face it, it’s brutal to admit our powerlessness to someone we’re hoping always sees us at our best, especially if you’re the guy and you’re supposed to be stoic and strong. But as a woman, it can also be really challenging to admit those feelings because we don’t want to be perceived as needy or overly emotional. Both sexes always have too much to lose from telling the truth, or so we seem to believe.

Admitting disappointments and anger and fear and hopelessness is akin to admitting we’re not tough enough to take life on. None of us wants to be that person, the one who’s being beaten by adversity. None of us wants to admit to embarrassment or failure. The one person we ought to be able to admit these things to is the one person we hope will never find it out. We don’t want their illusions of us to be shattered. After all, we know the truth: We’re not perfect.

Or, maybe it’s a little different from that. In my case, I didn’t want to seem petty. I didn’t want my guy to know I was angry he broke his leg, that I was hurt by the reality that we were suddenly thrust into this serious situation whereby our bliss was hurled out the third floor window of a hospital. The incisions in his legs cut into the heart of our relationship and made things complicated – when things should have seemed blissful and easy.

The thing about a new relationship is that it takes the edge off an already hard life for a little bit, and we didn’t have that. I found myself resentful about it, and as a result, I hated that I could feel such a way – feel so petty, so needy – when I really, really liked the guy regardless of the struggles he now faced.

It’s hard to tell someone you resent what’s occurring to you as a result of their adversities, and that resentment can really prove damaging to us. A great example of this is from the absolutely incredible and amazing miniseries Angels in America, when Louis leaves Prior because Prior’s been diagnosed with AIDS. Louis loves Prior as much as any person can, but he’s too fucking weak to stand around and watch his lover succumb to his horrid disease, so he walks, and in so doing, very nearly destroys himself as a result.

We hate ourselves for our inability to deal with life’s challenges, and it certainly can kill our relationships. We all know that stresses send our sexual desires plummeting sometimes, and with that, one of our healthiest forms of release takes a walk on us, and next thing you know, an already unpleasant situation escalates.

In my situation, I think we’ve overcome the worst of the Guy’s adversities. It’s not over, not by a long shot, and I hope I’m woman enough to continue admitting to him when it’s difficult for me, too, while still being there for him when he needs it. I’ve no illusions about the difficulties that lie ahead for us as he begins the slow path to rehabilitation, but then, I’ve been through similar struggles myself, and I know that if anyone can provide the support and understanding he’s going to need during this time, it’s me. And, fortunately, something inside of me says it’s worth it. I hope I’m right. But therein lies another struggle, that of unknowing and that of doubt. We just never know.

But we can hope. So, I do. I know there’s one great tool we both have at our disposal, and fortunately, we both know how to use it, and that’s communication. It’s the only thing that gets us through these times, and it can never be underestimated.

RANT: Kids? Don't Have 'Em, Don't Want 'Em

I made a pretty quick reference to abortion in my last posting, simply stating that an inadvertent pregnancy on my part would, with absolute certainty, end in an abortion.

I have fairly strong views on abortion, and it’s one of my particular irks with America today. Sitting across the great divide, as a Canadian, it’s baffling seeing the land that’s so hell-bent on separation of Church and State on its quest to be its own Holy Land.

I swear, I think that if Bush accomplishes nothing in his time in office other than the radical reversal of Roe v. Wade, and brings about the elimination of abortion as birth control in America today, he will believe he has done his job as a leader. (Never mind that small matter of Iraq, the erosion of personal freedoms, information leaks, etc.)

But this is not the time for my soapbox.

Okay, well, yeah, all right: Any time is soapbox time.

But here, now, I want to talk about this myth of 2.4 kids, a dog, and a picket fence.

I’ve written in the past about the cultural objectifying of relationships – that if you’re single, you’re incomplete. Insert cheesy Jerry Maguire scene here: “You complete me.” [/swoon] Barf.

Not in a relationship? What’s wrong with you? You say you don’t want kids? Oh, give it time! You’ll meet the right person! You’re just being cynical. Everyone wants kids. You don’t know what you’d be missing!

Um, like, YEAH.

I’d be missing spending the rest of my life worrying about what’s gonna happen to my kids if anything happens to me. I’d be missing the complications of trying to find time alone with my lover. I’d be missing the ability to take time out for myself any time I need it. I’d be missing years of diapers, debt, spilled drinks, debt, crumbs in the sofa, debt, heavily soiled clothing, debt, kids crying about playground bullies, yada, yada, yada. Did I mention debt?

I’d also be missing the shaping of a young mind. I’d be missing the direct imprint of my values on another human being. I’d be missing the journey from embryo to adulthood, with all its zany stops in between. I’d be missing the endless surprises and laughter brought about by having kids around the house. I’d be missing the pride I’d feel as I watch my progeny take the world by storm, one small accomplishment at a time.

Don’t you think I know what kids add or detract from a life? That’s the thing that pisses me off. The smug, patronizing, “Oh, give it time, you just haven’t met the right man” bullshit I hear every time I have to explain, “Um, no, I don’t want children.” As if being a woman and shunning my birthright to bear kids is antithetical to nature itself. “Um, NO, I do NOT want children,” I have to say yet again, slowly, as if speaking to a brain-damaged psych ward lifer.

Fuck that, people. I don’t want kids because I’ve already spent too many years of my life patching up other people’s arguments and caring for a sick mother and forgetting who I was in between it all. I don’t want kids because I want to experience my life to the fullest, on my terms. I don’t want kids because, deep down inside, I know I’ll one day resent all the compromises I will have had to make in order to raise them well. I don’t want kids because kids deserve something better than some parent who’s only half-wanting to be there.

I don’t want kids because I have carefully considered all the ramifications, and I simply know I’m not willing to do what needs to be done to raise them well. And kids deserve better than being shipped off to boarding school by some prima donna parent who’s tired of the compromises.

When I was a teen, I was babysitting a fair bit. I had a great attitude, was fun to be around – because I love kids and think they’re an absolute hoot. They crack me up. And I always, always crack them up. I remember two women who made me really, really think about the whole parenting thing.

One had taken extreme measures to make her home a learning castle for her kid. She did everything for her kid, so much so that I wondered how in the hell she ever found time for herself. My guess is, she didn’t. The kid was doted on, and it showed – he was bright, funny, happy, wonderful. He really was a terrific kid, and I knew his mother and father were huge – HUGE – players in that reality. I realized how much then a woman had to forsake (and in theory, the man, too) in order to properly raise a child. I realized then how much my mother put into raising my brother and I. It was daunting, to say the least.

The other woman took the “Well, it’s my life too” method of parenting to a whole new level. I was hired as a babysitter who would come over three to four nights a week at 8:30. I would put the kid to bed, and the mother’s partying would begin. The mother had a one-way radio in case something happened to the kid, but she was in a separate wing of the house, and for all I knew, would never look in on the kid. I’d return at 7am, get the kid ready, and take him to school. I would be paid for 12 hours of work, despite doing only about five – and I was only 17 at the time, and still going to school. This woman was doing blow, drinking like a fish, and sleeping with other men, despite being married. I didn’t need x-ray goggles to figure that much out. I saw what was in the kid’s future – anger, resentment, aloneness, despair, and a lack of self-esteem. Oh, and boarding school. Mom might have been around, but she made it pretty fucking clear where her priorities were.

Having kids is not to be taken lightly. Children deserve love, attention, nurturing, fun, and every kind of support imaginable. I’m a fan of parents who invest in their kids – who are so proud of their kids’ works of art that they frame them. I admire parents who expose their kids to new worlds, who don’t let their tykes crash in front of the TV and remain. I can’t get over, and never cease the admiration of, parents who are actively involved in all areas of their children’s lives, who establish trust and openness at a young age, and who stay plugged in as long as possible, who put their kids where they deserve to be put: First.

But I’m not willing to make the sacrifices in my own life to be that kind of parent, and I’m not going to do a half-assed job, either. The last thing any kid ever needs to know is that you’d rather be lying in a hammock in Bali, working on your novel. No kid needs to know you wish you’d made different choices in the past, and I know that’s how I’d feel, regardless of the highs.

So how in the fuck does my knowing where to draw the line in my sand make me some sort of crass, unplugged woman who doesn’t get what she should be? Society judges chicks like me, still, and I’m tired of it.

Hell, I was watching Oprah the other day and Kirstie Alley was on, talking about dating, and she insists that any man she sees be previously married and even have kids. “If you’re over 40 and you’ve never been married, you’re a perv!” she shouted. Oprah just laughed – but I wonder what went through her mind. She’s over 50, has never been married, and has never had kids. Why? Because she feels she has a different role to play in life, so why limit her potential by being a mother?

And before you get up my ass about the “limited potential” as a mother comment, think about it. If your first priority is NOT raising your child, you’re probably not doing it as well as you could, or should, be doing it. Those are the sacrifices you’ve elected to make. So make them.

Me, I’ll have no kids. I watch my nephew and my friends’ kids with great love and respect. I try to play an important role in their upbringing, as I know I’ll never play that role for kids of my own. I have “kids” out in the world now, going to university, who I taught how to write when they were only 8 or 10 years old, and they still remember all the things I taught them, and they smile at me, and tell me stories about the way I made them fall in love with writing. I cherish the knowledge I’ve been that for those kids, and that I still am that for others, since I’m still having the same powerful experiences I used to have… yet I go home at night, alone, and have a long, lingering bath, a meal I’ve cooked and can enjoy in silence, and I watch what I want to watch on television, and I go to sleep and wake up whenever the hell I want.

Life is about balance. And I have achieved mine, moreso of late with the acquisition of a great relationship, and I have no regrets about my definition of "balance", and no intention to change it.

If kids are on your list of must-haves, along with item H on page 62 of the latest Restoration Hardware catalog, you better fucking check your motivations and know, with certainty, that you’re able to make the required sacrifices to give that child all the attention and love it deserves. Otherwise, kindly outsiders like me are the ones who’ll be picking up your fucking slack, and really – I’ve got better things to do.

RANT: The Dumbing-Down of the Modern Femme

I can’t help it, I like Oprah. I even have the 20-hour 20th Anniversary DVD set, but I blame GayBoy for that, since he picked it up as an Xmas gift for me.

So, there I was, watching it, and who should she have on? Pink. The chanteuse who belts out that anti-mainstream track, Stupid Girls. Oprah invited her onto the show based on the brilliance of that track’s video, (you can play it here) which mocks the mainstream perception of what the complete woman is these days.

The gist of it is this, we live in a most ludicrously plastic time. This cult-of-celebrity shit goin’ round just pisses me the hell off. I could go and pepper this fucking rant with a hundred celebrities’ names and get myself some major hittage, but I won’t stoop that low.

God forbid I should piss off the power-bloggers (IE: Pink is the New Blog, Go Fug Yourself, Gawker, and more), but who gives a shit? How can people today care even remotely as much as they do about what Mr. Fucking Britney Spears is doing with his life? Does it matter?

The answer to that is an unequivocal NO.

I can’t understand the obsession. Can anyone explain this to me? Probably not. People are becoming so vacuous and vapid and shallow that it’s a wonder the world has any future, seriously. Cure for cancer? Not fucking likely! A better world? Fuck no! A better cellphone? You betcha!

But I’m getting off-track. What pisses me off most of all is what’s happening to the chicks of today’s generation.

I’m a fierce feminist, baby, in my own way. I don’t resent men a bit. I don’t want to see masculinity erode as the price of my attaining a stronger position in the world. I think I can have my cake and eat it, too. (And I do, it’s chocolate and caramel. Tasty.) I’m smart, I’m sexy in my cute little way, and I live my life with my integrity on my sleeve. I capitulate to no one, yet understand compromise is a way of life. I know how to get what I want, how to say what I mean, and how to behave in a non-threatening, yet intelligent manner.

Too bad the same can’t be said for the younger chicks coming up behind me. What the FUCK is going on? I blame Britney Spears, Madonna, and anyone else who’s put their fucking beauty before their brains in the last couple decades.

Like Pink said, “Sexy and smart aren’t oil and water.” You do NOT need to dumb yourself down to sex yourself up.

As long as men have a choice between a non-threatening chick who’s gonna laugh at their jokes and a smart chick who can bring some edumacatin’ to the table, there’s going to be a dichotomy of choice. The guy who chooses the latter’s always going to be the better choice for you, and don’t forget it.

Now, I don’t run around flexing my big IQ all the day long, but I can flex it when I need it, and I never, ever abandon it in favour of making a less-threatening impression.

I could have, back when I was the Queen of First Dates. I know I intimidated more than a few guys, but they got what they deserved. I said I wanted an intelligent guy who wasn’t threatened by my intelligence, yet THEY showed up on the fucking date. What, did I stutter? You wanted smart, so long as she isn’t smarter than you? Keep going, bub, this ain’t your stop.

We have a generation of Bubblegum Girls on our heels. The ones who think cleavage speaks louder than creativity, that breast size matters more than brains, that plastic surgery is the path to perfection.

Got news for you: There is no perfection.

The Guy’s not one of these losers who can’t handle smarts. But then, he’s pretty darned smart himself. Put us in a hat store and they’re gonna have some trouble sizin’ us up, I bets. He referred to me as “flawed” when listing all the things he liked about me. I furrowed my brow and quizzed him, “Flawed?” I think he was worried I was taking it the wrong way, but I was somewhat amused, since I’ve no illusion on my shortcomings. Still, he explained his thinking and introduced me to something that has previously eluded me: The concept of Wabi Sabi.

No, no, not the green stuff you mix with soy sauce for sushi, that’s wasabi. This is the Japanese principle of imperfection being the definition of beauty. That is, it’s in our uniqueness, our flaws, our subtle imperfections that our true beauty lies. The guy cited Sophia Loren as an example – weird eyes, large nose, strange jaw, dominant cheeks, but you throw it into a bowl and give it a good mix, and you have one of the most stunning beauties of this past century.

But tell that to our vapid Western society. Tell that to they who wield the airbrushes of the world. Tell that to Gawker, to Vogue, to the music video industry. Tell them that the scar on my right nostril gives me character or uniqueness. To them, it’s a reason to go under the knife and be “healed.” Tell them my intellect makes as large an impression as my big green eyes or my smiling lips or my verging-on-ghetto bootay. Today, it just don’t work that way.

While other girls wanted to be Madonna, I wanted to be Janeane Garofalo. I nearly died laughing last week when the Guy and I were talking about the “Allowed To Fuck” monogamy exlusion -- that one person we can fuck outside the relationship, if the opportunity arises. His choice? Janeane Garofalo. My response? “Shit, I’ll join you.” (I haven’t decided who I’d choose yet. Hmm. So many choices, so little time. My answers were not finite, Guy!)

Garofalo’s cute, smart, sexy, funny as hell, and she doesn’t take shit from no one. Did I mention the killer smarts? And, like me, she wears glasses instead of contacts. She’s flown in the face of a Hollywood that demanded she conform, yet she’s held her own. Sure, she’s thin now, but she wasn’t always, and she did it for herself, not for the industry.

It’s bad enough that the media’s perpetuating these stereotypes – and even escalating them, but to have today’s young women participating in these negative trends usurping them of their righteous feminine powers is a fucking travesty.

Respect yourself. Be who you really are. Use your brains. Speak in your own voice. Don’t dumb shit down for a guy who doesn’t deserve what you have to offer.

And men, if you’re tired of the vapid beauties, fucking well SAY something about it. You may enjoy looking at the images, but are you enjoying the lack of brains that come with?

Can we, for once, return to the long-ago fantasties of sexy librarians and teachers with yardsticks? Chicks with brains who knew what they were doing when they dropped their drawers? Is it really such a terrible thing, self-knowledge and the ability to express one’s self? Must I and my peers continue feeling like some sort of carbon-dated example of what women once were?

‘Cause, shit, honey, I’ll tell you one thing: I go under the knife for no one. I am what I am, it is what it is, and you’d better get accustomed.

The Fantasy Business

The guy is asleep, about four feet to my left. He looks so different when he’s sleeping.

We were talking the other night and I told him I would have to start getting up before him for awhile on weekends, so I could write, as it’s really important to me. He understood, naturally, and began narrating, suggesting the above opening line as an opening line. I had different ideas in mind, naturally, but hey… I’m in the fantasy-fulfilling business, you know.

And maybe you don’t know it, but you are, too.

I was reading a certain high-profile sex blog yesterday in which another blog was mentioned, in both a positive and negative manner.* The former blog included a negative mention of the latter’s recent dismissal of her lover’s desire to come on her tits sometimes. The latter told her man he was “acting like an idiot,” and apparently he apologized, saying he was “horrified” with his behaviour.

Yeah. Right. Both myself and the voice of the former blog state that any notion of this guy truly being “horrified” is more hilarious than it is likely.

What is likely, though, is that she managed to, in one simple, fell swoop, dissuade her man from being anything but truly honest with her in the future. She more than likely made him feel like an idiot, though. Shame’s a killer in a relationship, and she’s going to come to regret that, whether she wants to admit it or not. Somewhere down the road, she’s gonna wonder where it all changed. Well, that’s the fulcrum there, baby.

Sex takes all kinds. We’ve all got strange little fantasies, although his wasn’t all that strange, nor really out of the norm at all. Far be it for me to suggest you do anything you’re uncomfortable with, but as far as fantasies go, allowing your guy to shoot his load on your tits isn’t exactly all that invasive.

Personally, I’ve admitted before that I’m not really into the above. Would I shut a lover down for asking? Jesus, no!

Your job, as a lover, is to listen to your partner’s wishes, dreams, and desires. That means, if they have a d-i-r-t-y fantasy, you should be listening to it. Do you have to partake? Absolutely not. But I don’t care if you’re the goddamned Queen of England – you have NO right to ridicule them or mock them for their wishes. Don’t you EVER think otherwise.

Deep down inside, I’ve always had this ridiculously stupid fantasy of having sex in an anti-gravity chamber. Yeah, loverboy and I are cracking the code for NASA and taking a field-trip. Right. (Although there was reportedly a hotel in Paris that offered the services once upon a world, if I recall correctly.) Still, I’ve thought of it more than once. It’s there, on that list, “Things I’ll do if the chance arises.” Mental note made, long, long ago.

Fantasies are what they are, and everybody has the right to them. Shutting down your lover for their wishes is akin to telling your kid they’re too stupid to be an architect. Who in the HELL do you think you are?

Don’t like the idea? Just say no. Tell them you understand why it might get them off, but you’re uncomfortable with performing that act. They’re not insulted, and you’ve made your point known. Peachy.

But in a perfect world, you’d grow the hell up, and realize that most of these things aren’t going to kill you, but they might take your lover to a place they’ve never been before. Now you decide. Do you want to be a selfish person, and just say no all the time, or do you want to explain that it doesn’t do anything for you, but you’re willing to indulge their desires, if it makes them happy, once in a blue moon?

Consider it like one of those strange food cravings we’ve all had: pickles and ice cream, a bacon & peanut butter sandwich, liver and onions. It’s not a regular part of our diet, but once in a frickin’ while you just can’t help yourself. There’s almost this shame behind it. I’m eating bacon with peanut butter. Just like that fat fuck Elvis. Is there a dire future with a toilet in front of me? We’re secretive about it. Guilt, guilt, guilt, baby, but GOD, it feels good.

Now, imagine you’re sitting there, dreaming of this sandwich, and in comes your lover, who’s always stated it’d make him/her ill to have one. And there they are, holding the sandwich with bacon cooked just the way you like it, on the best bread, with the best peanut butter, and they made it themselves. Now, I guarantee you, apart from just satisfying a craving, it’s gonna be the best fucking sammich you ever sank your teeth in. It’s a gift, it’s thoughtful, and completely selfless.

Like fulfilling any fantasy can be.

And let me say another thing: If you lord it over them (“see how generous I am? You owe me, you know,”) then you’re still a lousy lover, don’t kid yourself. It’s not about power or debt or superiority. It’s about just being there in a way that makes your lover feel a little more validated by you.

Hmm. And you know? Mine really does look a little different while he’s sleeping, and it’s time I returned to him.

Listen to your lovers. Indulge them sometimes. Never judge them. Always respect them. Is it really so fucking hard?

*I'd rather not give publicity to her in a negative way. She's already getting slammed, and if she reads this, she'll know it's her.

Kiss Me, You Fool! Some Tips.

It's Friday, do you know where your lover is?

So, the Guy had his first week back to work since the broken leg and surgery transpired last Monday. At times, he was in a world of hurt. Other times, he had small accomplishments. Yesterday was a good day, Wednesday was not. But since yesterday happened most recently, I'm optimistic the Guy might have the energy to get a visit from yours truly. 'cos, like, you know he needs energy for that, right?

And that would rock. I'm going into kissing withdrawal. You have to understand, I just absolutely love kissing. It's really not often we find someone whose mouth fits ours perfectly and whose kissing style works with yours. This is that fit. We could kiss for hours. And do. Among other things, of course. But KISSING... oh!

Now, I've got mad kissing skills. I can go soft, gentle, tender. I can deliver a deep, probing kiss that says nothing less than, "Take me now, you beast!" Kissing's a world of wonderful variety. Long, deep, slow, hard, furtive, ferocious, fun. Whatever works for you. And it ALL works for me (and him, yay!).

Why do we kiss with our eyes closed? Ever wonder? Muscle memory, baby. It's easier to kiss by feel and sensation when you take the visuals out of the equation. I've noticed that every time I open my eyes to study the Guy mid-kiss, I lose my pacing. Sad, but true. And I know I'm a good multi-tasker, so, hey, it's a hit to the pride to admit.

I was asked recently to post some kissing tips. I will. I'm not getting into actual techniques today, just tips. So, without ado:

• It's best to kiss with your heads off-set at 45-90 degree angles. It allows for better contact, lip-sealage, if you will. Sometimes, though, just contacting is what it's about. You crank your head up off his lap for a kiss while watching TV, whatever, and then, you go where it takes you. Don't think so much. Yoda might say, "Do, or do not, there is no think."
  
• Always try to swallow before you kiss. Nobody wants a mouthful of saliva. Moist, not wet. There's a big difference, and it ain't just semantics.
• Get your hands in on the action. Caress their face, hold their neck and pull them to you. Whatever, but it shouldn't just be about lips.
• Lips have a great deal of nerves in them, happy nerves. Don't forget to suck and nibble the lips in between tongue-probing. I love, love, love lip-nibbling and nibbling lips. OH.
• Do you suck tongue? You should. But for the love of god, try not to be too aggressive! Light sucking, like you're feasting on a Creamsicle. Use your tongue to toy with theirs as you suck, too, if you like. Lightly drag your teeth up their tongue as you release your prisoner.
  
• Every now and then, detour away from the lips to let them get their sensation back. May I recommend dotting their face with light kisses (and light sucking), particularly over the eyebrow hump thingie, the earlobes, and on the neck just under the chin and jawline? Hell, anywhere will do, baby. Money-shot: Back of the neck. Yeah, baby! Me, I kiss every inch of the guy's face and neck (and more), and just love doing it. He doesn't seem to mind, either.
  
• Feel free to moan softly during kisses. The vibrations of the moans can add a nice little dimension to the kissing. But, really, don't go over the top. It's a mood killer. Soft, barely-there moans. MmmmM.
  
• Don't dominate the kisses. Do quick exchanges of probing. Stay interactive.
• Sometimes, stop and linger with the lips just hovering in proximity of each other -- a half inch or centimetre away. Breathe softly, take quick lip nibbles, and linger teasingly slightly apart. Now's a great time to lean in for a hard, long kiss. MmMm.
  

I'll get into specifics of kissing techniques another time. It's sort of daunting, actually, trying to think of how to describe tongue moves, et al. But I have a pretty spiffy research subject, and he's willin'.

Now, get out there and kiss, people. God knows it's in my plans.

The Passion of the Artist (And the Lover)

I’ve been thinking of artists and passion today, and how important it is to keep that passion alive, whether in life or in love.

I saw the Johnny Cash biopic Walk the Line last night and came home wanting to write about the importance of having your passions appreciated by those you love. For some reason, I’ve been unable to put it together in a way that works.

This morning, I began thinking of another movie coming to that same theatre I so love here in Vancouver, the Hollywood, a classic theatre from 1937, which has been owned by the same family for all these years. I’ve seen movies like Casablanca, Gone with the Wind, and The Wizard of Oz there, and secretly covet the knowledge that they all aired there first-run, all those decades ago. These days, it’s a second-run theatre that specializes in great double-bills for the low, low price of $6. (Add to that real butter for the popcorn, and you’ve got yourself a winner.)

The other movie coming soon is Capote, and I’ve been thinking a good deal about it thanks to a conversation with The Guy. You might wonder what Capote and Walk the Line have in common, but they’re both about artists and how destructive the quest for one’s art can be.

Cash was very nearly destroyed by his music, as a result of his first wife being unable or unwilling to appreciate or support his craft – something as integral to him as the air he breathed. She fought him on all things musical and demanded he be the cliché man-about-the-house when he was no longer on tour. He felt like he was living a lie, and lies are as destructive as any force of nature can be.

Capote, on the other hand, one of my life-long writing influences, sacrificed everything to tell a story he predicted would change the way non-fiction was written forever. He was right about the impact of his creation (In Cold Blood), but failed to see what being unwilling to compromise his story would do to him as a man, and what it did was destroy him utterly. He never wrote another word and succumbed as a bitter, angry, heartbroken man to the diseases of alcoholism and loneliness.

I was a writer with writer’s block for six years. Anyone who tells you writer’s block is a myth doesn’t know what they’re talking about. What it is, is simply the failing to know yourself anymore. It’s the failing to know the route inside yourself, and they don’t sell those compasses. I believe that once you’ve overcome writer’s block – true, heart-wrenching, long-term writer’s block – that you’re stronger than it is, that you learn more about yourself than you ever would have otherwise, about the dark places inside, and the block will never happen again. (Not to me, anyhow.) But it destroyed me then. I felt dead inside and out. I hated my life. I wonder sometimes how intentional my two life-threatening accidents really were, whether I subconsciously sought an "easier" way out of my pain. I'll never know.

For some of us, what and who we are is simply not negotiable. I am a writer, a woman, a photographer, a lover, pretty much in that order. Even as a failed writer, I knew it was all that I was – a writer, but a writer without the words, a writer with the failure to realize her potential. Today, if a lover (ie: The Guy) ever tells me to stop talking about writing, I’d be out the fucking door like a shot. Fortunately, I can’t see that happening this time around, since I believe it’s one of the things that mutually endears us to each other.

When I was seeking out men as The Queen of First Dates, the litmus test for me was my writing. Did they get it? Did they care? Were they intrigued? No? Buh-bye, and thanks for flying Air Not in This Life.

Our passions are who we are. Our loves are who we are. Our actions are who we are. Our dreams are what we aspire to, and thus who we are. We absolutely must be appreciated on those levels, for if we’re not, we become shells of who we possibly can be.

Too many of us have to face the reality that we don’t get the support we need in our lives. Too many of us settle for lovers who don’t understand our visions, who don’t push us in the directions we need to travel in.

Instead of saying, “Wait, I deserve better,” we somehow begin dismissing those dreams, those loves of ours, our passions. We tell ourselves that it’s OUR obsession, not theirs, and we shouldn’t inflict it upon them. We somehow justify the segregation of who we are in those quiet moments in the dark of night with who we’re supposed to be in the light of our relationships. We compromise.

And we pay the price no one should ever have to pay.

Capote and Cash are perfect juxtapositions of what could have been and what was, in the face of artists sacrificing for their art. Cash finally had his first marriage end as a result of his destructive behaviours, and was ultimately saved from that destruction when he was finally able to act upon the passion he’d long felt for June Carter, who saved him from himself by becoming the love of his life. So much so that when she passed away in 2003, he’d follow her to the grave inside of four months later. The bond of love sometimes transcends death, for the lucky and the few. They were of that number.

Capote (seen here in a photo taken shortly before his death) had to choose between fighting for the life of a man he’d come to love, or praying for his death by execution, a death that would make his book a best-seller and give him a writing angle that would be unparalleled. The execution inevitably happened, with Capote looking on as that neck snapped and the body dangled from the gallows, and despite then finishing what would be the crowning achievement of his literary career, it destroyed the man.

This is what art can do. This is what passion is.

A few years back, I lost all my passion. Every bit of it. I don’t know if it was due to the adversities in my life or due to the writer’s block, it’s really a chicken-or-the-egg non-sequitur that I’ll never solve. I know the result, and there are nights I still remember the hollow I’d become, and marvel at the changes I’ve seen since. I drank to excess every night. I numbed myself into oblivion with drugs and irresponsibility. I cut myself off from everyone in my world. I didn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone except the pain I felt. I wallowed in it and never rose above the surface. One day, that began to change.

Now, passion is all I have in the face of an uninspired bank account and a not-so-rivetting lifestyle. But the passion is all I need, and I’m more content than I ever dreamed I could be. When you rediscover passion – for life, for love, for art, for nature, for all of the above – you realize how incredibly disposable the rest of your life really is.

But it isn’t something you can acquire externally. It comes from within. Your external choices, though, can impact how much of the passion you can embrace. Does your lover share your passions? No? That’s an obstacle. Does your work encourage your passion? No? Another obstacle. Does your life allow for you to pursue that passion? No? A greater obstacle. When we amass enough obstacles, we choose to avoid the struggle it takes to keep passion alive. It’s easier. Thus, we coast. We meander meaninglessly through life, and ultimately, we succumb instead to avoiding death, not celebrating life. Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’, like the man in Shawshank Redemption says.

I’m happy I’ve found someone who seems to get what I’m about, on every level. It’s such a challenge to find that. It’s so easy to cloud the issue with silly things, like we like the same movies or we both play baseball. At heart, what are you? Does your lover understand it? Do they appreciate it?

If not, you’ve got to ask yourself if you deserve – no, need – more. I know I did. For the moment, I have what I need, and that’s a start.

Erectile Problems: Bent Outta Shape When Not Takin' Shape

I have long been a believer that men have far too much pressure on them when it comes to sex. It’s why I started writing about how to become a vixen (such as this and this, which I must continue, and will) and it’s why I’m constantly saying that I feel women need to initiate sex as often as men, if not more.

God knows I try to.

There is one thing people are eternally guilty of, and that is believing the notion that sex is about orgasms, not intimacy. As a result, we have a market flooded with Cialis, Viagra, and other miracle-cures for the Minute Man.

It enrages me when I hear about women whining that a man couldn’t get it up. It happens, honey. Get the fuck over yourself.

The reasons why a man might not get it up are many – from a too-long bike ride to an allergic reaction to his meal to too much alcohol to too much job stress to a woman who can’t keep her mouth shut about certain topics during foreplay. I’ve had guys tell me they couldn’t get it up because a photo of her mother was right there. Who the fuck knows what’s causing it? All that matters is, it happens, and more than the media and women want to accept. Tough. Get over it.

The common penis doesn’t come with a helium pump for inflation purposes. There is no "on" switch. Trust me, if there were, I’d have fucking nailed the technique by now. When it comes to sheer instinct on the male body, I’m certainly near the head of the class. When it comes to technique and attentiveness, again, I know I’m there.

Yet, nonetheless, the Guy had difficulties with maintenance during an otherwise great Saturday night. Neither of us realized at the time that the copious Tylenol 3s he’d been needing to take all week for his horrendously broken leg (on which he had surgery on Tuesday afternoon to insert two Titanium plates and countless metal screws around and in both his tibia and fibula, for a total of three through-and-through breaks, which was then wrapped in a too-vulnerable soft cast that kept getting knocked by Miss Butterfingers here) came with a side-effect of erectile dysfunction and decreased libido.

Well, the libido? Trust me, not a problem. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get it up, he sure as hell could – far too many times. It just didn’t want to maintain long enough for follow-through. Thus, frustrations understandably ensued – not from me, but from him. He was bitter and maybe even a little unnecessarily angry at himself, because his track record was anything but that of inconsistency.

But, you know, we talked, we made it through the night in relatively good spirits, and in the morning, with a sponge bath by yours truly and a start-up blow-job, everything worked out quite nicely. Enough that I had to cancel my evening plans to recoup, honestly.

A little research later and suddenly the light came on: Drugs will fuck you up. C’est la vie.

(And for all the guys out there cringing and thinking, “Oh, my god, how could she do this to him and tell this story?” Well, I told the Guy I’d write something and pretend a reader sent in a letter, and he said not to bother, it was cool. Now THERE is a man comfortable with his sexuality, people. And rightfully so.)

Here’s the deal. Erectile dysfunction happens. It’s not the end of the fucking world. When guys get bent out of shape because they’re not taking shape, it’s really unattractive. A little frustration is understandable, but getting pissed off about it, walking out, anything like that, it’s childish, unattractive, and shouldn’t happen. Guys, get over yourselves.

But is it that simple? No. The media and women are most of the problem on the shame-over-"failure" front, sadly.

Chicks who take it personally, who the hell do you think you are? Get over yourselves. Most of the time, it’s not about you. Most of the time, it’s any one of a hundred little things that can transpire to blow a mood… Or maybe it’s major surgery with insertion of too much Titanium four days previous and a hellishly fucked limb.

Any which way, when a guy can’t do what guys are supposed to be able to do, it’s a crushing damned blow, and not one they’re wanting to have to face – OBVIOUSLY. For you to escalate it by doing the whole, “What’s wrong? Is it me? Well, what can I do to help? Maybe we can try again later?” 20-questions, woe-is-me, I-must-not-be-sexy crap is about as lame a thing as you can lay on a man – a man who really doesn’t need your shit at that moment.

Kiss him, tell him it’s cool, slide your hand tenderly up and down him, tell him you’re thrilled to feel his warm, sweaty skin next to you as it is. Ask him if there’s anything he’d like to do instead. If he wants to give you oral and get you off that way, then that’s something you should encourage. If spooning's his bag, great. Whatever you do, don’t make it about you. Even if it IS about you, don’t get hung up on that.

Any chick who’s really baffled about the mechanics of the cock (or guys, for that matter) – and it’s not as simple as it looks – could read Dick: A User’s Guide in order to get exposed to the basics about penisology. For something more in-depth, focusing on psychology of the cock and all that, I’m not sure what to suggest, since I’ve not happened upon something that fits that bill. (Although Paul Johannides' Guide to Getting It On is about as complete a sexyclopedia as you'll ever find, and it takes the psych-side of cock quite well, plus all the other need-to-know sex basics that every lover should pore over.)

Let's face it. Guys tend to be pretty non-communicative. That’s typically how they work. Stress can impact performance, and you putting a negative spin on it’s really fucking uncool.

I know I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. Sex isn’t just about orgasms for me, it’s about intimacy, and if things aren’t working, I’m more than happy to be entertained in other ways. It’s about the closeness, which I fucking love.

It helps that I understood somewhat the world of pain the Guy’s been in this past week, having spent about 20 weeks in a single year on crutches myself a couple years back, so I had pretty low expectations going into things. I was pleasantly surprised on Sunday and in the end had a pretty wicked time of things. It was a “gee, I could really go to church and do confession now” kind of weekend despite mechanical difficulties on Saturday. Now, the guy’s prematurely weaning himself off the drugs, in a conscious decision that he’d rather endure pain so he can enjoy the pleasure in between. I secretly don’t mind. ;) I know a couple pain-negating moves, I assure ya, Guy.

I’d like to think the Guy finds me hotter and cooler now that he knows I’m not going to be a bitch in a moment like that. I’m not looking for brownie points, that’s just the kind of chick I am. I get this shit, and you should, too.

One of the worst things to ever happen to sex, in my point of view, is the whole Viagra thing. Yes, lasting’s awesome. Yes, orgasms rock. Yes, being hard’s much more fun than soft. But it ain’t all about that, and when it comes to the little blue pill, that sometimes gets forgotten. Sex should be about remembering what the point was in the first place: Getting close, experiencing the person from head to toe, travelling the terrain of their body, exploring all they have to offer. It’s not just about getting hard and getting off. It’s time to take the ego out of sex, before the ego kills the fun.