It’s been said that during the height of Sex in the City mania you couldn’t go anywhere in New York without overhearing someone talking about the show. Even now, ten years after its final episode has aired my friends and I watch re-runs and debate over who is more of a Carrie or Miranda. The effects of the Sex in the City era are far from over. In my estimation the show did two things for the world of dating: proclaimed to people everywhere that women didn’t necessarily need a man to be happy, and that being single until your thirties was a very real possibility.

I think the latter has had a bigger effect on the female psyche than the former. Although we loved the characters of Sex in the City and revere them as probably the closest thing to feminist heroes as we are going to get, we don’t actually want to be them. Ask any one of your friends and I doubt they would say their dream is to be, or was to be, single into their late thirties.

This fact has sent us on the hunt for a suitable mate. At the risk of making the biggest blanket statement you’ll ever hear, we are a country obsessed with finding love. Turn on the television and our programming is centered around competing for love, documenting two people seemingly in love, finding love in mysterious places (i.e. the dark, the wild or “the real world”), and all the nitty gritty that comes before you find true love; enter the smush room.

Some would say, hey that’s not such a bad thing; there’s nothing wrong with wanting to find someone to share your life with. And, you’re right, there isn’t. But sometimes I wonder if perhaps we are a little too desperate for love? The fear that a year long dry spell brings can send a woman settling faster than you can say, “He’s kinda cute, right?”

Dr. Karen Anderson, associate professor of psychology, wrote a book called It Just Hasn’t Happened Yet, in which she suggests that if you haven’t found love you should just buckle down and wait for it. That isn’t the book in its entirety, but by and large it suggests that singles are not at fault for well, being single. It just hasn’t happened! While I have many concerns about this kind of thinking and would suggest everyone to take that advice with a grain of salt, I do agree with one point. Perhaps we all should just chill out a little bit.

I know personally I have acquaintances or people in my friend circle who seem overly eager to be in a relationship. I’m not going lie, most of the time these “people” are female. I see friends trying to make relationships with guys that I wonder if they would even find attractive had they not felt some sort of external/internal pressure. Heck, I’ve done this before too! I’m not so high up on my soapbox to say I haven’t pursued a man that I knew I didn’t have anything in common with just to have a date to social events.

The tricky thing with that kind of behavior is that you run the risk of getting attached or falling in love. Before you know it you could find yourself head over heels with someone who you weren’t even that crazy about in the beginning. Are we really so desperate for love that we are willing to participate in relationships with people that don’t suite us?

I know how hard it can be to see friends get boyfriends/girlfriends and stay single. But that is no reason to rush into a relationship or put pressure on someone you are casually dating. If it is meant to happen, it should happen organically. Imagine marrying someone you had to convince to propose to you? A lifetime of “she talked me into it” as the “how did it happen story”? Yuck!

Let’s stop being so afraid of our singleness and start embracing the time we have alone to figure out what it is that makes us happy. What are you looking for in a mate? What are your turn offs/turn ons. These are the things that the luxury of time will allow you to figure out so that “the one” comes along you will be the best version of yourself, or hey at least more toned.

Post from: Toy With Me

Desperate For Love

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

What’s Love Got to do with it!  Notice how I replaced the question mark with an exclamation point…

SO…let’s talk about SEX baby, Salt N Pepa style because sometimes sex is sex, particularly after a ten month dry spell. This is not a Romeo and Juliet love story folk. But it’s better…because awesome sex happened and no one died in the end.

I was humped, laid, screwed as in penetrated, prodded, pounded. FuCkEd major league, big time. Yessssss, I finally broke my dry spell on July Fourth of all dates – seriously, could I be anymore obvious? Well, it was July fifth to be exact…because as we know all good and naughty things tend to happen after midnight. But WOW. Semantics aside, the fireworks cliche slides in quite nicely here. I replaced fireworks with a good old fashioned romp.

Okay okay, now I’m not going to exaggerate and tell you it was like this explosive combustion, but I will say physical compatibility and sexual chemistry were in check. His testosterone and my estrogen were like yin and yang. You know how sometimes you end up with shitty sex with someone you cultivated a relationship with and after the umpteenth date you take it to the bedroom only to find out the sex is below minimum expectation. And you’re like, WTF? I created these fantasies in my head; I made it through the waiting period; I listened to the person go on an on about, insert boring subject, only to discover there is no spark in the sack. Very disappointing.

Well, I got good sex with an unsuspecting source and it just so happened to fall on Independence Day. Random. Random sex. Or perhaps symbolic. Symbolic Sex. Symbolic Random Fourth of July Independence Day Sex.

It was like the ultimate college romp and he was five years younger than me, so he was definitely closer to being in college. Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson. Not that the age difference was super apparent or anything because our bodies were in harmony and our intellect and personalities were not part of this equation.

I probably wouldn’t have submitted had it not been for the NaTuRaL pull of nature. At first when he approached me, I was like, Who are you and what are you trying to do? It started with a tongue in my mouth and before I knew it we were on his bed doing “it”…and I was fully into “it.”  I’ve never been an advocate of the one night stand and I’ve never actually participated in one but this was like sexual gravitation. It was beyond my control. Basic Instinct.

I’m into you – Mrs. Lopez.   

Once we got the party started there was no fiddling, fumbling or uncomfortable flipping.  We were in rhythm; sync. It was written in the stars – meant to be. Sex for the sake of sex. Two people with a common goal – to get off…and we did — multiple times. And I must say he was very swift with the condom changing maneuvers.

But definitely not how I expected  to end my dry spell. After ten months of no activity and being 30, the age when most good girls are already married and thinking about family things, I was wondering if perhaps I was subliminally saving myself for “the one.” That maybe he was channeling me and keeping me prudish in preparation for his Mr. Big. We’d finally meet in some exotic location and the love and sex would happen simultaneously.

Nope.

I just did it with the jock instead. Great. I’ll probably meet my soul mate next week and have to explain that I was saving myself but then Independence Day happened — and, well…I got that boom boom POW.

I suppose it was inevitable. July Fourth does mark the season of fling – z summer fling; the best season to fling. So it was a pinnacle date to break the dry spell curse. There were many conversations about sex that day and at a prior after-party, young boys were trying to lure me with drugs and porn. Weird. But not in L.A. because that shiz is kind of mainstream here, particularly at after-party hours when everyone is sufficiently drunk.

Post from: Toy With Me

SEX AFTER A DRY SPELL

BREAK IT DOWN:

So you know that song by Will Smith, Just the Two of Us. Well check out my updated post-ironic version. Hit it Maestro: Just the “three” of us we can make it if we try-ay. Just the three of us – you, I…. and your NEW GIRLFRIEND.

So…I’ve been the cause of this strange phenomenon lately where I meet a guy and THEN inspire him to find a girlfriend. There have been several instances and it’s always with a guy where there’s an element of chemistry but probably not much else. Like someone I would totally use for sex or a seasonal fling. Okay, I don’t mean that in a slutty way…or maybe I do because I’m in my sexual peak and my libido is corrupting my mind. Like, Fuck emotions! Who needs them when your sex is on fire.

What?! Men get away with thinking that way. Blame it on feminism and equal opportunity. I didn’t start the wave, but I’ve been forced to ride it. So take it like a man, Biatch!

Whit-chee! (as in sound of a whip). Besides, I’ve tried emotions and the only person who gets “fucked” (pun INtended) — is me. So “fuck” that.

Anyway…near sex experiences aside, I’m cool with being Cupid’s sidekick and inspiring love and all that jazz, but what I find a little puzzling is being introduced to  z new girlfriend, like intentionally, in what seems like criminally pre-meditated.

What’s going on guys? Feels a little Woody Allen-esque, Vicky Cristina Barcelona style. Or are you just trying to make me jealous? Because all you’re accomplishing is implicating a third party and creating an awkward situation.

The first time this happened was with a guy I had an artistic trade-off with — I helped him write a short script in exchange for a couple of guitar lessons. There was a zing; a spark between us (I mean it could’ve been entirely art related). The point is he decided to bring his “newly acquired” girlfriend to the final lesson. Really?! It’s called private tuition for a reason. I mean he scheduled the lesson last minute, disrupted my day and then brought a girl. Unless I’m completely delusional, it seemed like an attempt to flaunt. As in, Surprise! I have a girlfriend now. Alrighty, what does that have to do with the G chord? (Pun UNintended — this time).

They’re all like subtle scenarios, but in each case it’s always a girl whose younger and sweeter than me. And I can see the fear in their eyes. I mean they can probably tell I’m in heat.

P.S. Don’t you wish your girlfriend was Hot Like Me (Thank-you Pussycat Dolls for contributing – totally unnecessary).

Seriously, I’m not into games or high school antics.  So I find myself making this conscious effort to be extra nice to z girlfriend and dispel any myth that I’m a threat  because (I’m a good person) I admit that I probably appear scary in an Angelina Jolie, “Get out of my way, Bitch!” sort of way. Geez, Thank God for Edward Cullen in Twilight providing a good example of using every ounce of your inner strength to suppress your dark side. Yep, fictional vampires have become my new role models these days. Really, that whole storyline is a metaphor for restraining from sex.

But, TAKE NOTE: Women in their thirties are dangerous, as I’m discovering. Don’t mess with us.

Then there’s the adverse scenario where the guy fails to mention he has a girlfriend and you spontaneously find out when she crashes the date you’re on and threatens to kick everyone’s ass. Suddenly there’s a chick yelling at you, “Who the fuck are you?” And Mr. Macho becomes a pile of goo, down on his knees in a prayer pose with his hands clasped, repeating, “I’m sorry babe,” or “It’s not what it looks like.”

Awkward.

Yeah, that’s happened to me in the past. We’re chilling out, watching, “Meet the Fockers,” when suddenly the moment is intercepted by the sound of smashing glass. Yep, z girlfriend busted  the window with her bare fist so she could reach across and unlock the front door. Next moment, the guy’s in panic mode and he says, “You need to get out of here. She’s a black belt in Taekwondo.”Seriously, WTF Dude?! Thank-you for endangering my life ASSHOLE!

Without missing a beat, I race out at supersonic speed and skedaddle across the backyard to my car. As I’m reversing, the last image I see is the guy being thrown against the garage.

I try to avoid these situations. I really do. But somehow they find me. My most recent psycho girlfriend encounter was at lunch with a friend, well maybe not a friend, he’s known as the “creepy guy” from next door to where my actual friends live. Hey, it was a free meal and I wanted to pick his brain about something work related. He might be creepy, but he’s not stupid.

So this woman dressed in all black, leather jacket, kinda goth looking, but not in a cute way rather devil-like, appears out of nowhere. Its like she ascended from hell. I was relieved when she started screaming because while her lips were all pursed with that diabolical look in her eyes  (all pupils, no irises), I thought she was going to pull out a 45 mm and shoot us. I’m pretty sure she would’ve kicked my ass, but I assured her I had below minus zero attraction to this man, who we refer to as the creep. Funnily enough, I had just mentioned it to him. Kind of saved his ass, as he kept repeating, “These girls don’t even like me. I’m the creepy guy. I’m the creepy guy.”

And. WOW. I couldn’t even make this up if I tried.

Afterwards, guys tend to try to justify these situations with, “We’re on the verge of a break-up.” Who knows and who cares because I’m done with threes. Unless I’m actually having a threesome with two other single people (yeah, my libido would love that), then please take note of the following plea that I’m issuing to the world: PLEASE please pLeAsE, for the love of Satan, stay away from me if you have a girlfriend…particularly one who is trained in martial arts. Thank-you.

Post from: Toy With Me

Just the Three of Us

Ride that wave
Back into your soul
Where the fish dive deep
Amongst ship wrecked gold
…
Our love is the greatest love story — ever told. (As in our ability to love — universally).
Lyrics by Anonymous

I’ve been considering switching sides. It’s just this heterosexual thing has not been panning out. Ever since I’ve been thrust back onto the social scene, most of my endeavors with men have been riddled with discomfort and confusion. I’ve been on the other side before and I’m almost tempted to venture back.  Mutual understanding, sensuality, sharing – all to the tune of Tori Amos and Goldfrapp. Not to mention, the gay community is way more fun. AND vibrant AND celebratory. They have their own parades, bars – they own a section of town in most major cities. And the best parties I have EVER attended have always been hosted by gay people. I’m talking lavish and extravagant – ice sculptures, endless champagne, gourmet everything and Debbie Gibson.

So I’ve been reflecting on my lesbian days lately. Particularly since it was all so random and coincidental, I never really had a chance to put it into perspective. If anything I denied that it had happened because I was, well, a little embarrassed. I know. I hate me too.  But I’m finally crawling out from under the covers.

…it all started in my mid-twenties when I decided to explore the meaning of freedom. I was kind of inspired by the John Lennon quote, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” If  life happens, why plan? At the same time, a failed marriage and the Chicago weather had succeeded in destroying my soul, so I packed my bags and headed out West. I needed change, but I didn’t know how. Insert John Lennon quote. I had no plans for work…and if I ended up homeless, so be it, or rather, “Let it be.”

I didn’t end up homeless, instead I took a singing lesson one day, because I felt like singing and I sounded terrible (ALSO: I figured it was a sound proof and creative way to quit smoking) – and shortly after that I found myself in a lesbian relationship, living in a recording studio located in a warehouse-type building in downtown L.A. Re-insert John Lennon quote. It was like one grade above homelessness. Instead of waking up on the beach, I’d wake up on a mattress in between a drum set and a keyboard. Totally awesome. But wow, the beach version of homelessness sounds way more inviting when you put it in words.

Maybe I was trying to channel Janis Joplin or something because my lesbian counterpart was very much like Janis. She was a bad-ass musician with a tattoo of a tarantula on her breast. She was raw and aggressive and could play the bass, guitar, piano and pretty much every instrument ever invented since the Baroque period. She had previously preformed in various bands, appeared on T.V. (and on a billboard on Sunset Blvd), and was pseudo famous on the Goth circuit. Also, she was onto the vampire theme before it had entered anyone’s consciousness, like WAY before Twilight. She actually went on radio claiming to be a “vampiress.”

It was after my third singing lesson when she called to discuss lyric writing and composing, because I wanted to explore other avenues in music, that she propositioned me. At first I was like, NO FUCKING WAY. I am definitely STRAIGHT. But the more I got to know her, the more I became attracted to the person. Gender aside, we had a lot in common. She had previously lived in Chicago, we had similar family backgrounds and an interest in the arts. And then suddenly I had an epiphany: Fuck it! I’ve been screwed over by men so many times. Why not?

So we pulled out the chains and whips, Rihanna style, and did all sorts of weird things. Totally Kidding. It was more of a spiritual experience. Intimacy on a higher echelon to what I’ve ever experienced with a man. We’d talk, share stories, exchange ideas, listen to music, write lyrics, create instrumental-electro pieces. We even composed a song together, Dirty Girlz, which was featured in a short film . It was gritty and imperfect and I wanted to hide or die rather than let anyone ever hear it, but she was firm in her belief that art, just as life, is imperfect and we should embrace it.

Every time I stressed out, which was often, because we were bohemian struggling artist types at low points in our lives (she had faded from the music scene and I just didn’t know what I was supposed to do with my life), she would say, “The universe provides you with what you need at that particular point in time.” I kind of resented that belief since she had gone through periods with investors throwing large sums of money at her, whereas I had maintained a consistent level of poverty throughout my entire life. Thanks Universe. But in hindsight she was probably right and seriously how many people get to say, “I lived in a recording studio and my girlfriend was a rockstar.” If living on the edge was part of that – I’ll take it.

Eventually she decided to move to Vegas and since I had just relocated to California I wasn’t willing to leave. Besides, I had eloped in Vegas and had bad memories of that place. So after four months we went our separate ways.

CUT TO: Present time. She’s happily married, managed to do it before Prop 8 was enacted – and well, I’m just now reflecting on those times. Was I really a lesbian? Or bi-sexual? Was it purely experimental? What I do know, is that it was a genuine relationship and very real at that time.

Whichever way I go in the future, more than likely hetro or metro in like some bizarre threesome commune thing (knowing me), I aspire to find that kind of connection again. You learn from every relationship and the one I disregarded, actually taught me the most – particularly about the importance of friendship as a foundation and of course…life itself as according to John Lennon.

Photo credit

Post from: Toy With Me

To Be Or Not To Be – A Lesbian

Years ago, when I was a just a young lad, Peter, Paul and Mary sang a mournful tune entitled Where Have All The Flowers Gone? which posed that question, along with asking where all the soldiers had gone and graveyards and what have you.  All the queries in that song were answered simply and succinctly.  Cat Stevens asked Where do the Children Play? And again, though hypothetical in nature, its lyrics gave a pretty good idea of where they should play.  More recently, Adam Lambert sang Whataya Want From Me? and as much as I just wanted him to go far, far away, he attempted to answer the question with his horrible vomit inducing voice within the confines of his horrible little song.  So I figure I’m entitled to ask a simple question like:  Where has all the sex gone?  Or more exactly…where has all MY sex gone?

It’s not like I can point my upraised middle finger to the obvious…I’m not single, not hideous, not living in my parents basement, not a serial killer (though that didn’t stop Ted Bundy), not a eunuch, not a depressed sack of tears, not desperate.  And my lovely wife?  After nearly 28 years of marriage, she is just as sexy and desirable to me as she ever was.  Together, we have successfully raised four great kids, with only one fifteen year old child living at home now – the other three have moved on with their own lives.  We are financially secure, have a decent social life and are still truly in love with each other.

But.

Much to my consternation, my wife has decided that she is no longer a spring chicken, with the desires she had when she was a younger woman.  No more dangerous quickies in the restaurant bathroom, no romps in the weeds while on a hike, no blowjobs at the ballgame and she only feels the need to subject herself to the obligatory sex once every three to six weeks…or when she decides I’m finally frustrated enough to fuck the cat.

Okay.  I wouldn’t fuck the cat.  It’s the OTHER pussy in the house that I crave with such desire I nearly trip over my tongue when I see her changing into her bedclothes or bending over the table or washing the fucking dishes.  I’ve come to start daydreaming about what we would do…that is if she ever felt like doing anything.  We could be out shopping and my mind starts to wander.  I’ve imagined  her naked or dressed in lingerie as she tries on a pair of shoes.  I think about taking her in the vegetable aisle of the local grocery store, or ripping off her clothes as she brushes her teeth.  She’s brushing her teeth as I grind mine.

Do I sound frustrated?  You bet your sweet LELO Vibrator, I am.

I used to give her mind blowing orgasms and thoroughly enjoyed giving tantalizingly tasty over the top cunnilingus.  We’d screw like bunnies or take our own sweet time with each other, melting into each other nearly all night long.  She’d give great blow jobs and we would happily part the red sea as long as she wasn’t crampy.  But that’s O V E R.  And I miss it.  I miss her.  I miss the tastes, the smells, the sounds, the words…dammit!  I miss everything that we used to have.  I’m a good husband who has not strayed to another, but there sure are times when I think about it.

To my knowledge, she’s not seeing anyone else (I work from home, so that might be tough to do) and there is no sign of her getting her OWN self off with “The Toys that Stay Hidden” so it’s not like she’s satisfying her libido in some other fashion without me.  I’m not sure if she even CRAVES the Sex anymore.  At 51, her period is somewhat irregular – I believe she is just about to go through the change, so maybe that has something to do with it.  But I have made myself clear to her that I would like to experience nookie more than we currently do…which has elicited NADA in response.  And in the meantime, I read posts here from contributors and respondents alike, stating how much they like, want, and DO The Sex WAY more than we do.  I could just scream.

So I pose the question.  Do any of you ToyWithMes have any idea how we can re-capture at least SOME of what we used to have?  Perhaps if I posed the question in song?

Everybody sing!

Where has all the sex gone?

Post from: Toy With Me

Where Has All The Sex Gone?

You know the stereotype – crazed chick who throws shit and breaks glass, threatens fist fights, uses fear tactics to intimidate men, not unnecessarily known for stalking – otherwise, “The Psycho Bitch.”

I don’t think any girl aspires to be the psycho bitch. I know I never had such intention. Previously, I had perceived myself as the shy girl, the one who avoided men and waited for them to come to her. If  it doesn’t work out, she takes it in stride and moves on without any reaction -
classy and composed.

Well….I was at a friend’s book launch recently when my sister spotted a former love interest. Naturally she says, “Look who’s here. Let’s go say hi.”

Immediately I went into panic mode and I confessed, “I kind of like
drunk emailed him a series of soliloquies and I’m pretty sure the theme
was murder.” Then I spent the majority of the evening avoiding this guy
and wondering how I had made the transformation from regular dateable
girl to psycho bitch.

I mean I had not keyed his car or stalked him at home, but I did rant on
in a series of emails and even though they were borderline satirical,
I’m still shocked by my behavior.
NOTE TO SELF: Never ever email whilst drunk. EVER.
ALSO: Possibly consider eliminating vodka from alcohol diet.

And by former love interest, I mean I almost had sex on the dance floor
with this guy — I’m not sure if it was the most passionate encounter
I’ve ever had in the history of my existence or if the fact that I had
just turned 30 had turned the heat up on my libido a trillion percent,
which in turn morphed me into some sort of nymph. I may have attempted
to hump anything that night that qualified as hard, stiff and reasonably
sized. But I mean, I had not even had sex with this guy. It was one
encounter one time. We were a non-issue.  Why had I become
so obsessed?

Which leads me to the second stereotype. Oh God, I can hear the JAWS theme
song playing in my head. You’ve heard it — desperate 30-year old not
capable of a stable relationship, throws fits and tantrums before a
relationship has even begun. Not capable of love.

Was I that?! Had I turned 30 and grown canines around my vagina. Or perhaps
I had always been the psycho bitch and it was simply becoming clearer
with age, which led me to evaluate my relationship history:

First Boyfriend: Age: 18 Ended with restraining order.
Second Love interest: Age: 20 From Chile; didn’t speak English. Break-up was relatively simple.
Third Boyfriend, Slash Husband: Age 20-24 First orgasm – led to marriage.
Married in Vegas. Big Mistake. Also ended with restraining order after
he threatened me with gun. Turns out it was a fake gun, but still. End
End Result: Divorce.

Yeah, not a good start. The last experience left me a little damaged and I
had spent years going on meaningless dates and insignificant (well I
wouldn’t really call them relationships, let’s say temporary
partnerships) between accepting life as a permanently single woman,
feeling absolutely nothing towards the opposite sex. I had tried it all -
older men, artists, hippies, a Secret Service Agent. I even tried being
a lesbian one time. Eventually I gave up entirely and determined I was
too intelligent for love or emotion or any of that crap.

But then last year, I relapsed and re-entered the world of “Boy meets Girl.
Girl meets Boy.” I’m tempted to blame my recent insanity on all that
built-up tension.

It was on vacation in Krakow, Poland when I met a Naval Academy graduate
who had done a tour on a submarine. He had the most amazing pecks and
come on, he was on a submarine. So uniquely awesome. I
asked him to do push-ups on the dance floor – the ones with the claps.
He did. (SIDE NOTE: What is it with me and guys on dance floors?!) Then
we met up in the U.S., had wild sex and after he flew back to his part
of the country, the psycho bitch emerged. Incessant emailing, texting
and calling. Eventually when I figured out he was avoiding me, I let it
go. But perhaps I had ended it with my craziness before I even gave the
relationship a chance to develop?

Then it happened again with the guy at the book
launch. I was a repeat offender. It was time to fess up. Given my history, it
became clear: I had always been impulsive in relationships, all of them
based on some strange concoction of hype and fantasy. I had been
misinformed about love and its meaning. I am totally totally blaming bad
eighties rom-coms, Basic Instinct and girly magazine advice columns.
Perhaps it was time to stop seeking spontaneity and resign myself to the idea
that maybe love at its best is ordinary? No more guns, threats or
craziness. It’s not easy letting go of the inner psycho bitch. But one
must try.

Die! Psycho Bitch! Die!

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Post from: Toy With Me

Die! Psycho Bitch! Die!

A million billion years ago, back when I was just graduating high school (or was I just in college? It’s all a little blurry, thanks to a wee bit of excessive, um, well, vodka usage), I was involved in my first serious relationship. Going on two years, we were finally showing the cracks in our united front, and I didn’t know what to do. So I did the only thing I could think to do at age nineteen when you’re relationship is failing and you’re not entirely sure how to fix it, only that you don’t want to be without each other because that’s all, like, sad and shit: I bought lingerie and body glitter.

Oh yes, Toy With Me-ers. I was one step shy of cutting all my hair off and dying my scalp pink just because, you know, that’s how to handle shit (rather than like, actually handle it, and shit). I figured the best course of action was More Sex and More Glitter. Which is, shockingly, not a bad way to handle problems, I suppose, now that I think about it.

But I was in the process of planning a romantic (read: sex-filled night of sexcapades) night composed of glitter and my new lingerie when my boyfriend “accidentally” found himself caught red-handed screwing around with the patchouli-smelling hippie friend I’d dragged to Victoria’s Secret to buy the lingerie with.

Whoops! Looks like I’d spent fifty bucks on some quality lingerie for fuck-nothing. And um, even worse than that, no fucking. It was a shame, too, I thought to myself as I sadly looked at the white ruffly baby-doll top and matching boy shorts. Because I’d really liked that outfit. It was classy stuff. And I didn’t even get to wear it.

(I’ve used the glitter all up)(duh)

I stuffed it in my sock drawer and turned on some emo song like, Cat Stevens ‘Wild World’ or anything by the Spice Girls and cried a lot. Like a lot. He was my first real boyfriend and it was shitty to have it end that way.

Eventually I threw away all of the stuff I’d gotten from him when I moved away to college. I kept the lingerie. Not in a sentimental, “I’m holding onto this because it is a link to you!” way. Just because I still liked it and thought it was pretty and cute and ruffly and I kinda wanted to prance around in it, smacking my ass in time to ‘Baby Got Back’ while my NEW boyfriend told me how awesome I was.

Oddly, it never happened. That’s probably better for all parties involved, now that I think about it.

I got married and moved to a condo in the city, then a house in the suburbs. The lingerie packed up and moved with me. My husband, The Daver, and I began trying for Baby Number Two (in that space, I’d accidentally popped out Baby Number One) which meant Baby Makin’ Sex. Apparently, in Aunt Becky Land that does not involve frilly lingerie.

At long last, that elusive second line appeared. I’d finally gotten knocked up. As the pee dried on that pregnancy test, I immediately looked five months pregnant. Time to bust out the jeans with the elastic waistband.

So, I packed up all my normal underwear and frilly lingerie in favor of underwear that could double as a bed sheet or the sail of a ship. I mocked the pregnancy lingerie I saw in catalogs because I resembled a daddy longlegs spider or a tomato. That cried. All the time. A crying, barfing daddy longlegs pregnant lady. I was the anthesis of sexy. No lingerie for me.

Then came the baby and nursing bras to hold up my gigantic melons and another baby and more nursing bras. The very idea of slipping into “something more comfortable” was laughable. Because, well, nothing was comfortable. I had a BABY kicking my ribcage and punching my vagina from the inside. Then the outside.

So, that same frilly negligee stayed in my wooden chest for four years. Untouched, my lingerie sat there, along with my string bikini and some misplaced socks, until last week, when I cracked open the trunk to see what was inside. I’d been cleaning out my closets, reorganizing my life, and this was yet another step in that direction.

There it was. My old lingerie. Nestled in with some mismatched socks and a pair of workout shorts, it sat there happily. I pulled it loose and held it up to the light. The first real piece of lingerie I’d ever bought, a solid reminder of old times; old bad times. But beautiful, still, even now. I threw it into the laundry because I couldn’t figure out what to do with it.

As I did my laundry this week, I thought a bit about that one piece of lingerie (never, though, about the mismatched socks). I still find it beautiful and it’s not like it’s part of some shrine I have composed of my ex made up of his fingernails and pictures of him or anything. I mean, I’m way over the whole thing. It’s been ten years. But I don’t know. Is lingerie like underwear? Does it have a shelf life? Am I supposed to buy new lingerie for a new lover? Is it creepy to still own it? I can’t tell.

I’ll figure it out, I guess, once I get my freshly laundered lingerie back into my grubby hands. Or maybe I’ll just shove it back into my sock drawer and figure it out later. I mean, by this point, it’s kinda tradition…right?

So what do you think, Toy With Me? Would you keep it or toss it? Is lingerie something that’s intended for one pair of lovers or is it something you can safely hold onto? Oh brilliant wise ones, impart your wisdom upon me!

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Post from: Toy With Me

My Ass Deserves New Lingerie

The other day I was scouring the Interwebz for Toy with Me topics when I came across something that intrigued me:  Cuddle Parties. Have you guys ever heard of these, because I haven’t and it just smacks of some kind of crazy hippy dippy new- age crap to me.

But let’s not be prejudiced, and take a look, shall we?

So apparently, cuddle parties have been around since about 2004.  Created by Reid Mihalko and Marcia Baczynski, this get-together seems to be spreading throughout the US, Canada, London and Austraila. It is meant to be a drug, alcohol, and sex free way for people to get together and explore touch and affection in a non-sexual way.

People, I guess, are so starved for human touch that they need a place to go just to get some love from people who aren’t going to dump them or make them feel sad.

Well, hell–I can appreciate that.  The world is a scary and mean place chock full of douche bags and fuckfaces most of the time, and if you’re someone living alone or are recently separated from someone you love, I bet a nice hug and cuddle from someone who wants nothing else from you feels pretty damned good.

My first question is how exactly is this whole thing initiated?  I mean it’s drug and alcohol free, so the typical “social lubricating” that happens at normal parties where you show up nervous and not knowing anyone and then after a couple of shots of tequila you’re best buddies talking very loudly and inappropriately about your bodily functions does not happen.  So what exactly do you do when you get there if there’ s (GASP) no cocktail hour first??

The very idea gives me anxiety.

From what I’ve researched, it starts with people arriving (duh), signing in, and changing into a pair of pajamas.  I’m guessing they’re probably not sexy crotchless ones, but feetie ones with peace signs or reindeer or kitties on them.   Something non-threatening, in any event. Each session is tended by a facilitator who is referred to as a “Cuddle Lifeguard.”  This person leads the group through the experience.  It starts with a “welcome circle” (sans vodka… I’m still having trouble wrapping my brain around that one) where the rules are clearly laid out (keep your dick in your pants, no touching people without their total consent, etc).   Then they do some ice breakers (still no martinis? Unfathomable!) so that at least you are a little more comfortable having these total strangers touching you with their kitty and reindeer pajamas on.

One of the first things they do is practice saying “no” to one another because lord forbid that big odorous guy in the threadbare, stained Austin Powers boxer shorts who didn’t even bother to shave or put on a little pit stick wants to snuggle with you.  You have be comfortable saying no to him without being afraid of hurting his feelings–even though I think he totally deserves it for showing up to something like this like who woulda thought.

After the meet and greet welcome circle thingy is over, snugglers engage in two hours of self-directed touching.  They play music and eat Cheetos whilst cuddling commences.  Yeah, I’m all for free music and snacks–ESPECIALLY Cheetos–but I’m still not sure I’d ever find myself doing this.

Snugglers get a chance to ask for what they want and say “yea” or “nay” to requests to cuddle depending on what they prefer or are comfortable with.  It can happen in big puppy pile type groups or one on one.  It can be feet against feet (EW! EW! EW!) or as intimate as a full on spooning.  There isn’t supposed to be any, but I bet there’s some “cuppage” going on.  I know I can’t cuddle my husband without there being any boob “cuppage.”

I mean seriously, is that even possible? I’m skeptical.

The rules are that nobody gets to touch anybody without total permission first.  Throughout the session, the “Cuddle Lifeguards” participate in the group and are there mostly to ensure that it flows properly and to offer support when things come up like

“where’s your hand right now?”

“Between two pillows.”

“THOSE AREN’T PILLOWS! GET OFF OF ME YOU PERVERT!”

Or

“Umm.  What’s that thing poking into my back?”

The goal is to make all participants feel relaxed and like they are getting the most out of the experience and not getting groped or stabbed in the ass with somebody’s boner. Once it’s over, the event wraps up with a “closing circle” where they sort of wrap it up and go get ready to change out of their SpongeBob Squarepants sleepshirts and back into their non-cuddling clothes.

Apparently after leaving one of these parties, participants leave feeling super-relaxed, touched, valued and cared for.  They feel connected to other people in a way they didn’t before and sometimes, the party participants even end up going out back and fucking like rabbits in the car going out for coffee later.  The rest go home to take a shower because hey it’s flu season and you can’t be too careful.

The goal at the end is to rejuvenate safe human touch as a way to heal what ails you. Research I found online backs this up (although I have no specific sources to share with you because I am lazy). ­Scientists have found that hugging for just 20 seconds is enough to boost levels of the hormone oxytocin ­and maintain them throughout an entire day. Oxytocin makes you feel good and protects against heart disease.  Hugging can also reduce levels of the stress hormone cortisol which is associated with anxiety, physical ­tension, anger and weaker immunity.

It still sounds like a bunch of hippy-dippy crap to me because I get plenty of hugs throughout the day and I’m still all fucked up, but hey!  If it makes other people feel better, so be it.  It’s a lot nicer and healthier than popping a Xanax every time we feel unsafe and unloved, right? Slightly less convenient though.

The cuddle party sounds like hell to me because my heart is made of granite and I flat out do not like to be touched.  I have issues with the doctor’s office, the hairdresser, the manicurist, the eyebrow threader, the dentist, and you will never, ever catch me getting a massage from a stranger.  I don’t even really hug my mother unless I really, really need it.  My husband is kind of allowed to hug me, but only for a moment and only if I’m not too busy. (My kids are a totally different story, btw.  I’m not that cold of a bitch.  They get hugged as much as they want. Probably more than they want, actually.)

Clearly, I’m one of these people who walk into any given party and die 8 hundred times because PEOPLE ARE HUGGING ME!  I DON’T KNOW THESE PEOPLE WHY ARE THEY HUGGING ME?  I almost always make sure my hands and arms are full so I’m totally not open to such touching, so far be it from me to walk in wearing my jammies and be like “who’s up for some snuggles?”

So tell me Toy with Mes!  Are you huggable?  Would you consider participating in one of these things, or is it just a gang bang for pussies?  Does it work?  Do you feel loved? I’m dying to know if any of you have ever been to one, because, like I said, I just don’t see it in my future…

Post from: Toy With Me

The Cuddle Party Phenomenon

Possibly related goodness:

1. Surviving A Las Vegas Bachelorette Party

“Anything may be betrayed; anyone may be forgiven, but not those who lack the courage of their own greatness. “ -Ayn Rand

Life is strange. You know that old thing when you were a child, where you wonder what happens to the world when you close your eyes. Sometimes it feels like you’re the only thing in existence. You wonder how can there be more people like you. People that think different thoughts and feel different things at different times, populating my little world. I wonder sometimes, how things can keep moving so effortlessly while my mind is writhing in the throes of a psychic apocalypse. Sometimes you catch yourself wondering if you’re the only thing that exists. That everything else exists simply because you require it to. That the act of mere observation itself gives life to what would otherwise be nothing more than empty puppets, awaiting command.

Like a hand grenade dropped into a puddle, without a single ripple, the problems that I experience seem inconsequential to my surroundings. Despite how impossible it appears to me. Everyone else looks calm and happy, moving through their own lives, while I quietly and anonymously detonate beneath the surface. Everything I know turning to shrapnel and ash, completely inconsequential to the waters around it. The reality of life couldn’t be further from the truth. I offer only this piece of advice. What you do, will indeed make ripples. Everything can become a tsunami.

One night, my mother found out my dad was cheating on her, and in a flash everything came out between then right there at the dinner table. Caught in the crossfire, I couldn’t help but inject myself into the shouting. I don’t think I’m able to describe how fast things can turn into a nightmare in any way that would make anybody truly understand. Screaming, throwing things, all manner of violence of the mind and body. Poets, authors and actors have tried for years to capture the full range of what it means to feel an emotion, but to this day I don’t think I’ve ever found a word or phrase that can accurately describe the totality of pure pain that matches the tears that my mother shed. It really hurt me to see that.

Family. It’s the one thing that’s supposed to be there when nobody else will; the one group of people that you can always count on. I’m learning very quickly that as long as we rely on other people, regardless of their affiliations, nothing is guaranteed. In that instant I hated him. I absolutely hated him as I berated him for his stupidity and arrogance. In the heat of the moment, I recall something he said that struck me as so profoundly out of touch that I just blacked out. My vision went red, and I couldn’t see anything. I remember lunging forward and the next thing I knew blood was pouring from my father’s lips as he struggled to sit up from the floor. When I came to my senses, I could do little but glare at him. I couldn’t even make a coherent statement. I think my reaction scared my mom, and that only made me feel worse.

Over the months, the inexorable march of time has healed a lot of scars. But the impending divorce hangs overhead like the sword of Damocles, threatening the safety of our stitches. I’ve had nothing but time to think about everything. It’s occupied my mind almost every day. I had to figure it out, in an intellectual sense, because my emotions are no longer to be trusted. I’m afraid I’ve had little success.

I have no idea what was going on through his mind. Maybe it was just his dick that he followed like some kind of divining rod, or maybe he simply wasn’t happy, as some have proposed. I’ve searched my mind and the internet for days, trying to find an answer. Oddly enough, the only solace I found was amongst the emotional wreckage of other cheaters like my father. I began sifting through the detritus of failed marriages, abusive relationships and people who just made mistakes in the muddled years of their youth using services such as Ashley Madison. I’ve learned a lot. And only after deep meditation and contemplation, can I come to grips with the notion that he made his own choice and I may never understand why. But that doesn’t make the execution intelligent, nor ethical. I don’t have to be an old grizzled man to possess the knowledge that Romeo and Juliet would grow up someday and wind up making cookies for bake sales, and wasting their lives in a cubicle, had the story not ended so violently. But I also know that everyone longs for the days of fantasies and love so passionate that suicide seems like the only way to escape a lonely and tortured existence without your better half. The reality is that we make our own lives. But when we choose to bind ourselves through blood or by choice, our happiness is dependent on that of others whether we like it or not. I am a slave to my father’s emotions, as he is to mine as my mothers were to him.

If love is the most important thing in the world, why would you lie about it? If it’s the currency of the heart, why spend it in the shadows and back alleys? It’s hard to believe that he respects my mother. I find it hard to believe that he respects any of us. And honestly, I find it hard to believe that he respects the woman that he’s now dating. A relationship built on a lie, crafted in deceit, and furnished with the wreckage that his family has become has very little chance of survival I suspect. But that’s the bed that he’s chosen to make. But for me, I won’t suffer a liar who hasn’t the personal integrity to stand up and be honest with his desires. I won’t put up with someone who has no problem hurting my mother in pursuit of what he wants.

Maybe he stayed “for the kids” and that’s why he tried to keep it a secret. But I don’t entirely buy that. My assumption is that he stuck around because it was more convenient, and settled for the lies that he told himself to justify it. What I suspect to be the truth of the matter is that he kept both relationships out of sheer convenience. If he stayed for the financial security, then he was manipulating my mom. If he stayed for the stability and out of fear, then he is a coward. If he stayed because he was wanting to “find the right time”, then he’s an opportunist. The catalyst to the decisions made is irrelevant.

He chose to hide his affair, which implies knowledge aforethought. Like a drunk driver, we choose the consequences of our actions, regardless of what we “intended” to be the outcome. And anybody we kill on the roads of life, whilst intoxicated either on drink or on love, is wholly our responsibility. There are no excuses, there is no absolution. And the only victims are the ones in the headlights.

Despite the present circumstances, he will always be my father, whether we ever speak again or not. I love him. But right now, I just can’t bring myself to like him.

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Post from: Toy With Me

The Aftermath Of An Affair