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Archive for sexploreum

CALL OF THE DAY: a conversation with Extreme Top, with counterpoint from my raging inner voice

- Hi, Daddy.

“Hi, baby girl. How are you?”

HOW DO YOU THINK I AM, YOU OBLIVIOUS TOOL? IT’S TURNING INTO 1933 GERMANY OUT THERE, FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK….

- Okay, daddy. How are you?

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” <heavy breathing> “Tell me about your tits, when you’re in middle school.”

GOD, AGAIN? DO YOU EVEN KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CUP SIZE AND BAND SIZE, YOU FUCKNOODLE? NO OF COURSE YOU DON’T, NONE OF YOU FUCKERS DO.

- Well, Mommy pumps them every night, so they’re up to a 28GG now.

“Oh my god, oh my god.” <heavy breathing> “And how does she like to dress you? She likes to show off your tits, doesn’t she? Tell me. TELL ME.”

FUCKIN’ CHILL YOU ASSHOLE I’M TRYING TO ASSEMBLE A PRE-TEEN SLUT WARDROBE IN MY HEAD UM…

“TELL ME!”

- Yes, um, well, I’ve got a tight tee-shirt…

“It shows your freakishly large nipples, doesn’t it?”

YES OF COURSE IT DOES, BY THE WAY THE SHIRT HAS CHE GUEVARA ON IT, WITH THE EYES RIGHT OVER WHERE MY NIPPLES ARE POKING OUT.

- Oh, yes, daddy, and the fabric rubs against my nipples and gets them all hard even before I get to the school bus stop.

“Everyone can see, can’t they? They can see.” <heavy breathing> “They can see how you’re dripping milk.”

RIGHT <flipping through the Book of Extreme Top Motifs> HERE WE ARE, THE PREGNANT TEENAGE SLUT SCENARIO WITH MILKY BREASTS UPGRADE, THIS PAGE IS ALMOST WORN OUT.

- They can totally see the milk, daddy and they can see my round little belly stretching the t-shirt and sticking out between my shirt and my teeny tiny little mini skirt.

“What else are they gonna see, baby? What are they gonna see when you bend over?”

WELL, I’VE GOT A 50/50 CHANCE…

- They’re gonna see my white panties stretched over my tiny little cunt…

“No, you know what they’re gonna see?”

I DON’T KNOW, YOU JERK, I’M NOT A FUCKING PSYCHIC.

“They’re gonna see that bare naked cunt of yours and that stretched-long clit; Mommy’s been pumping that as well as your tits, hasn’t she?”

NO I’VE BEEN SECRETLY PULLING OFF THE SUCTION CUP AND STICKING IT TO THE WALL AT NIGHT.

“TELL ME!”

EEEEP!

- Yes, daddy, mommy’s been pumping my clit. It’s gotten all long, it’s hanging down three inches…

“How long?”

GODDAMMIT, YOU FUCKING SIZE QUEEN. <eye roll>

- Five inches, daddy.

“Mommy’s made a little clit-dick out of it for you, hasn’t she?” <heavy breathing> “Your girlfriends can’t get enough of it, can they? They want you to fuck them because they want to try sex, but they don’t want to get pregnant…

BECAUSE IN YOUR ACTUAL REAL WORLD, YOU PROUD TRUMP VOTER, GIRLS WHO WANT TO TRY SEX AND DON’T WANT TO GET PREGNANT ARE FUCKED, AND YOU’RE SO TURNED ON THAT YOU’RE THINKING WITH YOUR DICK, ANYTHING THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR MOUTH IS DEFAULT AND YOU RESORT TO WHAT YOU KNOW, WHICH IS ANYTHING THAT TURNS YOU ON TRUMPS ANYTHING REMOTELY RELATED TO REALITY GODDAMMIT I SAID THE T-WORD

- I know, Daddy. Which girlfriend should I have suck my clit-dick?

“You decide.”

GARGGGGGGGHHHHHHH

********

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“Wow! Do you have an agent?” HAHAHAHAHAHAH

People ask me sometimes, when they see all the shows I do, the vast sprawling itineraries and the multiple cities and the boom-boom-boom schedule, they say, “Wow! Do you have an agent?” it’s inconceivable to them that I could get all of those dates without one.

And then I say, no, I’m almost entirely self-produced. I set those up myself. I can tell from the awkward pause and blink that they were really thinking that I must have had an agent, and it would confirm all the glamorous notions that they have about touring performers, I dunno, hotels all the time and no green M&Ms in the dressing room.

Whereas when you take a good look at my tour stops, at the venues where I go and the gigs, it should be obvious that agents just wouldn’t bother. It wouldn’t be worth their time. Smut Slams in the back rooms of bohemian vegetarian cafes or the upstairs of a pub. A solo play in a dungeon in the Midwest where I can run the address, but can’t mention the name of the place, because they can’t risk being outed. A house show with 15 people in attendance and a spaghetti dinner beforehand that I cooked. Fringe festivals where I am solely responsible for my expenses and income, and spend 12 days flyering for my own show like a hyperdrive flyering beast.

These are not winning propositions for an agent. But they are winning for me. I’ve come to terms with the idea that I am not ever going to create a blockbuster show; it’s not in me to write the comedy that sells, nor am I a young, conventionally attractive person. But I also believe, more strongly than ever, in my own mandate: to make space for awkward but essential conversations about sex and sexuality and relationships. I believe in that … zealously, might be the right word.

In that mandate, there must be room for smaller audiences in unconventional and intimate spaces. So then, the challenge for me becomes finding the audiences. This too is not something that most agents would truck with. I hunt around for my people like a trained pig in a vast orchard that has truffles in there somewhere, but scattered about and only under every sixth or seventh tree.

I follow countless leads on the strength of “please, can you come to my town?” (I’ve stopped doing that recently, because most people don’t have experience producing performance, or the connections for doing so.) I look to see where other alternative performers go. I sign up for emails from countless festivals, waiting for application forms and deadlines, knowing that, most of the time, my stuff will be considered “too edgy” for their existing audiences. I talk with other performers and talk and talk: where have they been, what have they done, what have they heard?

I look for leaders in storytelling groups and Fringe theatre groups. I approach feminist organizations and kink organizations and student sexuality organizations, waiting weeks and weeks to get the right contact to pitch that yes, my stuff would fit into their mission. Sometimes the right contact is going on maternity leave or they’ve graduated, and I have to wait some more.

I won’t even bother going into the minutiae of production logistics, the reams and wads of administrivia that go into making the performance go, once we’ve agreed that the performance should go. Just making things fit into a calendar to make sense from a travel point of view, that is its own post. Ditto for promotions (I’ve already written at length about that), and billeting and driving and grocery shopping. Yes. This is a book. (Yes, I'm thinking about writing it.)

Here I am only talking about finding my audience, the one that really wants what I have to offer and that has the ability to make space for it and pay something reasonable for it. (I suspect that my reasonable and an agent’s reasonable are miles apart as well.) It’s not glamorous, this part of the work. This is pounding the virtual pavement and sweating virtual sweat that sometimes trickles out into real sweat, and frankly I get tired of it, All the Fucking Time.

But if this is the only way that my work, the work that I want to do, will get out there, then this is what I’ll do. I will pick the green M&Ms out of the bowl myself. I will beg for pictures of the performance space, and if there is actually a green room, I will consider myself even luckier than normal.

*****

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CALL OF THE DAY: the many lies of Lesbian Surfer Dude

I’m never sure what it’s about when a regular tells me they’re going to be calling me less frequently. Maybe they feel a connection and don’t want me to be concerned or confused. Maybe they are trying to convince themselves that they’re going to be cutting back, because they got their bill for the previous month and they’re going through a bout of buyer’s remorse. Usually they do end up calling back eventually, and rarely do they offer any explanation for their absence.

Lesbian Surfer Dude has been one of these callers. In the last year or so, it’s mostly been about his new girlfriend. He offers her up as the reason that he’s going to be cutting back. Of course I tell him I’m happy for him. I honestly am happy for him. I do believe that if my callers—hell, if everyone everywhere—could get their sexual needs met by their partners or other caring people in their lives, the world would be a better place.

So when LSD has told me about going off on road trips with his girlfriend, or in any other way that he’s going to be spending more time with her, I have been 100% supportive and in no way offering recrimination or guilt trips or anything. Good, I say, I’m glad. I hope you really have a great time.

But I also asked him once whether his girlfriend knew about his fantasies, whether he ever shared them with her—not to pressure him to do so, just curious—and he firmly came down on the side of “No way, she would never be into it.” Right. That cleared the table, and I never asked again.

He called last week, after a couple of months’ absence. He had warned me that he was probably not going to call anymore, but he and I have done this cycle before, so I wasn’t surprised to hear from him again. As a conversation starter, I asked him, so what have you been up to? It’s been a while. And he so casually said, “Well, I got married on Friday.”

What, last Friday? As in three days ago?

“Yep.”

Is it the girl that you’ve been going out with for a while?

“Yeah, she’s awesome.”

Oh! Well! Congratulations!

And then we went on with the usual, where he pretends to be a girl named Wendy and I am a hot woman of some random girl-on-girl-porno profession, but always sweaty and foul-mouthed and very into frottage all over his luscious ass before fucking his lesbian pussy with a strap-on and begging for him to do the same.

Every muscle in my throat was aching to let me say something like, why are you calling me, three days after your wedding? Why aren’t you on your honeymoon? Why have you married someone who you will seemingly want to hide one of your sex things from forever? How do you think she will feel if she ever accidentally finds out? 

Of course I didn’t ask. My priorities are authenticity in my sexual relationships, but those are not everyone’s. People are scared. People compartmentalize. Maybe he just doesn’t see this as important enough to share with anyone. Why go through the stress of that awkward conversation, when he can just call up and work it out once a month with someone whom he will never look at over the breakfast table and wonder if she’s secretly disgusted with him? It’s not the kind of relationship I’d want, but hey. He’s the one paying for it.

So congratulations, Lesbian Surfer Dude, and every other dude who marries someone but gets their yayas out with a sex worker on the side. I hope you stay with your partner long enough, and get comfortable enough, that you can tell them more about yourself some day. That’s my wedding wish to you.

*****

In two months I'm giving up phone sex as a source of income, and I'm trying to pick up the slack with my Patreon work. If you love what I do, here on my blog and out in the world, become a patron and make your small per-piece pledge part of something bigger!

SMUT STAND REPORT: Oct 26, 2016 (New Orleans)

WHEN: 5 hours (7:30pm-12:30am), Oct 27, 2016. WHERE: Frenchmen Street (in front of Bicycle Michael's), New Orleans. OUTPUT: five full-length pieces, including a blissfully unconcerned fingering in a parking lot, a first-time visit to a sex club, and a lesbian, medium-softcore, clown-on-clown pie-splosh party out in the country (see below).

My old car rattles loudest on the days when I am feeling particularly poor and worn-out, and tonight I could barely hear myself think as I drove home from the Smut Stand.

No reason in particular; I did decent trade. I think it was just a badly paced night, coming in fits and starts, as opposed to the night before, which had kicked into gear at around 9:30pm and just didn’t really let up. Tonight I didn’t get my first customer until I had been sitting there for nearly two hours. So many couples passed by where one person wanted smut and their partner objected or talked them out of it; I’m sure that happens all the time, but I don’t normally hear about it. And there were herds of unaccompanied Australian men roaming around. For some reason, Australian men are some of the biggest jerkwads to come in contact with the Smut Stand.

For the last couple of days, I’ve also been feeling a little dry. I can still pound out the pieces, and people love them as much as ever, but I have to dig a little deeper and the sides of my brain get scraped a little from the effort. I remember having this feeling in other years, but I can’t remember how I replenished the well.

Part of it, I think, is that I miss Matt-the-Poet, who is determined not to have to come out and do poetry anymore. I think that’s a great idea for him, but I miss him. When he’s out there next to me on the sidewalk, I always feel good, like, there’s some regular social exchange going on. When he’s not there, there is no break in my creative exertion. I can feel the strain of the mental work. I can’t convince Matt-the-Poet to come back out, so I guess I’m going to have to figure out some other way to take the pressure off.

Things weren’t all bad tonight. Two customers from years past stopped by, including one from three years ago! The other came up and asked for a hug. “You won’t remember me, but my husband and I got a story from you last year, the day after we got married,” she said, gesturing at a man who was standing near a rickshaw and waving. “It’s our one-year anniversary, and we still have that up on our wall.” An hour later she came back with a pint-sized go cup full of wine. “We’re going back to the hotel to make some more smut, but do you want this?” she asked. “It’s a really good Chardonnay from dinner, but I just couldn’t finish it.” (It was amazing Chardonnay.)

On the other end of the marriage spectrum were the parents of a large Asian family whose giggling adult daughter (“our fifth daughter,” mentioned the mother) wanted to treat her parents to some smut on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary. English was not their first language, so I had to go through my explanation twice, and occasionally had to repeat a question, but they got it. Oh yeah, they did. That old dude could not keep his hands off his wife; like, he patted her ass at several points throughout the interview. They both enthusiastically voted for “graphic,” but at the end of the interview, she said, “Please keep it classy, I don’t want it to be crude.” Well. I guess I did all right there, because their smiles were so big, and he patted her ass again and really let his hand linger. I love seeing lascivious couples who have been married for a long time! It gives the lie to the other married couples who insist on playing around with that old ball-and-chain, tired-of-sex trope.

As for the clown piece? I honestly thought the young woman was yanking my chain. I mean, girl clown-on-girl clown pie-splosh party out in the country? Gimme a break! But no, she explained that she had been in circuses and clown troupes for over a decade, was thoroughly bisexual, and had actually filmed some amateur food porn a few years back. Okay, then. When I read her piece out loud—complete with a bike horn, whipped-cream covered pies, and a pair of panties that squirted water in her lover’s face, like the flower in the buttonhole—she jumped up and down for a couple of minutes, laughing with glee and excitement until she almost cried.

*****

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TERRIBLE SEX TIPS: “How To Give Her All Three (YES, THREE!) Types Of Multiple Orgasms”

First of all, the writer’s name is Nick Hardwick. That sort of name hasn’t really been in play since Chaucer, and for good reason: it makes you look like a twit. It also completely removes you from the field of people who should be giving anyone any serious advice about sex. Sorry, Nick, your sex tips in this article are invalid. No, actually, they’re Terrible!

For starters, I firmly believe that, when assessing sex tips, we need to start at the very beginning. The writer presumably considers the first paragraph to be the important point of the article. With this piece, we have the following:

Stringing together a series of intense multiple orgasms that keep your woman coming all night long is one of the most entertaining and empowering ways to make her sexually addicted to you.

When I make this blog post into a Terrible Sex Tips video—and I most certainly will—I will ask the editor to add an ominous echoing effect right there. Being stuck in text format for now, I’ll just repeat it for emphasis:

“… make her sexually addicted to you.”

“… sexually addicted to you.”

“… addicted to you.”

Creepy, right? Never mind that the author thinks it’s entertaining to get someone dependent on you for sexual satisfaction—ha ha, look at that slut, slobbering and begging for all those multiple orgasms!—but they also picture physical compulsion as the only way to keep someone coming back. This is someone who doubts the attractiveness of their own personality, is what I’m saying. It smacks of PUA (pick-up artistry), and at the very least it is a shitty fucking conceptual framework for sexual chemistry.

This article also promotes overriding your partner’s verbal, conscious participation in sexual pleasure. I’m not overstating this.

If your girl believes she can’t have multiples, and she thinks you’re trying to give them to her, her subconscious brain will team up with her body and work together to keep it from happening.

But, like, what if she notices that you are in fact forging forward over her recovery time? She’s just trying to catch her breath, and you keep going and she just, like, shuts down. Maybe this is not her being afraid of her own majestic orgasmic power. Maybe she just needs a rest! Eh, who cares, right? Clearly you know her body better than she does, so go on ahead!

This attitude is also very aggressive and narcissistic; her orgasms are all about proving how “skilled” you are, presumably to keep her from ever wondering if anyone else could do it better to show her what a prime catch you are!

Here, and look at this:

Let’s say you just finished using your favorite fingering technique to give her a glorious g-spot orgasm that sent her out of orbit… but you’re just getting warmed up. You still want to make her come some more, you stud.

You. STUD. Don’t ask her what she wants. Make her come!

The advice that follows? It’s not problematic in any way, except that it reads like a very specific road map to one woman’s very specific pleasure points. It reads like a checklist, right down to when to kiss her and when to “tell her how sexy she looks.” (After she comes, apparently, is the prime time.) This article reads like the perfect sex storm—and I mean that in the negative sense—a nightmarish convergence of pick-up artistry and overachiever and hipsterism and egotistical asshattery. It is the brash confessional of a writer who made it big with one girl and thinks that means he is qualified to dole out the step-by-step manual.

Or do a video of 67 ways to make her come. That’s what Nick Hardwick is doing with his terrible sex tips. Don’t buy that video. It may have some useful sex tips, but it’ll leave you feeling so battered by his attitude you won’t be able to get it up again for months.

*****

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CALL OF THE DAY: burning out is more annoying than I thought it would be

In the last six months or so he’s become something of a regular, much to my dismay, because he’s got a thing for ass-to-vadge—in addition to his foot fetish and trigger phrase of “hairy cunt” and his sly, whiny voice—and something about all of this together has always made me feel a little icky.

People have asked me why this bothers me and not, say, the incest stuff. Because, yeah, I’ve handled much more graphic content, subjectively speaking. I think I’m dealing with two different things here:

  • a caller’s fantasy is less likely to bother me the closer it is to some of my I do age-play, remember? and
  • it’s more likely to irritate me, the closer it is to something problematic that I regularly see depicted out in the world, either in porn or what people actually do in sex. Hence ass-to-vadge, or insisting on “she-males” passing, etc.

And then there's how the caller presents himself. This guy is not even mean, he’s just insistent, which yes, is something I see out in sex tips. Lately I am being particularly set off by his insistence that I orgasm two or three times in a 10-minute call.

There are logistical reasons for my reluctance to do so. For the past six months I have been billeting in other people’s houses, with walls of unknown thicknesses separating my room from the neighbours’ flats; one orgasm can be excused as a thing, but three in rapid succession is stretching credibility. I’ve also been on tour, which means I have to take care of my voice, and fake orgasms are even harder on the vocal cords than real ones!

I can tell some of my guys that I can’t be loud; oddly enough, Extreme Top has been very good during the times when I am either protecting my voice or taking calls in a place where I can’t be loud. He accepts my quiet whimpers and manages to get off just fine.

But this “hairy cunt” mommyfucker is one of a cadre of callers who demand only the “best” and the loudest from me, and they won’t come without me coming, and if I accidentally or casually give them a second orgasm in the middle of a call, then they demand that from me ever after, until they get jaded on that and want a third one, etc.

It’s too much now. This is the sign of me burning out, I realized: when I can’t be bothered to act turned on, and faking an orgasm annoys me, and in the middle of my anger, I want to freak out and tell them The Truth, like “your stripper hates you” kind of truths.

In that moment, I give myself teeth marks on my hand from biting down hard enough to keep myself from screaming BUT "HAIRY CUNT" IS THE GROSSEST PHRASE EVER AND YOUR WHINY SLY VOICE DISGUSTS ME AND THE WAY YOU TALK ABOUT PUTTING YOUR DICK FROM MY ASS TO MY HAIRY CUNT MAKES ME THINK THAT YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT SEX HYGIENE AND ALSO THAT MAYBE YOU ARE TRYING TO DEGRADE ME BECAUSE YOU THINK THAT HAIRY CUNTS ARE NATURALLY GROSS AND SO WHAT'S A LITTLE BIT OF GERMY ASS JUICE IN A GROSS HAIRY CUNT FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FINE I'LL COME A SECOND TIME FOR YOU FINE I'LL BEG YOU TO FUCK MY HAIRY CUNT FUCK YOU…

In that moment, I realize that I will never get that relief that I crave so much from telling off all of my annoying customers. I will never be able to give anyone a loud sex-ed take on whatever physical act they just described. I will never be able to sit down and ask a caller, so seriously, you know stealing underwear is some shady shit, you may need to think about a contingency plan if your girlfriend ever figures out what you’re up to.

I will never be able to turn on Extreme Top in the middle of one of his more baroque concoctions and say, YOU STUPID, UNIMAGINATIVE, WANNA-BE DOM, I AM QUITE SURE THAT I COULD ACTUALLY KICK YOUR ASS, AND BY THE WAY, THERE IS NOTHING YOU TELL ME THAT ISN’T ALREADY ON FETLIFE SOMEWHERE, JEEZUS CHRIST, STOP ACTING LIKE YOU PERSONALLY DISCOVERED SCAT, INCEST, AND BUCKETS OF BABY EELS.

I can’t say any of this stuff to my clients; I can’t do a grand “fuck-you” screed at the end of my time on the lines. That would hurt my company, and I don’t want to hurt my company. They’ve been good to me. So… I have to keep going with the fake orgasms, and the only real satisfaction I will have is the only satisfaction I have ever had: blog posts and Facebook status updates. It’s not enough, but I guess it has to be.

*****

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What life-hacking really means

I’ve been a full-time broke-ass artist for nearly 10 years, and yet somehow I never put it together in one sentence: poor people aren’t supposed to enjoy anything. We’re either arting and starving, or we’re scrambling through three part-time jobs and not arting. If you are not suffering, if you have time for anything else, you are not trying hard enough, either at being an artist or at not being poor. You should not have the time or the resources to be doing something that you love.

I catch a bit of this blowback any time I have to argue with someone over the phone about, say, why I can’t pay back my student loans in the amounts that they want, or why my taxes are so damn weird. The people on the other end ask, like it’s the natural question, why I’m not making hand-over-fist money if I’m touring. Surely touring artists must be rich, right? And if I’m not, then I need to get a different job. I need to give up. Poor people shouldn’t be trying to do this stuff; we shouldn’t be trying to do anything other than struggling and striving for more money. Talent and vision and desires and joy are not for the likes of us.

I shouldn't be out here doing this, I said to UK Muse, when I realized--within the last week, why did it take me so long to realize this?--how very much my desires clashed with my economic footing. Who do I think I am? I shouldn't be performing. I shouldn't be traveling. I shouldn't have met you. Clearly we shouldn't be together, I said to him, otherwise it wouldn't cost so damn much to get residency there.

UK Muse is also poor, and his committing to bringing me to the UK is going to cost. "I should have married a nice English girl," he agreed quietly, "and be doing DIY improvements around the flat on the weekends." But he has other dreams, bigger dreams than what he was born into, dreams of succeeding in his own solo-preneurial work, and now making the minimum income to buy my residency requirements and then take a vacation to an ocean-front cottage in Wales, because we both want some time away. What do people call that? A vacation. Holidays, in the UK. They call them holidays, I think.

Anyway, as poor people, we are not entitled to holidays, we are not allowed to do that, to take time for what will basically be a honeymoon. Poor people don’t take honeymoons or holidays. They maybe go sit in the park on a blanket and eat sandwiches they made at home and think about when the next bill is not going to be paid.

I have nothing against sandwiches in the park. But I want more than that. In spite of it all, I want to tour and create, and I want that goddamned vacation to that cottage in Wales.

Under the current rules of the game, we aren’t supposed to have room for holidays or working on one’s art and not starving. It’s unseemly, it’s debauched, it’s inappropriate, they say. Suffer for your art, or give it up and slog away in the trenches of capitalism. You are of the suffering class. You do not get to choose anything else.

I say fuck that noise. Monkey-wrench that machine. This is the original “life hack”: when you are jumping off the grid in pursuit of Someone or Something You Want/Need, well outside the bounds of what you are expected to do in your life. This is not finding a new use for an empty 2-litre bottle; this is not learning the fastest way to fold a fucking tee shirt. This is actually hacking your life, tenaciously shaping it into something that this world never meant it to be, something that perhaps the world is actively taking steps to keep you from doing.

The great part is, it’s the poor people who life hack the best. We have lifetimes of making do, and jerry-rigging, and scraping together, and pushing through. Putting all of that in service of creating, or going to the person you love, or both? That’s easy. I will totally hack the fuck out of that.

*****

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Advice from a Phone Whore (a semi-occasional series): “Does my dream man have a case of death grip?”

Hi Cameryn:

So, I'm this picky millennial type who goes on a million dates but ends up going home alone because for me to like a guy, he has to be smart/cute/ambitious/local/liberal/friendly/clever and I'm beginning to suspect that there may be none of those within a half-hour radius of me.

Except for Nuri (not his real name), a dude I started seeing about two weeks ago. Ooh, he's cute. He's got these high cheekbones and that jet-black hair and that compact little body with a great kissing mouth just a few centimeters above mine when we're standing up. And he's smart! Medical background, job in finance, knows his politics, ambitious as fuck. He buys drinks for me and my friends and tells me I'm gorgeous.

I let myself get pretty damn excited about Nuri, which is why it was so damn disappointing when he couldn't keep a boner. Oh, he could get one, but unless I was jacking it so hard I wondered if it hurt, it'd wilt in my hands like an over-sunned plant. As soon as he inserted, after a few slow, anemic thrusts, we had to give up and lie together, defeated. Over three separate attempts, this happened nine times. Nine condoms (not cheap!) thrown away empty in my kitchen trash can, picked up from the floor the next morning.

I've tried to figure it out. I asked him how he jerks off. Maybe it's iron grip syndrome and he needs to spend the next few weeks/months/years using a fleshlight cuz he's calloused the shit out of his dick. Maybe it's his Muslim upbringing and he's got some weird shame spiral. Maybe he's secretly gay.

My biggest issue is that he's not keen on talking about it. "We'll figure it out together," he said. Not exactly comforting. I don't want my sex to be like a confusing jigsaw puzzle. I can work with bad sex. That's like looking in the engine of the Mercedes and finding a Ford engine. No sex is tougher. No sex is like looking in the engine and finding out it's actually a raccoon. Is there any forward from here? What do I do? Do I give up? This is wearing away my attraction to Nuri and it's all just so fucking disappointing.

Bonerless

(she/her pronouns)

*********

Dear Bonerless:

Let us set aside the question of what else can a straight couple do sexually besides PIV (penis in vag). You know those things, I’m sure, and that doesn’t seem like the point. The point is, you like being the party dip for the right guy’s tortilla chip, and that is not happening here. The chip keeps crumbling.

Obviously I can’t tell anything about this fellow over the internet; I’m not a doctor, I’m just a fellow cock-lover and a prolific potty-mouth. “Iron grip” is a strong contender for the armchair diagnosis; “death grip” is what Dr. Nerdlove calls it, and it’s a pretty common thing. (The Doc even has some advice right here.) Only your dude can tell you what’s going on, but it sounds like he doesn’t want to go there.

That’s your sticking point, you said, and it sure would be mine, to be honest. Two weeks is pretty early to be having to roll up your sleeves and spend a whole bunch of time rummaging around under that particular hood (to carry on your car metaphor), especially when he is not even stepping up to do the work himself.

It sounds like you’ve got a lot invested in this guy being a really good prospect—Dr. Nerdlove calls it “one-itis,” as in, “he’s The One," and it's usually paired with anxiety about being too picky and/or such a special weird snowflake yourself that you could never possibly find anyone. Let me reassure you: your standards seem pretty, well, standard. Like, there's nothing problematic in that list, but you sound worried about letting him go over something like this, as if these other factors you mentioned are more important than whether or not you are getting the thorough rogering that you crave. Ultimately, whatever he decides to do about getting and keeping hard for a lover will be on him. You are entitled to have sexual things on your checklist, and to prioritize them.

I personally believe that the highest priority in any sexual relationship (that you want to last longer than a desperate hand-job) has to be communication. Sounds like you've already asked, but if he's still around and you really like him, give it one more try. Sit him down and and have that conversation (not in the bedroom), letting him know that you're bringing it up because you really like him AND sexual compatibility and communication are important to you. Maybe he decides to get some sensitivity back and you just do other non-PIV stuff in the meantime (get him to steer your favorite silicone schlong, for example!). Maybe he goes to a doctor, physical, mental, or otherwise.

Again, the actual steps taken aren’t as important as the if and how the two of you can talk about it. If you can’t even bring this up and get some forward action from him, then yeah, you need to think about how much of the emotional labor you are willing to put in, especially this early on in the game.

*****

Got a question about life, relationships, and/or rogering? Send it to me at littleblackbookproductions@gmail.com, or on Facebook and I'll take a crack at answering. Change names and super-identifying details, obvs, and let me know your pronouns, please!

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TERRIBLE SEX TIPS: “7 sex positions to make you more uninhibited in bed”

Sometimes sex tips aren’t uniformly bad. Sometimes they aren’t even that bad at all, except for the title, which manages in just a few words to shift one’s whole sexual psyche into a state of confusion and inexplicable angst. The title doesn't match the content, and worse, it casts a terrible shadow over the whole.

So it is with this week’s Terrible Sex Tips: “seven sex positions to make you more uninhibited in bed.”

Make you.

Did you see that? These positions will make you more uninhibited in bed. As in, do these positions and “poof,” you’re uninhibited!

Of course, no one would argue out loud that that’s what the author meant, but that sure is what it sounds like, and no position or activity can "make you" do anything or be anything other than what you are in that moment. You can look as though you're more uninhibited; that's acting, and I can tell you how that should look. But actually shucking your inhibitions, shifting them out of your body and your head, takes at least a little bit of focus, more than you can get in a half-hour of sweaty, semi-verbal shagging. I do happen to agree with the writer, that many sexual inhibitions stem from poor body image and/or fear of appearing ridiculous. But you can’t just do some really vulnerable position and flip that switch. Hell, if we’re going to use an electrical apparatus as metaphor, this is not a switch, it’s a slider along the whole goddamn body positive spectrum.

Yes, some people can bulldoze through discomfort, and for some things, “fake it ‘til you make it” is absolutely an awesome approach. I would like to humbly suggest, however, that naked sexing is a fairly advanced arena in which to start dismantling one’s body insecurities. What about the rest of us? How about some truly useful activities that can help edge us along?

  • Mirror gaze with self-touch. Start by getting comfortable in front of a mirror. Standing, sitting, reclining… your position is not important as long as you can see most of yourself. Beginning at the top of your head, look at your body in the mirror. Just observe it: the shadows, the dimpling, the hair, the texture of your skin, the coloring, the shape. If you find yourself avoiding one part of your body, or feeling a strong negative reaction to it, just make a mental note of it, say “I’m not comfortable, but I can come back to that”, and move on. As you view your body, trace the path of your own gaze with your hands. Observe what those shadows and dimples feel like, what the skin feels like where it’s rough or smooth, where the muscles lie under the skin, where the weight of flesh falls.
  • Fetishize my elbow! Prepare by making a short list of external body parts that feel relatively neutral to you, and writing those down on scraps of paper, which you put into a hat. Sitting across from your lover, take turns drawing items out of the hat, spending a few seconds appreciatively eyeballing that part of your lover’s body, and then lustfully describing that part or touching it, if they’re okay with it. Maybe it is what you can do with it or to it, maybe you focus on the visual aspect, or the tactile component, or all of it. Get super specific and stay positive. In fact, go ahead and get absurdly lavish in your praise! The person receiving this adoration of their elbow or whatever just needs to sit back and murmur “you know you want it” at regular and appropriate intervals.
  • O FACE! This is something for you and your partner(s) in the heat of the moment, when you’re about ready to come. (Do discuss beforehand!) Instead of what you normally do when you orgasm (sounds or faces), do something entirely different, something COMPLETELY wacko like, oh, I don’t know, bleat like a goat when you come, or stick your tongue out and cross your eyes. You may not be able to keep your erection or reach an orgasm like this, you may bust out laughing, but keep it up for a few times, and keep O Face in your regular rotation of sexy-time games. It’s an important and hilarious reminder that no O face that you naturally make can ever be as silly as goat noises.

I just made those sex tips up, but I can pretty much guarantee that they’ll be dramatically easier on the psyche than anything in the problematically titled article. You can work up to keeping the lights on. You can ease into body-part appreciation, starting with elbows and gradually ramping up to bellies. I do think most people will catch more hang-ups with silly games than with straight-up sexing.

*****

Testing out more non-terrible sex tips soon on my financial supporters. You can be in that select group by becoming a patron of mine over on Patreon!

 

 

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