I think that Matt is a true artist and was absolutely fascinated with this video. Enjoy!

Post from: Toy With Me

The Artist Who Makes Sex Dolls

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I know, I know.

“But Crissy! A goddess like yourself has never been catcalled? PREPOSTEROUS!”

Perhaps. But it’s completely true!

I mean sure, dudes driving by will honk at me when I’m out getting the mail or sometimes when I’m driving, a guy will pull up next to me and say something, but I largely ignore it because it’s just assholes being assholes and what the fuck are you gonna do?  You can’t stop them and if you try, it will probably make things worse.

And besides, at least somebody thinks you’re sexy, right?

Well?  Not so much because apparently, catcalling can be pretty serious and very scary and it’s not something I’ve ever experienced to the extent that some other women I know have.

A friend of mine told me that she’s been circled by men saying sexually aggressive and threatening things to her and–even more surprisingly–that it’s very common where she’s originally from. I’m sort of shocked to learn that society has not evolved to the extent that I think it has. This makes me sad. It also makes me wonder if I’ve really been wandering around with my head that far up my ass all this time or what.

So first I talked about it with my husband. He admitted that even for him, evolved(ish) male as he is, it’s hard not to shout out at an attractive lady when he sees one. He TOTALLY gets the urge, but he controls himself because he knows that shit’s not cool, man.  But if he could, he’d be hollering all the time because he means it as a compliment and he doesn’t see much difference between doing that and when he drives by someone working on their lawn or painting their fence and shouts “lookin’ good!” at them.  Something he actually does do.

But there is a difference because when you’re a woman and you’re walking down the street all by your lonesome and someone (likely a man) decides to verbally harass you, you suddenly feel naked and you’re acutely aware of how defenseless you are if they decide to take it a step further.

The person working on their lawn or fence just gets an ego stroke.

The only thing like that that’s ever happened to me is when I was a senior in college. I had just gotten out of my car for an 11:30am class on a cold day in February/March-ish.  I was wearing my favorite pair of clicky-heeled Mary Jane flats with tights, a mid-thigh plaid wool skirt, and a Barbie pink parka. I was eating an apple and hauling my 30 lb messenger bag across my chest and sort of behind me so the bag was just over my bum.  There were some other students in the parking lot ahead of me, and I could feel someone walking very closely behind me.  Just as the students rounded a corner and were out of sight, the person behind me began to walk more quickly and before I knew it, there was a tug at my messenger bag and then HOLY HELL THERE WAS A HAND ON MY BUM! I was being assaulted!

The entire time he was behind me, I felt uncomfortable, so I had been fidgeting with the pepper spray I had in my pocket that my mother had insisted I needed (THANKS MOM!). Even though I felt like something wasn’t right and had been almost tackled to the ground, it still took a while to realize that I actually needed to use that pepper spray.

There was some verbal exchange, which is kind of fuzzy to me now about 14 years later, but the gist of it was that he was planning to rape me (he had already felt my bum and chesticals, albeit through my Barbie pink parka).  Then he tried!  I finally realized that I was in trouble and broke out the mace, attempted to spray him in the face (but instead got mostly blocked by his arm), turned and ran to the security office (which was mercifully just around the corner).

Still holding the apple I was eating on my way to class, I busted into the security office and sputtered something about being attacked.  They phoned the police and the stupid fuck was found peeking behind the curtains of a house he had just broken into.

I spent the rest of the day making statements and hanging out with the po-po and listening to a little girl who had been abandoned on the street by her mother cry for the very cunt that had been so cruel to her.

It was traumatic, to say the least, but at least I wasn’t seriously hurt. (BTW, the kid who grab-assed ended up being under 18, and not surprisingly already had a pretty long rap sheet.)

In my situation I was physically assaulted. Luckily for me my assailant was dumb and decided to do it in broad daylight on a fairly busy college campus just around the corner from a security office. I’ve never been verbally assaulted, at least not beyond the “usual stuff”–transient comments of a crude and (generally) flatteringly objectifying nature. Don’t get me wrong: those are unacceptable too, but IMO not in the same league as what I’ve learned some people experience, which is far more intimidating, degrading, and threatening.

So talk to me Toy with Mes. Without dredging up too many horribly painful memories, what’s your take on catcalling? Has it happened to you? How do you deal with it?

And for the boy Toy with Mes, do you get the urge to catcall? Have you ever (shame on you naughty boy) done it? Conversely, have you ever been, I don’t know what you’d even call it if you’re a boy, cockcalled? How did that make you feel?

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

Catcalling – Creepy Or A Compliment?

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Stop Beating A Dead Horse, Duder
If it’s over, it’s over and let it die a graceful death. I know that in the movies there’s always some epic scene where the hero comes back and tells his leading lady that he simply cannot live without her—ever. That’s sweet and all, but grand gestures are kinda creepy in real life. I mean, if someone stood outside MY window playing “In Your Eyes” on a boombox, I’d call the police. So move on. It’s okay to be sad about a dead relationship, but trust me, you need to let it go.

Loving YOU Is The Right Thing To Do
No, I mean YOU, not him. Because really, he’s not worth it. In your twenties, you’re not even FRIENDS with any of your ex-boyfriends, so while I know that there were a couple of them that you actually did love (with good reason), the one you need to love is yourself. Your self worth can NOT be defined by someone else; it simply cannot. The older you get, the more important it is that you love yourself more than you love any other person on the planet because you are the only person you can count on. It sounds depressing, but I don’t mean it that way so stop your bitch-ass moping.

One Way Or Another, I’m Gonna Getcha
Confidence, my darling, is what will get you everywhere. First, you’re going to have to fake it for awhile because your early twenties are going to be a shitstorm and you’re gonna be stuck standing alone without an umbrella. Once it passes, though, you know you’re going to get what you want because you always do…eventually. So act like it. Stand tall, stand proud and don’t let anyone stand in your way. If they do, mow ‘em down with your Hummer or step on their neck. Men love confidence in a woman and this will be what endears you the most to the man who will be your husband one day. (Yeah you get married. Yeah, I know. What the fuck?)

Free To Be You And Me
Now, I know you’ve never really struggled with being yourself, but the sooner you learn that what makes you who you are is what makes people love you is better. You are unique. That’s a good trait. Flaunt it. Accept it. Other people will adore you for it because it’s what sets you apart.

Trust Your Instincts
Every time you’ve suspected that something was amiss, you were right. Over and over, you’ve watched as the men who swear that they love you stick their penises in someone else. Usually it’s someone that you know. It hurts like hell, and baby girl, let the pain wash over you and strengthen your resolve to never, ever allow someone to treat you that way again. But just in case you’re wondering: you’re right. And anyone who loves you–anyone who REALLY loves you–they won’t use another woman’s vagina as a tea cozy. Walk away with your head high, and whatever you do, don’t blame yourself.

Don’t Accept Anything But The Best
This is where you fall time and again, young grasshopper. It’s not until you have a child of your own that you learn that you should be treated as you deserve. Thankfully, he came along to teach you that, because it’s an important lesson because you deserve the very best. Don’t sell yourself short and don’t accept cubic zirconia when you should be getting diamonds. You’re worth more than you think you are. Don’t forget it, kid.

Compromise Ain’t Worth It
Anyone who believes that they should compromise who they are at the core of themselves for someone else is wrong. You’re not prone to this, but in moments of weakness, you allow yourself to be talked into it. STOP IT. Just stop. No one who loves you will ever make you do something that you don’t want to do or treat you in a way that makes you feel badly about yourself later on. If you’re ashamed, it’s not love.

Abuse Takes Many Forms
For a brief period in time, you will be in an abusive relationship, and it will change you. Abuse takes forms that you may not recognize until you’re much older, but rest assured, when you look back, you’ll see it for what it really was. Forgiving yourself will be far harder than you can ever imagine, but you must do it. You must. We all make mistakes and it’s okay. You’ve learned to be a more compassionate, better person because of it, and you know that you’ll never allow yourself to be back in that position ever again.

Don’t Look Back In Anger
Wasting your time on anger is about the most pointless thing you can possibly do. I hate to be all Afternoon Special on you, but you know what? Most of the relationships you had, even the spectacular failures, they taught you something valuable about yourself. Anger is just a way of covering up that you’re hurt, and while it’s certainly more pleasant to be all “FUCK YOU” than it is to be all “BOO-HOO” about it, you might as well tear that band-aid off and let the waterworks flow. Then move on.

He’s Gay
Okay, so this happened once. Only once, but it was a loooong drawn out once. Much later, you’ll realize that the guy who strung you along for years was probably a closet homosexual and it’ll be like a lightbulb going off over your stupid brain. Yep, he’s gay. Also: an asshole. When you cut him off, it’s about the most liberating thing you’ll ever do. You should have done it sooner and saved yourself the confusion. Some day, you’ll find out that he’s living with his life partner in Iowa and smile smugly to yourself because you were fucking right.

Good luck, grasshopper, because you have a long way to go. But you’ll get there.

Love,

Your Future Self

P.S. Lay off the jellybeans

So, Toy With Me-ers, what would YOU say to your younger self about dating?

Post from: Toy With Me

A Letter To My Younger Self

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But I digress.

From Ashley Dupré to Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl, I think we’ve been seeing a lot more of the “oldest profession in the world,” and frankly, I’m not too upset about it. Don’t get me wrong, I think there are better ways of living your life than trading exclusively on your body, but that goes for being a model as well as a several – hundred – dollar – an – hour – hooker… and aside from penetration, I personally don’t see too much of a difference between the two. Now, I don’t want this to turn into a model – bashing column, though that could be fun too; the point of today’s article is to say, “ya know, since prostitution has been around for like, ever, maybe we should stop pretending it doesn’t exist, hmm?”

Prostitutes With A Dental Plan

A few years ago, the hubs and I went on a trip to the Netherlands, and since I can’t go anywhere without preplanning like a maniac, I did a ton of research; the art, the history… and the “Red Light District.” Did you know there is a union for prostitutes over there? Ok, maybe we’re not talking the Teamsters Union with a fantastic dental plan and some big chick named “Vinnie” who comes to collect your “protection funds,” but hey, there are medical options, and that profession is a recognized part of the culture. Maybe some women are forced into that line of work based on life circumstances, maybe some choose it, but either way at least they’re not entirely shoved to the side of the culture to spread disease and possibly die. At least there’s something!

Now, maybe you’re reading this article and thinking, “KinkyJew, I know all this, and I totally agree that all people should have access to health care, regardless of profession. After all, I’m an intelligent person, and I did my own research when planning to become a high – class call girl too, because you and I are that much in synch. What I really want to know is what GOD says about my future career plans!” You make a fantastic point my friend. We should totally go out for a Starbucks or something.

God Isn’t Amused. Shocking.

You’ll be glad to hear that while the All – Mighty is none too pleased with your average street walker, He does make a bit of a distinction between a hooker, and other forms of carnal entertainment. For example, if a man can’t please his wife sexually, she can divorce him and see what the other shlubbs in the village have to offer. For us, I guess that means that if your man can’t get the job done (and you can’t find a toy on the ToyWithMe site to make your G – Spot sing a concerto), then you’re in the all – clear with GOD to get your groove on elsewhere… MAZAL TOV! Of course, you would have to be married for all of that to happen, and the whole point of this is to jet – set around the world on the arms of wealthy men. Then again, they didn’t really have “jet – setting” in the Old Testament. It was mostly dirty and smelly from what I understand… and a lot of sacrificing of goats. Seriously though, it’s amazing we didn’t send those poor animals into extinction with the number of sacrificial offerings we made back then. Frankly, the Jewish people could do worse than to offer the goat world an apology.

Uhh…. Moving on…

Sex Sells, In More Ways Than One

But before anyone says, “DAMMIT, KINKY JEW! You’re glamorizing prostitution, and that’s just down right wrong!” Yes, I do understand that the majority of women who go into prostitution are not running around living the high life, and partying like rock stars; I get that. I also get that ignoring a situation like prostitution, or, let’s just say, gonorrhea, doesn’t make it go away. I’m not saying that I’ve had gonorrhea… run with the analogy kids. It doesn’t go away, and nobody wins, especially not that lead guitarist from the Swedish rock band that you had sex with in the pay – by – the – hour – hotel. Nope, everyone loses there! You have to face your issues, whether it be as a society owning up to the fact that not only does sex sell in advertising, it just sells in general, or whether it be heading over to that free clinic to ask why your genital warts are speaking Swiss German. It’s about responsibility, people.

I don’t approve of glamorizing this profession, nor do I think it’s something I would want my child to grow up to do, but it’s folly to stand around and pretend that the people who work the sex industry are not there, and don’t need just as much, if not more, medical and long term benefits as the rest of us. I am glad to see more discussion of it in the media, but whether or not that will turn from your Friday night entertainment into a legitimate discussion of our social mores as a culture is a very different issue indeed.

What are your thoughts on prostitution? Do your views differ from those around you? From your culture? If I started a brothel, would you join me? I can pay in Ben & Jerry’s…

Post from: Toy With Me

I Wish I Was A High Class Hooker

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I am In A Rebirth Period

What annoys me more than the annoying frat boys getting wasted and puking on my lawn is the surge of people making resolutions for The New Year. Don’t get me wrong: I like resolutions. If you read my other blog, you know that I’m in a bit of a rebirth period right now (holy shit do I sound annoyingly new agey right now) and it has nothing to do with the end of the year. That’s just a coincidence, really. Resolutions are a good thing but they need to be made for the right reasons. You’re setting yourself up for failure if you’re all “I’m gonna become the next supermodel and drop 65 pounds by February 1^st while I learn to produce gangsta rap albums.” There’s nothing like the bitter taste of failure to make you stop trying entirely. You’re defeating yourself before you start and that’s discouraging as hell. If your List Of Resolutions looks like this:

*Read the collective works of Aristotle in it’s native Greek
*Understand Ulysses
*Become a Famous Neurosurgeon
*Lose 87 pounds
*Build 12 houses single-handedly for Habitat for Humanity
*Repaint bedroom using tongue
*Become a roaring sex kitten

Maybe it’s time to reevaluate your goals. Don’t get me wrong, my Internet, I don’t mean that you shouldn’t make resolutions or have goals because trust me, if I told you what my end goals are, you’d all be laughing in my face. But I don’t plan on accomplishing them in a year and I’m breaking them down into smaller bits and bites rather than being all “I Am Going to Rule The WORLD!” (I am SO going to rule the world).

2010 Is The Year Of Me

My biggest goal for 2010, which I have narcissistically christened The Year Of Me, is to become comfortable with myself and my body. When some people get pregnant, they get these cute little adorable baby bumps resting above their normal looking lower bodies, and I turn into the Michelin Man. Whether I spend my days hugging the porcelain throne or shoving ding-dongs and cupcakes in my gaping maw, I gain roughly 60-70 pounds. And whomever told me that I could simply breastfeed those pesky pounds away was a damn liar and should be lined up and bitch slapped. My body is so efficient about storing food after my babies are born that if I’m ever stuck hidden away during a zombie melee, I’ll be able to live for upwards of ten years off of those fat deposits. After about a year, the weight starts to come off, but before that, it’s a pretty futile endeavor for me to even attempt dieting. Three times around the baby block, I know this.

As Sexy As The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man

Because of this, since my daughter was born last January, I’ve been avoiding pictures like it was my job. I avoid being naked whenever possible and I avoid having The Sex with any lights on. I feel about as sexy as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and forget traipsing around in my sex kitten lingerie because I’m still rocking a nursing bra and granny panties because that, my friends, is how good I feel about myself. I’ll barely buy myself clothes or look in the mirror because it makes me so sad to see what I look like. And this isn’t because The Daver is all “you’re nasty” because if he were, I’d nail his balls to the wall and string him up by his penis from the flagpole.

Booger-Stained Yoga Pants

But this has to stop for my own sanity’s sake. My daughter turns one next month and the weight is coming off. I’ve started buying real clothes again and stopped apologizing for what I look like, because you know what? I EARNED every ounce of it and no one else cares what I look like. I’m working on getting the weight off and I’ll be back to fighting shape in no time. I’ll be prancing around in my Easter Ham costume and we’ll be playing Little Bow Peep again by the end of next year. It’s time to start reclaiming my groove and bringing myself back, because while I’ve been wearing the same booger-stained yoga pants and chasing my kids around the house I’ve lost myself along the way. I’ll find my way back and reclaim my inner self who has been trying to claw her way out because my kids who love their mommy dearly, also need to know that their mom is a person too.

So while I have a stack of small resolutions that I’ve made toward a greater goal, they’re not on any specific time-table and if I can’t accomplish them right away, well, that’s okay with me. I’m working toward making 2010 The Year of Me and I’m bringing Aunt Becky back from underneath the mountains of laundry and stacks of dirty dishes. With that, my self-esteem is going to take a dramatic upturn and soon, I’ll be buying candy cane thongs and butt-bows once again.

Do you make resolutions for the New Year? If you do, do you follow them?

Post from: Toy With Me

New Years Resolution – The Year Of Me

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Because I’m so demure.

But it is true, nonetheless. Like, take my mother for example. Oof! She’s a superfreak!

Actually, no she’s not. She likes slippers and cookies. (Hi mom!  I didn’t tell them about your in flagrante delicto fantasies about Barry Manilow.  You’re welcome.)

Anyway, last year all I wanted was a Chia Pet. More specifically, I wanted a Chia Tree:

which my friend Stoogepie saw and immediately pointed out that it looked like a Christmas Butt Plug.

You see the resemblance, don’t you?  He may or may not be one of those people on my list who fall into the “pervert” category.

But that Chia Tree got me thinking about all the other stuff the Cha-cha-cha-Chia! people aren’t making but probably should. Like, how about a Chia Vagina? Or a Chia Ball Sack that comes with clip and trim scissors so you can landscape your manscape?

And speaking of the manscape, what about a little something special for the dick in your life? Doesn’t it deserve to be warm and cozy every bit as much as the upper half does?  We buy the upper parts a warm sweater, so why not the fancy place too?  That’s why I think a hand crocheted penis cozy is the perfect gift for the dick that lives in a cold climate (Mrs. Toy With Me, Mr. Toy With Me emailed me and told me this is what he wants you to get him, he’s just feeling a little shy about asking).

I’ll never understand why more guys don’t wear these things. I bet it would reduce sperm count like a motherfucker.

Doesn’t the word crochet make you laugh?

Because it looks like crotch and you still have the sense of humor of a seventh grader.

And you know what people who crotchet are called? They’re called “crotchetiers.” Like, The Three Crotchetieers!

Hahahahaha!

That’s why I don’t crotchet. I don’t want to be called a crotchetier. That, and I have no fucking patience for that shit.

Since we’re talking about hand-made gifts, if you’re the kind of person who prefers to reject the commercialism of the holiday season in favor of more personal “gifts from the heart,” I suggest you re-visit your preschool years by using an egg carton to make something Very Special. For example, instead of fashioning an egg carton snow man, you could sculpt a very nice set of boobs, or even make a butt or a cock n’ balls if you wanted!  All you need is a stapler or some tape and some paint and you’re fucking golden. You could even bronze the shit out of it if you really wanted.  I mean, damn.  It’s your gift—make it your way. You might even be able to put some glitter on that crap and make it all kinds of motherfucking festive.

But if you’re not crafty, I won’t judge. I’m not crafty either. Everything I try to make with my hands comes out looking like I did it with my feet. That’s why I like Etsy.  I’ve gotten some really wonderful things there. Do you know about Etsy? It’s the place on the Internet where you can pay other people to make stuff with their feet.

Take this exquisite  Vulva Necklace, that I found on Etsy for example.

The description says that each one has a “durable polymer glaze” which makes it look wet because if you’re gonna have a pussy around your neck, you want it to look like it’s having a good time, amiright? And each one is “original never from a mold.”   That’s nice because you can have a whole collection–a different pussy for every day of the week! Who doesn’t want that?

Oh my god! This is a festive, Jesus-y gift for the religious pervert on your list!

I thought I’d have some better jokes for that, but Jesus Vagina Painting kind of scares me.  It’s a steal for only $320 US Dollars.  I can’t believe it hasn’t sold already!

A while back, I found a person on Etsy who would turn a snapshot of your down-belows into a watercolor painting for you–all you had to do was send the picture and she’d paint it.  What a wonderful gift for anyone on your list, really.  I think I’d make it my Secret Santa gift for work. GUESS WHO!!  I’d give you a link, but I can’t find it again.  Sorry.  She must be overwhelmed with orders.  But, don’t worry you guys.  You could probably do one yourself with your kid’s watercolors or something.  Vaginas are not that hard to paint.

Don’t ask me how I know.

And of course there are the more traditional, hand made gifts, like chocolate penises or vagina lollipops.  You could even make them more festive if you wanted, by using red and green chocolates, but I cannot recommend it.  There’s just something super wrong about a red vagina or a green penis. I mean, right? Doesn’t seem healthy.

So yes.  That’s my Holiday Gift Guide for Perverts.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some shopping to do…

P.S…. All of the girls of Toy With Me got together to perform a special Christmas dance for you! Click here to watch us bust some Christmas moves!

P.P.S… Oh, almost forgot…. I reviewed a a vibrator and made a little video. Check it.

Post from: Toy With Me

Christmas Craft Making For Perverts

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I have to hand it to my friend Phil for putting together one hell of an eye – opening article. Until fairly recently, I had never heard of a “Purity Ball,” which, in my defense, is not entirely surprising considering I really don’t keep up with Christian trends. I don’t say that to be mean, but honestly, how many of you Christians out there were aware of the “Great Sheitel Scare” of aught – four? Ok then.

Lets Party

So, it recently came to my attention that parties are being held wherein daughters pledge their “purity,” (for those of us playing at home, that means they’re promising that they’re gonna stay virgins) to their fathers. These can also be known as “Purity Weddings.” So, we’re getting a bunch of underage girls together and having them promise to keep their “purity” only for their fathers, until or unless they marry… and this time the groom has to not be their dad. And also, there may or may not be cake… which is the only reason I would go, frankly.

What About The Boys?

You know what though? I can totally get behind a culture that’s about preserving youthful innocence and not inundating children with sexual images and thoughts the way a lot of our modern culture does. Seriously, if I see one more ten-year old girl with a sparkle–studded cropped t – shirt that says something like, “My boyfriend’s out of town, what’s your name?” I may be sick. So, I get it; you want to make sure your child stays a child as long as possible. That’s cool. But here’s one of the places where I come into problems with this whole situation: where the hell are the boys? Really. Where are the boys in all this?

From an outsider’s perspective, you’re telling me two things:

1) either your daughter has not been educated enough to be able to make conscious choices regarding her life and sexuality without you constantly watching her, or she’s just too stupid, and

2) your son is either superior in this regard because he doesn’t require supervision, or you just don’t care about his immortal soul. Congratulations; your daughter is a penis-o-phobe, and your son is a pimp. Is that taking it a bit far? Sure it is, but I think these people believe that their intentions are easily recognizable and understood by all. They’re not. And we’re not even going to go into the fact that talking about “marrying” your own daughter has all sorts of disturbing sexual overtones.

No, You Can’t Have A Cookie

Not to mention the fact that by spending all your time focusing on the fact that you won’t focus on sex, you’re pretty much spending that time focusing on sex. You know what the worst day of the year for me is? Yom Kippur: the Jewish day of fasting and atonement. Why? Because on any other day I could possibly go the whole day forgetting to eat something, but when all I can think about is how I can’t think about food, it’s all I think about.

Maybe part of the reason I have never understood Christianity’s view on sex and virginity is because Judaism is so radically different in its concepts of what is “good” or “bad” about sex. Until I was about nine or ten years old, I was raised in an Orthodox Jewish community, and in fact I so rarely met anyone who wasn’t Jewish, that when we kept driving by a big house with a lower – case letter “T” on it, I had to ask my mom why the local people were so obsessed with the alphabet. Yes, for those of us playing, it was a church; the “T” was a cross. In my home, sex wasn’t commonly discussed because I was so young, but as I got older there were no hesitations in discussing sex with me when it came up. In fact, the entirety of my mom’s conversation with me about masturbation came down to three words:

“Wash your hands.”

Multiple Mitvah’s

Sex wasn’t bad, it wasn’t wrong or dirty, but there is a time and a place for everything. Some things are appropriate at certain ages, and others aren’t. Judaism, at its core, isn’t really hung up about sex, although there are certain quirks. For example, ensuring that your wife has an orgasm is what is called a “mitzvah” or a good deed. Ensuring she has one on Shabbat is a DOUBLE mitzvah. So, if you really wanna rack up those bonus points for G-D, start screwing. What I don’t understand is that if they believe that G-D created everything, then He must have made that happy–dance, too. Did you know there is such a think as “post sex guilt”? I hadn’t heard of it until college when a roommate explained it to me. Why bother? Why feel guilty about something that was given to you? I really don’t feel guilty about using that blender we got for our wedding… other than the fact that I didn’t send in the registration card, but who really does that? Anyway, with all this sex around me, you’d think I would have lost my virginity very early, but in fact I was one of the last people I know to have sex. It just wasn’t the right time, until suddenly it was, and then I did.

The point is: I really don’t think anyone needs a virginity ring, or a ball, or even a virginity pot–luck. I think what people need is an on-going dialogue that evolves organically from the world around you. Sex is on tv and in ads is everywhere, so why wait to talk to your child until some previously appointed day. When situations arise, talk to your kids, if you have them, about what you think and how you feel. It made a huge difference in my life, and I didn’t even have to sign some contract discussing the state of affairs between my legs with my dad. Believe me, we’re both thankful for that.

Post from: Toy With Me

Purity Balls – Because Metaphorical Incest Is Totally Cool

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STOP YELLING AT ME BECAUSE I DON’T REMEMBER WHAT YEAR I GOT MARRIED.

The Internet is so judgy sometimes, I swear it.

Anyterriblewife, my sister-in-law gave me this book:

(yes.  I married into that kind of family) as a bridal shower gift seven(ish) years ago and since then it has been sitting in our bookcase getting dusty and weeping because it has yet to be used.  Yes, books weep.  I work in a library.  I know these things.  They can also lay a guilt trip on you worse than your mother can.  They’re very wily, those books. And I had even completely forgotten we owned the book until my daughter was looking through the bookcase and found it and she came to me with it and was all “what’s this book about, mama?” and I whipped it away from her and said “WOULD YOU LIKE SOME CANDY?” because I’m a very fast thinker like that.

Soooo, I guess it’s time to put away my “erotica” section.

But I’m sort of glad she brought it to my attention because it gave me an idea.  I decided that starting with our seven(ish) year wedding anniversary we will use the book.

Every day we will do the suggested position.

Good. Plan. Crissy.

But then I actually started flipping through the book and well, um.  I don’t know.  Maybe I shouldn’t tell my husband about my plan.

Check it.

While I’m no stranger to the um…back door pleasures (I can’t believe I just outed myself as a butt slutt in front of the Toy With Mes.  HI MOM! My mom reads everything I write.  She’s very proud. Perhaps not anymore. HE FORCES ME MOM!  I’M A GOOD GIRL! I THINK ABOUT JESUS THE WHOLE TIME I SWEAR!), I really cannot see myself successfully participating in The Flying Butt Pliers:

To be honest, I just don’t have the arm strength.

The Problem With Yoga:

The problem is that I’ve been doing yoga for three years now and I have never in all my days seen a position such as that and besides.  I tried to get my husband to do yoga with me because I thought it would be sorta sexy and well?  He looks like a drunk horse trying to twist itself into a pretzel.  Turns out it’s not that sexy. I cannot recommend it.

The Fosse:

I object to this position on principle because Nobody is doing Jazz Hands! Anything labeled “Fosse” must have Jazz Hands. NEXT!

The Tadpole:

Um…WHAT?  I’m fairly certain that one is beyond human capability and it probably also defies some sort of laws of physics or gravity or whatever. Actually, come to think of it, I think I’ve seen figure skaters do it, they’re just spinning very, very fast at the time.

Keeping up with the Joneses:

Holy shit, Joneses!  YOU WIN!!!

Ohhhhhh, Canada!:

Apparently you have to be Canadian to do this one.  Better get on that Mr. & Mrs. Toy With Me.

Bombs Bursting in Air:

Very patriotic, but is it me or is this the same thing as The Tadpole?  I guess it doesn’t matter because I’m still not trying it–at least not without a helmet and some sort of mouth guard.  I’ve known my dentist since I was three.  I really don’t want to have to explain to him how I fell on my face and knocked all my front teeth out.

And then I read the introduction to the book and I guess they don’t really want us to actually try all of the positions and that comes as a great relief to me because I don’t think I’m woman enough for some of them. Honestly, it was starting to hurt my sexual self-esteem and you know what Toy With Mes?  I’m beginning to wonder if some of the other stuff I’ve heard of  is real.

Like, what about The Tony Danza where the gentleman is “balls deep” in the lady from behind and while fucking her vigorously and with gusto, he yells, “Who’s the boss?! Who’s the boss, bitch?!” at her.  And the lady replies, “You are!” and then the gentleman turns the lady to face him, slaps her in the face with his wenis and says, “No. Tony Danza’s the boss, bitch.”

What if that’s not real because I thought it was real and we’ve been doing it and I’m wicked embarrassed now!?

And we’ve all heard about the famous Donkey Punch where, during butt sex, the gentleman punches the lady in the back of her head which supposedly causes the lady’s bum to tense up thereby increasing the gentleman’s pleasure because apparently, the lady’s bum is not tight enough as it is (greedy bastard).  And I’m not sure I explained it properly. Maybe Fox News can explain it better.

Do people really do that?

And what about The Dirty Sanchez or The Pearl Necklace?

I dare say that if my husband gave me a Dirty Sanchez, I would divorce him.

Probably.

So, my Toy With Me friends, I need some suggestions because if I’m gonna try out some Awesome New Maneuvers, I’m going to need some help.

Don’t be shy…

I am tickled that I have a sponsor for my column! The fantabulous sex toy retailer Eden Fantasys have generously provided me with the cutest little lipstick shaped vibrator to give away to one of my lucky readers. To win the LELO MIA vibrator just leave a comment below! We will pick a winner on Wednesday December 2nd!

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Harry Pooter?

There were no circle jerks, no orgies, no three-somes or four-somes. At most, we’d get bored and go naked hot-tubbing and then cool down by running around naked in the snow. While it was tasteless, it wasn’t exactly nefarious. Porn was just something that seemed funny to watch to all of us, you know, it was like background noise, and made us laugh because it was so absurd and cheesy. With titles like Anal Clinic, Buffy The Vampire Layer, and Harry Pooter, I’m really not sure how we were supposed to take it seriously.

I’m sure there were plenty of adults, our parents even, who would have been horrified to know what we were doing, but really, it seemed harmless to us. It was all the stuff you found Behind The Curtain at your local video store, not like snuff films or bestiality. After I graduated high school and went to college, I was knocked back home, knocked, well, up and the last thing on my mind was getting myself off in new and kinky ways. I had my electric boyfriend, Big Pink, and that was good enough for me. Besides, how the hell could I sneak in a sex swing with my kid or my parents barging in all the time?

Porn Makes Me Laugh

By the time I moved out of my parents house, my kid was old enough to be aware of stuff and things, and pretty soon after I married The Daver, I was with child. When I’m cooking a crotch parasite, the absolute last thing on my mind is having The Sex then WHOOPS we were knocked up (happily!) again and so the idea of porn as a sex toy has always kind of been a foreign concept to me. I’m fully aware that my cable provider has a full LITANY of channels devoted to the Gentle Art of Pornography, and while I have NOTHING wrong with it whatsoever, I simply cannot imagine a day when an extreme close up of a gigantic beefy crotch filled with a penis will be anything less than hilarious and slightly nauseating. I get that some people might get a stiffy watching a threesome with ladies who look like they may have at one time been men, but to me, their moans of “FUCK MY ASS AND SUCK MY TITS” make me laugh, not cum in my pants. I just can’t take it seriously.

Maybe it all stems back to Debbie Does Dallas.

That’s probably the Godfather (Godmother?) of all porno films out there, and it showcases all that I think makes porn absolutely absurd. The handlebar mustaches, forever etched in my minds as “porn-staches,” which are now something that my husband, The Daver, often threatens to grow if I actually wipe my ass with his pillow or drain our savings to buy a Fry Baby and as many Twinkies as I can possibly afford. It has the paper-thin plot lines–which have sometimes devolved into no plot lines whatsoever—where random people just happen to start having The Sex, thereby spawning a billion teenage pizza driver’s fantasies. The thumpy, cornball synthesizer driven music that always cued up whenever our horny heroine, Debbie, encountered yet another man she had to hump. The girl was insatiable, I tell you!

The Obligatory Facial

It also introduced me to my personal favorite part of a porn, The Facial Cum Shot. Nothing cracks me up like a good old shot of spooge to the face and a moaning girl to intercept it. Because while I can understand the groaning and writhing around that accompanies an orgasm, there is nothing I can think of that is hot about a facial cum shot. It’s messy, it can be downright painful if shot into the eye or up the nose, and hell, if I’m in the middle of getting my rocks off, don’t take it it out and shoot me in the face. Anyway, my girl Debbie, she was partial to them.

My roommate bought a copy of this highly esteemed film on one of our treks down to Boys Town and I probably watched it no less than three hundred times. Every time someone came over, we popped the tape into the VCR and I am swearing to you, it never stopped being funny or entertaining, and everyone who came over loved it. It was campy porno goodness. We had toga parties where we drank cheap red wine and watched Debbie Does Dallas, smoked cigars, all of us crammed into our concrete shoebox of a dorm room. I have no doubt that she still has the movie somewhere, stashed away.

So maybe that’s it.

Maybe that’s why I can’t imagine turning on a porn and unbuttoning the pants to get all hot and bothered with my bad self while watching a pornstachioed Ron Jeremy have The Sex with random big boobied blond girls in Homo Errectus. Maybe I can’t do anything but laugh at Cyber Sluts Do Manhattan, because I know that my Debbie did it better, before those sluts were even getting their beavers wet. Debbie was getting her gang bang on WELL before Chitty Chitty Gang Bang ever did. So Debbie, wherever you are, you and your cheerleading buddies and your facial cum shots spoiled me from porn. Forever.

So what do you think, my Toy With Me-ers? Is porn finger-lickin’ hot? Am I missing something integral to my porno education?

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Remember that?

Well, the truth is Toy With Mes—I’m not the super sexy sex kitten you all fantasize about (you do fantasize about me, don’t you? Of course you do). I know I talk a good game about fucking the police and the vampires and watching the porn and stuff, but honestly, I’ve been in mommy mode for so long that I no longer have any sexy panties and shit to wear for my husband.

I know. I’m shattering fantasies here. I’m sorry. Don’t get mad. I’m just keepin’ it real!

My panty drawer consists mostly of cotton underpanties from Target and some maternity ones from Old Navy like I told you about last week.

I’m sorry.

In my defense, at least they’re not briefs. They’re little cute hipster bikini ones (am I the only person on the planet who hates boy shorts? They ride right up my ass!) in fun prints, but still.

They’re not slutpanties.

(Please, stop crying.)

I used to have some pretty hot underpants, but I dunno. I just got all momish.

And the bras?

Oy.

They’re not much better.

All my cute and sexy ones are a size too small and they’re packed away until the baby is done with the nursies and nursing bras are notoriously hideous. I found some very cute lacy ones at Target, but they’re still nursing bras. I guess they could be considered sexy because the cups open up to reveal the boobages, but if my husband did that I’d puke. I totally associate that snap sound with the baby and well, you know what I’m saying.

Ew.

So here I am, desperate to reclaim my sex life after having a baby and thanks to Turbo Jam, Weight Watchers, and breastfeeding, I’m back to my pre-baby body and  I’m all ready to feel sexy and pretty again.

And I need to go shopping.

Wicked. Bad.

But I need a style or, an attitude to go with because (I’m going to shatter another fantasy in a second.  You’ve been warned.) I feel really silly getting dressed up in frilly “I’m only wearing this because I’m gonna fuck you in a minute” stuff.

I mean, how do you do that with finesse? I have a four-year-old who could emerge from her room at any moment and I’d hate to run into her in the hallway after changing into this in the bathroom:

What would I even say to her?  “You’re having a nightmare, honey.  Go back to bed and never mention this to anyone, ever.”

And let’s say I change into the thing in my room to avoid all the potential awkwardness in the hallway, do I throw my husband out or do I make him face the wall or do I hide in the closet…what?  I’ve sort of got it in my head that there should be an element of mystery, anticipation, and surprise to it and then a big “TA-DA” moment when all is revealed.

Right?

But let’s put my performance anxiety to the side because first, I need something to actually wear.

So I went online, determined to find something awesome.  I started with the old standby, Victoria’s Secret. I shopped around a little bit and nothing really spoke to me and then I started having issues because the whole time I was shopping, the mouse kept going “ooooo…look! Flannel!” and it was trying to make me click on their new winter pajamas collection and I had to keep beating the naughty mouse with my other hand.

Then I went to Agent Provacateur and I was all, “this shit is nyce!” and then I was all “THREE HUNDRED AND WHAT?”  When you have a mortgage payment to make and some kids to feed, spending $350 on a slip that you only wear for thirty seconds doesn’t seem very responsible.

So I gave up on that shit realfuckingquick and went to Frederick’s of Hollywood and decided that skank is not my favorite lingerie flavor. Sorry if it’s your favorite, but I don’t like it. My husband loves it though.  But this isn’t about him.  Well, not totally about him.

And at La Perla they want $300 for a bra! Just one bra.  Shut your mouth.

They can suck it anyway because I didn’t like any of their stuff.

NEXT!

And there was no next because I got tired of looking, and I think part of my problem is that I have a hard time picturing myself in any of the stuff.  And if I actually can imagine myself in it, it might not look quite as hot as I hoped it would.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve bought something only to try it on and feel absolutely ridiculous.

Clearly, I have no idea what looks good on me.

I’m not really a bustier or merry widow with garter arrangement type girl. I can’t figure out the whole stockings thing and I inevitably wind up fumbling with it,  snapping my leg with the garter things, yelling “OW! FUCK!”  and end up with oh-so-sexy welts on my thighs.

I’m not big into animal prints either.

Meeoowwww or… not.

And babydolls make me look pregnant. Totally not what I’m going for.

I don’t do the whole dress up naughty nurse/french maid/schoolgirl thing either.  That’s why God made Halloween.

So, I’m feeling kind of frustrated.  Maybe I’m just not a lingerie person or a “nightwear” person like the fancy sites call it.  Maybe I’m better off going in au naturale?

I don’t know.

What do you people usually wear (or get turned on by) on Very Special Evenings?  And if you know what will look good on me, I believe I have already shared my underwear sizes with you.

SEND!

HELP!

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