So this week, butterflies — I’m talkin SeX sTyLeS.

I’ve been HIGHLY sexual lately. More than EVER in my life. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been going through a shitty stage and when everything sux — professionally and personally — at least you still have sex to look forward to — plus it’s a great way of releasing frustrations and distracting yourself from your failures.

SIDE NOTE: Sex is awesome and as far as I surmise, it’s kind of the purpose of life anyway, so who gives if I’m failing in every other aspect of my existence. I rather be poor and pathetic and “getting it,” than rich and successful and completely dry and bored out of my libido.

OR: maybe I’m just over-the-top-insane, “THE CLIT WILL REIGN” out of control HORNY because I’m in my sexual peak. I’m enjoying boinking more than alcohol, fast food, hot wings, German chocolate cake etc. I want it from behind, the side, on top — whatever way AS IN every way – ALL THE TIME.

That said, I’m not doing it with random strangers or anything. I stumbled across a sexual partner. We met by a graffiti wall. Very romantic (well it is if you’re a hipster; not that I am. I’m more of an accidental hipster — temporarily). He’s not really someone I would imagine for myself (in life), but let me say when it comes to sex and form, the man has style — and stamina. We managed to do it eleven times the other night. I didn’t know that was even possible.

During the course of my history, I’ve found that sex is different with different men. Like a quiet accountant type who doesn’t lift weights (even though he probably goes on morning jogs) will probably have a very different technique to someone who works in construction. I imagine. I’m not into builders — or accountants. It’s just an analogy. Example: The accountant may be subtle, the construction dude not so. Unless the reverse happens as is so typical in life thanks to its attraction to irony and the accountant becomes a tiger in bed, whilst the construction guy strips off his macho persona revealing a pussy cat underneath. Meow.

You can’t type-cast when it comes to a person’s style in bed. My only point is that everyone has their preferred method and stereotypes can be deceiving. Example: A year ago, I had a fling with this hot former-submarine military guy. He was a work-out freak with an amazing body. But he was very potato chips plain, “minimal participation” in bed. If sex were a musical form, he was like reggae, but bad amateur reggae. I prefer dance, pop, techno — something more upbeat.

Personally, I like to be man-handled. None of this smooth operator, shifting back and forth missionary-style at a consistent pace and rhythm whilst the sounds of soft unintended moans harmonize with the squeak of bed springs. Unless it’s naturally going that way and we’re genuinely falling in love, sex should not be choreographed. Sweeping my hair out of my eyes and playing Marvin Gaye in the background for the sake of illusion because I’m a girl and I just need to be loved – even if it’s a lie — is not cool dude. I’m a realist,  motherfucker!  I live in a city with a majority “asshole” population…aka. L.A. I don’t need to be shielded from the truth. Besides, I like it rough.

AND: I’m a post-feminist movement female who has been forced into the workplace since the age of fifteen. I’ve suffered through corporate meetings and powerpoint presentations; I’ve worked in the car industry, a forklift company, the military, a commercial real estate office etc. over the course of the 30 plus jobs that I’ve had because equal opportunity is AWESOME (I’m kidding. It has perks). But when it comes to sexual activities I don’t always want to be an equal. I like to be dominated. Not that I don’t have my power moments , but ya get my drift.

When I first moved to California, I briefly dated this very brilliant, but nerdy (as in trendy-nerdy) producer, who I had awful AWFUL sex with — it was gentle and slow. I think he was aiming for it to be spiritual or something, but it wasn’t. So it was silent and mechanical and even though we weren’t entirely sober, its like we were both hauntingly aware of the fact that we were  doing it.  I think he was nervous, which made me nervous, which just resulted in awkward robot sex. Three failed attempts and it was time to eject. Eww. Memory deletion – compute.

At least he didn’t give me instructions. That’s the worst. Move to the left, do this weird thing with your tongue, open your mouth. STOP. Sex should come naturally. We’re not learning how to play the violin. And it should be in the moment. It’s not a Word Document; there’s no template.

I like a man with endurance. I mean the quickie is what it represents – I’m about to explode and I need to get off now NOW. I’m not undermining. It serves its purpose, but if you’re constantly only getting quick and hurried bursts of sex, you’re not doing it correctly. That’s like a preview. It’s like watching a trailer instead of seeing the actual movie. Not to mention I’m a woman and I’m not capable of getting off in ten seconds. Let’s not forget the value of foreplay. There’s no need to launch straight into it. Even space shuttles get a countdown before they take-off. A good lead up adds to the anticipation, which makes the climax all the more explosive.

Ultimately, whatever your style, it’s important to do it with confidence and to be comfortable with the person you’re doing it with.
…

ADD TO THE DIALOGUE: What are your thoughts, methods, preferences in style?

Post from: Toy With Me

SeX sTyLeS

If you’ve been through a horrifying divorce, the thought of even looking at a man can be enough to send you in a whirlwind frenzy and you’re pretty sure that if there weren’t strict laws against murder, you could wind up behind bars and headlining the six o’clock news.  Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic but anyone who’s been through it knows that divorce is too.

Once you get to a stable place after you’ve gotten off the emotional rollercoaster, you might find that you’re surprisingly ready to date again.  Dating is hard enough as it is.  And when you factor in the divorce you’ve been through, it is only that much harder.  So before you head out looking for a new man, here are some major “don’ts” to keep in mind:

Don’t do this:  Date before you’re ready.  Before you can enter another relationship, it is dire that you get over the one you just exited.  If you are fresh off the wings of your divorce, it’s probably not in your best interest to put yourself into another relationship right away.  You need to take the time for the wounds of your ex to heal before embarking upon a new journey with someone else.  Bask in some “you” time, cry with your best girlfriends about what a sorry excuse for a man that bastard of an ex-husband is, eat a lot of ice cream and then get your life back on track.  Once you are at peace with yourself and are truly happy, that is when the happiness and confidence will be radiating from within you, attracting all who cross your path—and a good relationship is bound to follow!
Remember, if you are standing at the new relationship station with bags upon bags of baggage, any takers will be heading straight for the next stop.

Don’t do this either:  Let anxiety get the best of you.  Dating is nerve racking no matter what your situation.  So there is no surprise that you will be a little shaky going into it again after a divorce.  But you can’t let a few butterflies get in the way of having a full recovery, meeting eligible bachelors and enjoying a well-rounded life.  Think about it like this:  would you rather spend a Friday night out on a romantic date with a gentleman caller or sit at home looking at an existence of growing old alone (well except for the 40 cats you will have to keep you company)?  The answer is probably not the latter.

To get your feet wet in the dating pond and build some confidence, take things slowly at first.  Mini-dates like lunch, cocktails after work, or even a trip to the coffee house with someone you’re interested in are great ways to ease into the whole dating scene—without the pressure of an elaborately planned date.  And if things go well, you can always schedule another outing.

Don’t even think about doing this:  Compare the new guy to the old one.  If you find yourself getting misty-eyed because your new man doesn’t put his socks on the way your ex-husband used to—stop yourself and think about what you’re doing.

Most of the time, when you start to go into ex mode, it’s probably not your ex-spouse or the new person in your life, but instead it’s you getting into your own head and focusing on the past.  Take a deep breath, clear your mind and let it go…remember—the past is the past and your ex is an ex for a good reason.  You’ve changed and grown so now it’s now time to move on, live in the present and embrace the new people and experiences life is throwing your way.

Don’t EVER, under ANY circumstances do this:  Date for the wrong reasons.  It’s not right.  And our therapists would most certainly frown upon it.  But we’ve all been there—wide awake at 3 a.m. painting a picture in your head of your ex-husband crying, begging and pleading for you back as you are riding off into the sunset with a shirtless heart surgeon in the brand new BMW he bought you…sigh.  Okay, maybe that fantasy went a little too far.  But you get the point.  It’s a good idea not to devise a twisted plan to make your ex jealous.  In the end, no one wins—you are stooping to a level not of the mature, sensible, strong woman that you are.

Sometimes, post-divorce daters feel the need to show that they are desirable and the need to validate their attractiveness and self-worth (to themselves or their exes)—without fail, a string of disaster dates always ensue.  To avoid a rebound situation where you end up worse off than when you started…just slow down!  There is no need to feel the pressure to make up for lost time—consider new hobbies and activities that will open doors to meeting new people.  This way you are getting out and being social without the pressure of one-on-one dating.

So now that you are armed and ready with the “don’ts” of dating after divorce, you will be prepared to tackle it like a pro!

Post from: Toy With Me

Dating After Divorce

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It’s that time of year again, Toy With Me-ers, and no, not the time of year where I moan and groan about having to buy a swim suit (which, come to think of it, I’ve never done, which means I should probably do that sometime, just to SAY I’ve done it, right? RIGHT), but the time of year where we all take a nice hard look at ourselves and decide how much we suck. Then we say all of the ways we’re going to be BETTER next year.

Aside: wow, does this sound like a losing game or what?

Yes, Toy With Me-ers, it’s Your Aunt Becky’s New Year’s Resolutions. I’ve never really made any before, or maybe I have, but I’ve never made any, at least, that I intended to keep, so this is kind of a new thing for me. In fact, I hate the term “New Year’s Resolutions.” Instead, I’m going to be calling this, Your Aunt Becky’s Guide To Fucking Shit Up and Being Dead Sexy.

1) I’m going to stop taking shit from people. I’m sofuckingtired of taking bullshit from assholes who aren’t worth my time of day in the name of “being nice.” They don’t deserve my time. They’ve NEVER deserved my time. And yet, I’ve allowed them to infiltrate my life with their stupid bullshit. No. More. Bullshit.

2) I’m going to stop honoring commitments I neither want nor need. This is going to be a big one for me. I’m a huge fan of making people happy. You might even say that making people happy is kinda my “thing.” But I realized that it’s been at the cost of my own personal happiness. I have to start remembering that each time I do it, it’s taking away from things I could be doing that have a positive impact on my happiness. Like using my gold vibrator. Or eating chips. Or watching paint dry.

3) Speaking of my gold vibrator, I’m going to have more of The Sex. And if I cannot have more of The Sex with a partner, I’m going to have more of The Sex with myself. Sex increases endorphins which are better than any (most) drug or alcohol highs (win!). Sex reduces the instances of depression and bladder incontinence. Which, I mean, who wants to smell like pee all the time if they don’t have to? There are a host of other benefits to having The Sex, but really, I’m mostly hoping that I can get high and happy. Like The Partridge Family.

4) I will remember that I matter too, dammit, and no matter what, I have to come before most everything on my To Do List. Because if I can’t be healthy and happy, nothing is going to ever get done and I won’t be able to make anyone else happy. I deserve to be happy. It’s that simple.

5) I’m going to laugh more. The real tip-of-your-toes-to-your-nose kinds of laughs. I can make most other people laugh by saying “meat curtains” but I haven’t been laughing myself. Not much, at least. And I think that women (and men) are sexiest when they’re happy – really happy – and laughing. I will find one thing every day that is funny. And laugh at it if I can. Life is not all serious business after all.

6) I’m going to find more friends. I’ve realized how empty my life has been without good friends. I’m not a lone wolf and I need to stop acting like I can do it all alone because that’s a steaming pile of bullshit. So that’s the end of it. I’m going to make friends if I have to drag them out kicking and screaming for drinks and dinner.

7) I will not apologize upon every other breath (or in every other email). I do not need to be sorry for all of the things that happen badly because I am not responsible for everything that goes wrong in a given day. Just because I can say the words, “I’m sorry,” doesn’t mean that I need to. Shit happens. It’s not always my fault. I may have to print these words out to remember them, but that is okay. I will remember them. Eventually.

8 ) I will finally find a proper place to store my sex toys. My children have taken to playing in my bedroom, and it’s a matter of time before one of them decides to play “Light Saber” with my golden vibrator. That cannot happen because I might actually die in a pool of my own embarrassment. So it’s time to hollow out that wall for my wall safe, get a corny Starry Night print and pack the old sexy time toys away. Before I inflict more damage upon my children than I already have.

9) I will take better care of my appearance. That means, I’ll get more routine haircuts and colors because when I do that, I feel better. When I feel better, I feel prettier. When I feel prettier (I feeeelllll prettttyyy!), I feel sexier. When I feel sexier, I want to have The Sex. When I have The Sex, I release endorphins and then, I am happier. So haircut = happier. That is a TOTAL win.

10) I will buy some proper underwear. The kind that does NOT come in a 6-pack bag with whimsical patterns. They don’t have to be crotchless or a thong, but they do have to make me feel good about wearing them. I’ve ended up losing the baby weight this year. It’s time to showcase that, if only to myself.

11) I will purchase some new lingerie to replace the ancient stuff that I just tossed out. I came across the lingerie that I’d had from ten years ago and realized that it was probably a) a little creepy to own lingerie older than my kids and b) time to get some new lingerie. (I also noted that my tastes hadn’t drastically changed in those ten-ish years. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not). (Um, where do you BUY lingerie any more, Toy With Me-ers? I don’t even KNOW.)

So that’s my List of Awesome Things I’m Going To Do Eventually, When I Get Around To It, Because Obviously, Toy With Me-Ers. What would be on your list? Do you make these kinds of lists (even if they’re in your head)?

Post from: Toy With Me

11 New Year Resolutions I Plan To Keep

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It’s the most wonderful time of the year again, Toy With Me-ers! Can’t you just FEEL the love dripping from everyone? Why, I was nearly mowed down by a couple of cars today trying to walk into Target to buy some motherfucking Christmas presents. Happy Motherfucking Holidays!

I kid, I kid. I may be one of the last people over twelve who still enjoys the holidays. The holidays are sparkly like me and even more importantly, filled with presents. There is nothing not awesome about presents.

So, Toy With Me-ers, I’m going to give you Aunt Becky’s Magical List of Things That Will Trim My Tree and Stuff My Stockings. Some of them are things I’ll buy myself and the others are things that I just, well, think would be awesome.

Onto the List Of Things That May Deck My Motherfucking Halls!

1) A New Bra
Okay, now this is like the most boring thing that you could ever want for Christmas and I totally get why you’re rolling your eyes right now. I sort of am, too. But, I’ve needed a new bra for three years and haven’t bought one because getting fitted for a bra is a most exquisite torture. It’s worse than the gynecologist because it takes so damn long (my gynecologist is efficient, which gives him high marks. Who wants someone digging around your snatch for any longer than they have to?). So I’m going to buy a new one. I’m guessing that the first one I will buy will be hot pink. The second? RHINESTONES, BABY. There’s no reason a bra has to be boring.

2) Vincent D’Onofrio
I think he’s been on every list of Weird Guys I Want To Have Dirty Sex With and he’s still there…if I could have sex with him from about five years ago.. And providing he can pretend to be his character from Law and Order: Criminal Intent. Because brilliantly quirky guys are pretty hot. Even if they’re technically old enough to be my father. (please don’t tell my father I said this. He may murder me and THEN who would churn out mediocrity at an alarming rate?)

3) That Diamond Vibrator
After my epiphany about putting mediocre things near my vagina, I realized that my vagina deserved pampering. A diamond vibrator? So long as I’m spending fake money, I might as well put something so ridiculously extravagant on here. And at three grand, Jimmyjane’s Little Eternity .66 carat diamond vibrator seems about the most insanely opulent thing to put near your crotch. I mostly want to buy it to show it off and make people uncomfortable. “Oh, HI THERE NEIGHBOR I DON’T KNOW. Please come in, why don’t you? Why what’s this here in this huge display case? Why don’t you LOOK AT MY DIAMOND VIBRATOR?” Heh. Be glad you’re not my neighbor.

Do YOU want to own a 24K GOLD vibrator?  You can enter to win one by clicking here.

4) Tom Jones
Not like THAT, you pervs. I don’t want to hump Mr. Tom Jones (EW). I mostly want him to come over and croon his romatical songs at me all night long. Especially his song, “Sex Bomb,” which, if you haven’t heard it, you really need to. After “What’s New PussyCat?” this song may make you a little blushy. Because he’s TOM JONES and he’s like eight-hundred years old and he’s being all SEXUAL. Which is just the right amount of awesomely bizarre to me.

Plus, the only thing on my Bucket List besides, “eat Uncrustables,” is “see Tom Jones in concert.” If he were HERE under my Christmas tree, I’d be able to have him in concert any time I wanted. Then, I could throw my panties at him strictly as a joke. Because really, I do not want to sleep with him.

5) Anthony Bourdain
I really DO want to sleep with Anthony Bourdain and I do not give a shit that he’s Captain Old Balls and also old enough to (potentially) be my father. There’s something incredibly satisfying about watching someone on the television who is wry, funny and sarcastic who also happens to like The Ramones. I’m pretty sure he’s my soul mate although he’s married, which means I’m going to have to somehow intervene. Can’t have my television husbands having The Sex with other ladies, even if they are bound by holy matrimony. Perhaps my rhinestone bra will help matters.

P.S. I don’t have daddy issues. I swear.

6) A New Pair of Fuck-Me Boots
I don’t really know what else to call “fuck-me boots,” besides, well, “fuck-me boots,” so I’m just gonna call it like I see it. That’s what I want. I own a couple of pairs. I remain convinced that I need more. Why? OBVIOUSLY.

Also: I blame footwear for those years of not feeling particularly sexy (pregnant + heels = a disaster for me). There’s nothing about Birkenstocks that screams “SEXY.” Although, I don’t really own any Birkenstocks. No, I don’t. I swear. Trust me, I’d tell you if I did.

7) A Group of BFF’s
That probably sounds a little silly, but I realize lately how much I miss having a gaggle of best friends. Life changes, you know? Sometimes you lose friends along the way. (Especially if you’re as rancid as I am to be around.)

I realize more and more how much I need good friends. Don’t care if it sounds as cornball as a Tom Jones song, it’s true and it’s something I’m going to have to do for myself. Unless they’re selling friends at Target. Which, hm, it IS a Greatland…

8 ) A Vigilante Sidekick
If I can’t have a gaggle of best friends, the next best thing is to get one REALLY GOOD best friend who wants to go on bank robbing sprees and be all Robin Hood with me. Possibly even a serial killer best friend who only kills bad guys, avenges past wrongs and has killer abs. Like Dexter!

Why settle?

(hm. Maybe that’s why I don’t have a vigilante best friend sidekick)

So, Toy With Me, this is what I want wrapped up under the tree, decking my halls and making my Christmas bright. Now tell me, what do you want under your tree (or your kitchen, or your hearth, or your bedroom)?

Post from: Toy With Me

All I Want For Christmas Is a Pair Of Fuck Me Boots And Tom Jones

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On Monday morning, bright and blurry, I’m meeting with a plastic surgeon. I walked into the office last week, terrified out of my mind, like they were going to think I was too freaky to be in there or something. I was dressed in scrubs and had come from my third or eighth chiropractic appointment of the week after suffering from a migraine that had lasted for almost a month. Normally, I’d have made the effort to have put on pants, but these weren’t normal circumstances, and I hoped that the pert and perky receptionist would forgive me.

Of all the doctors I’ve been to, a plastic surgeon was one I’d not considered visiting…at least not for awhile. But after spending the weekend taking a nice vacation in Urgent Care for muscle spasms (which is not nearly a glamorous enough diagnosis) and months trying to treat said muscle spasms, it finally dawned on me what my problem was.

My breasticles.

After my three crotch parasites were born, even after the baby weight had been lost, I’d been blessed with what some women would kill for: a ginormous rack. At first, I marveled at my good fortune. Having gone from a solid B-cup to a DD-cup was made me decidedly curvy and let me just say that my milkshake brought all the boys to the yard. I’d never lost the perkiness of my chesticles that plagued so many of my lady friends, and I could easily claim that by breasts had gone from eh to HOLY FUCKBALLS in nine glorious months.

I should admit, before any of you start flinging things at the computer screen or stabbing a Your Aunt Becky voodoo doll, that while I was pregnant, my breasticles were beyond comical. If I had photographic evidence, I’d show you so that you could get a good laugh at my expense. After all, what are friends for?

When I heard my other large breasted friends complain about the pain they experienced while running or walking up stairs, thanks to their breasts, I was baffled. My new rack, quite frankly, lacked sensation. So running may have been awkward because I’d occasionally thwap myself in the face with a flying boob, but my breasts themselves, well, they never hurt.

My breasts and I were pretty much BFF. I considered making us BFF necklaces for awhile, until I realized that I’d probably have to make some nipple jewelry for them, and since I don’t have piercings on my nipples, it would be rather difficult to pull off. So we just agreed that we were all good with each other and left it at that.

My gut, on the other hand, while, I’ve been planning a tummy tuck since I hit puberty. I was blessed with what my family calls “The Sherrick Pot” which is a nice way of saying I have a pot belly. Thanks, Dad, for bestowing that lovely legacy upon me. Add the pot belly to the delicious saggy skin that my three children have managed to do to me, and you have a nasty-ass gut.

It bothers me. It’s always bothered me. When I was a skinny kid, I had a pot belly and I hated it then. I hate it now. It’s one of those things I’m incredibly self conscious about and while I’d like to be all preachy and “I’m so comfortable in my own skin,” it makes me incredibly unhappy. And I’ve tried everything I can do to make it go away on it’s own. It won’t.

So having a tummy tuck has always been in the nebulous future for me. Closer than, let’s say, retirement age, but farther away than next week. It was just one of those things I’ve been waiting to do until “the time was right” (read: I had enough cash and/or babysitting karma saved up so that someone else could watch the crotch parasites while I recovered). And I always knew that I would do it. It was just a matter of when.

But the recent muscle spasms in my neck and shoulders have been entirely unexplainable and untreatable. I’ve spent months in agony. I now cannot recall a time when I was not in pain. Migraines have been plaguing me for years, and the drugs I take to keep them at bay make me feel like dog shit. It’s made my day-to-day life hard and while I know that I will not let it break me, there are days when all that I can do is cry.

It took a trip to see the Urgent Care doctor who, in a wonderful example of kismet, sent me to his chiropractic friend, for me to finally realize what may be causing some of my pain.

My luscious mammaries. My small frame was simply not built to support such a gigantic rack. My neck and my shoulders are straining against the weight of my chesticles and that constant strain, even with a sports bra on at all times, has caused the joints to lock up and the muscles to remain in a constant state of tetany. There is no long-term solution to this problem. I’ve taken the strongest drugs they make, used cold and heat, tried therapy, and used a chiropractor, and and nothing relieves the spasms for long.

So, with my chiropractor in tow (offices are in the same building), I dragged myself up to that plastic surgeon’s office to make the initial appointment. At this point, I’m ready to hack them off myself, if it’ll get rid of even a fraction of the pain. While I’m under the knife, I’ll be getting my tummy tuck, too, if I can swing it.

I’m not happy by the way this is all going down, truth be told. I’d much rather march into that office, dressed in my finery and choose some beautiful breasts because I want to, not hobble in, doubled over in pain, begging to see how I can make insurance cover the costs.

I’ll be sorry to see the girls go. But hopefully my new ones will be a little kinder to the rest of me.

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We have talked about sex dolls a number of times here at Toy With Me, enough that you might think we are a little obsessed. Remember when Nicole had a threesome with a pair of sex dolls? Or how about that time when The Kinky Jew raised concerns about how the popularity of high end sex dolls were somehow a reflection on how society is evolving to see woman as objects. It was with that in mind that I came across Honey Pie via Tinny Nibbles, the site of the one and only Violet Blue. It is a short mini-documentary featuring Matt McMullen who is the creator of Real Doll, a company that makes ultra-realistic dolls that cost over $6000.

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

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The Artist Who Makes Sex Dolls

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Not too long ago, an acquaintance expressed her sadness that summertime seems to bring out all the catcalling assholes of the world. Catcalling is almost never welcomed and I felt her pain, but also maybe thought she was overreacting a little bit because if you can believe it or not, I have never had this happen to me.

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?

First off, red hair doesn’t work with your olive skin. Neither will blond, but that comes later. I figured I should open with the obvious because one day you will look back at the pictures and ask yourself “what the hell was I thinking?” Sadly, this is exactly what you will say when you look back at many of your old relationships, because, let’s face it kid, you had some things to learn. Because you’re easily distracted by shiny things, I’ve made a handy list for your reference.

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