The actual spot where the deed was done

If you Google “female sex fantasies,” inevitably you come up with role playing, domination, exhibitionism, threesomes, and rape. Check, check, check, and Uh, no thanks, with a side of “can we just go with domination and call it a day”?

I’m more likely to laugh at you than fall to my knees if you show up in my bedroom in a costume asking me to call you Captain Stubing and report to your Poop Deck; role play isn’t for me, but I can see why it would work for somebody else. I’m down with why there’s a “slap” in the slap and tickle, and the thrill of being caught is just that, a thrill…and who doesn’t want that? As for threesomes, if you’re not in a committed relationship, by all means, act this one out whenever you can, because as soon as you are in a committed relationship, it’s too messy and complicated. Godspeed. With my blessing. Wish I had a time machine. Those were the days.

The only persistent fantasy I’ve ever had, though, the only one that’s hung in there with me through the years, is the Sex on the Beach fantasy.

It has turned out to be more difficult to bring this one to life than I’d expected. As it happens, private beachfront time when the sun is shining and the temperature is just right for some naked sexy time is a hot commodity. Just ask the hordes of vacationers crowding our shores every sunny day between Memorial Day and Labor Day each year, or rather, don’t, because they don’t want to hear it, which rather highlights the problem.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way, however, and where there’s a will and a way and some plane tickets and possibly even a passport or two and a boat and some nautical charts and a cheerful husband, there can be the realization of a happy girl’s dream.

Coleridge wrote how a reader might have to engage in a willing suspension of disbelief in order to appreciate the fantastic worlds that literature could open up. Sex on the beach is sort of like that. Sex is, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, and holy hell if not please get in touch because you are doing something wrong wrong wrong, a slippery business. On the beach, the slippery soon becomes the sandy. And sand + friction on certain body parts is just not OK, unless maybe you’ve got some kind of sandpaper fetish, in which case, who am I to judge. If you’re really going at it, and if you’ve gone so far as to bust out passports and travel by plane and boat to get here, you most certainly are not sort of lethargically and methodically knocking one out for the hell of it, sand is going to make its way up into the unmapped depths of your delicate bits. My advice to you on this matter is to pretend you’re re-enacting that scene in From Here to Eternity and roll around in the surf a bit from time to time to rinse the grit away.

We tried to avoid the potential sand in the hoo-ha problem by starting out on a towel under a beach umbrella, but that was just plain silly, because the towel was a crumpled up nuisance almost instantly, plus it sort of defeated the whole “out there in the open on the beach” point of it all. And anyway, the splashing around proved to be more fun and led to the fulfillment of a fantasy my husband didn’t even know he had until about thirty seconds before it was fulfilled. On that subject let me just say this: if you’re on your knees and there are any hints of waves at all, try to make sure that you are facing away from the incoming tide in order to avoid a mouthful of seawater. You’re welcome.

My husband spent a fair amount of time with his back to the noonday sun. For this I am profoundly grateful. For his trouble he was rewarded with not only my gratitude, but also a preposterous sunburn on his previously lily white ass. In my haste to strip him down to nothing as soon as we’d hit this private beach, the judicious application of sunscreen fell by the wayside. Damn it, there was beach sex to be had! So, yeah. His ass peeled a few days later. Whatever. I had an insane orgasm in the middle of a Caribbean beach in broad daylight with nobody around but seagulls and maybe a stray hermit crab. Small price to pay.

Ultimately, whatever the specifics of what you’re into and who does what to whom and where your leg is and where his face is, feeling so free to luxuriate in the sun and on the beach and in the water not only giving and receiving pleasure but doing so knowing that it was something I’d thought about for so long was the best part. And now I get to check that one off the list and move on to the next one! Anybody have a helicopter I can borrow for a few days?

So tell me, do you have an fantasies that you plan on fulfilling or will you just keep them within the confines of your mind?

Post from: Toy With Me

Sex On The Beach – Fantasy Fulfilled

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I’ve been on a mission to reinvent myself since January, one I call “The Bringing Aunt Becky Back Project,” after having spent the brunt of my twenties popping babies out of my delicate girly regions. I figured if I had to spend what was supposed to be the hottest years of my life looking like McDonald’s Grimace, I really needed to focus my efforts upon making my thirties, well, better. Let’s face it, it won’t take much, people.

Like any good project, it’s gone over it’s timetable AND budget and will continue to do so. I realized that along with a discernible waistline, I’d lost a fair amount of self-esteem along the way. Part of it was trying to wrestle with my new identity and part of it was learning to deal with my new, awkward shape. I know, I KNOW, we’re not supposed to tie our self-worth to our waistline, I get it, but I’ll tell you that while I can’t possibly reveal the number without punching myself in the face, changing my name, erasing my blog and then running for the border with a hot Cuban named Carlos, it wasn’t pretty. It really wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t making me happy. And because it made me so desperately unhappy, it wasn’t doing anything to help my sex life.

Where before I might have considered, you know, GETTING NAKED to have sex, or slip into something more comfortable (no, not like a leisure suit) now I was pretty much ashamed to take my shirt off because it all just looked like mashed potatoes to me. Now, my husband never said anything mean about it, in fact, he was sweet, but I was the one who felt as attractive as moldy pudding. So I WANTED to have The Sex, but I couldn’t handle the thought of having to get naked and comfortable with my new body enough to do so.

Before you point out that all I needed to do was to pry the cake out of my mouth and get my ass to the gym, let me assure you that I already was. My body likes to hold onto that baby weight because it hates me a lot, but finally, I celebrated my last child’s birthday with the loss of some pounds. Then some more. And some more after that.

I’ll tell you, Toy-With-Me-ers, I felt empowered for the first time in years, seeing that scale actually move. There’s nothing more erotic to me than feeling like I might finally be back in control of some small part of my life, so that, of course, gets me in the mood for some humping. Especially since I’ve been taking care to make a real effort with my appearance. I’m back to waxing and dying and pedicuring, and pampering and primping and all that stuff I stopped doing when I felt bad about myself. That makes me feel even MORE in control of myself and pretty much by the end of the day, I’m about ready to hump the wall.

Except that most days, after taking care of my three crotch parasites, my menagerie of slightly neurotic yet adorable pets, pathetically working on my blog, and you know, all of the awesomeness that goes into being Your Aunt Becky, I’m kinda wiped. And The Daver, who works an hour away and commutes three hours a day at a job he works eighty hours a week, well, he’s wiped too. He’s been neutered now, which was supposed to alleviate the stress of “ZOMG AM I PREGNANT?” but now we’re both just so tired most of the time. Which, hi, that’s SUCH a cliché that I just vomited onto myself typing that.

So this needs to change immediately if not sooner because I REFUSE to be the suburban stereotype that is all, “oh honey, not tonight, I HAVE A HEADACHE.” I can live in the suburbs with the zombies and I can own a minivan and I can even grow some killer roses, but I’ll be dipped in pig shit if I let something as silly as sleep get in the way of my sexy time for very much longer. I’m just not quite sure HOW this can be accomplished, but like I tackle any project (balls to the motherfucking wall), I’m determined to find a way. Certainly, this is a not a problem unique to The Daver and I, which means that other people have solved it.

Um, right? So, dish Toy With Me-ers. I need some advice from you. Or sympathy. Or advice AND sympathy. And maybe cookies. Everyone likes cookies, right?

(And if it involves the phrase, “duct tape the children to the basement walls while you bone,” it won’t work. They wriggle out of that stuff SO quickly. It’s like they’re ACTUALLY monkeys and not children at all. Which, hm, maybe they are. CREEPY.)

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

Too Tired For Sex – How Can I Make The Time?

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There is a woman at my gym, a Pilates’ instructing acquaintance of mine who I think is having an affair with the running coach over there. Mary has two kids and has been in that mommy world for the last ten years. Running about after her kids, working at the gym and as a nurse, working out…just a busy little bee. But as of late, hmmmm, and I mean in the last 6-8 months, the metamorphosis has begun.

Want To Lose Weight? Have An Affair
When you go to the gym a lot, and you see the same people all the time, you begin to notice things-if you’re an observant person, that is. First-the weight loss. If you really want a sure fire way to rid yourself of that nagging 5-10 pounds, have an affair or get a divorce. (Often, these two things happen concurrently.) Yeah, so someone who has always worked out with you and has always looked the same suddenly whittles herself to a size 2…hmmm.

The Scrunchie Has Left The Building
Next comes the wardrobe. Oh no, those ugly sweats that seemed to suffice for so long have gone the way of the scrunchie. Suddenly, it’s all about the $80 Lulu Lemon breast lifting sports top with the matching butt hugging leggings. I am in no way harshing on these clothes. They’re awesome; I love them. But their sudden appearance speaks volumes! Okay, on to the hair-which was once perennially tied back in the aforementioned scrunchie (yikes!). It is now perfect-whether that means it’s curled beautifully or ironed pin-straight without a chance of frizz-it’s completely coiffed when said subject exits the locker room.

Then, of course, there is the lingerie; the most telling piece of all and the most difficult for the general observer (i.e. people on the street) to know about. Yes, yes the assortment of hanky pankys and matching bras-again, beautiful. I, myself, would never be caught without them! But when you’ve been a Jockey wearer for 10 years and all of the sudden, day after day, it’s the peek-a-boo panty-something’s up.

A Charmer With A Chiseled Body
I know who the said stud is for various reasons. One was a bit of a gimme. I was chatting with one of my buddies whom I don’t get to see nearly enough and we were talking about the running coach because he coaches her husband. Her face got quite dark and she told me that allegedly Dave was having an affair. She was quite dismayed because we both adore his wife and two kids but I was certainly not surprised. This man has charm to burn, a chiseled body and serious ego to spare. That was several months ago and I just stuck in my little memory file where I house information that has no purpose.

Yes, I am Fucking The Married Running Coach
Then one day, as Mary and I were both doing our respective hair, (she being new to the hair-doers of the gym) it all clicked. She was telling me about the next marathon she was running and mentioned Dave’s name-at least twice. They were both running the marathon…along with other people in the running group but I am no fool. When you can’t have someone for your own, you mention them in every context available. It’s the only way you can have them in your life and let the world around you know that they’re part of their world without screaming Yes, I am fucking the super hot married running coach which is actually what you think you want to do. Trust me, you don’t want to do this but you think you do.

It Takes One To Know One
Mary just got a new swimsuit and they both happen to be training for the same triathlon. At the gym where I workout this is not a strange occurrence, but as they sat together, alone, in the hot tub after a swim practice, there was absolutely no question in my mind-what so ever. I could smell the stink through the glass partition. I probably wouldn’t be busting Mary like I am on this blog if she hadn’t busted me several years ago. The wrong and horrible situation I was ensconced in was there for the observing if you had two eyes.

My situation and I would always kiss each other good-bye. At the gym. Every day. Kiss each other. Not in a makey-outy sort of way, but on the lips and anyone in the vicinity could have, should have, been able to read it. Once that hideous and heartbreaking affair had ended and The PigDog left his wife for his secretary, it came to my attention that people had actually thought that he and I (read: feigned effrontery )were having an affair. The secretary got me off the hook. Apparently, according to my friends, Mary had been one of the observant, but in my eyes she was merely a gossiper who knew not of what she spoke; which was true at the time. Now she does, and let me tell you, I really feel for her. She has no idea the anvil that awaits her. It can come in so many forms but one way or another it will come. I feel like leaving her note that says Hey, word on the streets is you’re sleeping with Dave. Thought you’d want to know…Forearm her, wake her up, most anything-not in a judgmental way-just to let her know. I wish someone had done the same for me.

So tell me…. Have you ever known someone that was having an affair? Did you talk to them about it? Did it impact your relationship? Have YOU ever had an affair?

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Post from: Toy With Me

We All Know You Are Having Sex With Him

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What can I say?  It was an experiment, and I’ve got to tell you it spiced things up quite a bit because it was a way to spend Sexy Time together without actually having Sexy Time. I got to feel like a pretty pretty princess and be fussed over and, as some of you might know, my husband is quite the little photographer and it always makes him happy to have someone other than our kids to take pictures of. Plus, he’s a raging hormone and if he can mix sex and photography, well? He’s one happy motherfucker. We like happy motherfuckers around here so we go along with it and we don our slutpanties and a little extra eyeliner and we smile and we let our husband show off his photography skills.

It was fun and good for both of us.  And it’s awesome for your self- esteem, too.  You wind up getting a group of admirers (read: weird desperate creepy guys, but admirers just the same) and you don’t have to be a particular shape or size, either.  No matter what, there are always people out there who think your shit is hot.  Some people even sent me porn stories.  Some of them were terrifying, but others were totally hot.  I kind of liked those.

But don’t you Toy with Mes go thinking I’m one of those Sickie Sickingtons posting pictures of my flapping crotchals because I’m not.  That’s like, a whole ‘nuther thing.  I don’t really know why people post full crotchal pictures like that because crotches, as a general rule, just aren’t pretty.  Women do it, but a lot of dudes post pictures of their junk and only their junk.

Who wants to see that?

I, for one, am always yelling at my husband to put some pants on because it’s better to leave something to the imagination if you ask me. I would never show my goodies to the Internet.

The pictures were more like this:

I don’t actually look like that, so thank you photoshop/mad sick camera skillz!  And fancy camera lenses! And lighting!  And Jillian Michaels!  And Victoria’s Secret! And Mary Kay!  And my curling iron! And spray tan!

Because of all those things, I’m totally comfortable letting people see these pictures because why the fuck wouldn’t I be?  If somebody took a picture of you like that, you’d about make it your Christmas card (which I tried to do but decided it wouldn’t be appropriate for my daughter’s Preschool class, the prudes), amiright?

Now some of you may be saying, “but Crissy!  Not everyone has the lighting and the makeups and the slutpanties! We can’t all be like the Queen!” and to that I will say, “you are correct.”

Not everyone has the time and energy and the motivation to get all glammed up for a sexy photo shoot with a husband who has the ability to make an otherwise blown-out and exhausted mommy look like a sex kitten, and that’s okay.

You don’t need all that stuff to have fun with your partner and you most certainly do not have to post them on the internet.  All you need is a camera and a sense of adventure and imagination and you can have a lot of fun with pictures.  I highly recommend it if you feel so inclined, however there are some things you need to be careful of.  Listen carefully, DO NOT LET THE WRONG PERSON GET A HOLD OF YOUR PICTURES!  My husband got carried away a few times and he posted a few things that were meant just for us and I about had a cow because I told a couple of my friends about the postings and when they looked they were like “OH GOD MY EYES!” I about killed him. Twice.

But sometimes, that wrong person who got a hold of your pictures is you, and you wind up posting pictures of yourself that really?  The world just isn’t ready for them.  Since the modeling and the editing are done by two different people, this has not happened to me, but some people have made some Unfortunate Decisions that I have brought to you today so that we may ridicule them learn from their mistakes.

Check it:

This young lady is clearly not very detail oriented because she forgot to flush her shadoobie and pick her dirty laundry up off the floor… things that someone ELSE looking over the proofs would have pointed out. This is prolly not what she meant when she said “hey, y’all!  Check my shit out!”

Here’s a picture of a young mom making some extra cash on the weekends:

I guess the she had a last minute babysitting crisis? She needs to start taking some of those dollars out of her thong and putting them into savings for the extensive therapy that kid’s gonna need.

Here’s a hot tranny mess for you.

I think I might need therapy now. What else can you say? Such an interesting mish-mosh going on… is that a c-section scar??

This next lady seems to be laying on a stuffed animal or something.

Seriously, don’t these people ever put their kids to bed for chrissakes? I mean, I sort of get the milf thing, but I don’t think the milf-hunters want the kids THERE TOO.

Here’s another one:

We need to start a babysitting service for stupid sluts.  Apparently, there is dire need…

This is one of my favorites because it fucked me up for life:

MOOOOBS!!!  among other things that confuse me.

How ’bout this Studly McStuderson?

“And on our first Craigslist date, I will bring all of my guns and my guitars.  So I have them.”

Sometimes I look back on having let my husband post some sexy pictures of me on the Internetz, and I wonder if it would have been better just to keep them to ourselves…

and then I see these pictures, and I just don’t worry as much.

Post from: Toy With Me

My Husband Posted Pictures Of Me On A Porn Site. I Liked It.

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There’s still the question, though, of why cheating happens in the first place. Of the two times it happened to me, the worst was when I was pregnant with my son, and it wasn’t just because I felt as attractive as an ox in toe shoes. It was the massive sense of betrayal and of helplessness that went along with it. There’s very little as vulnerable as a pregnant woman, and for someone like me, twenty years old, isolated from her family and living in an emotionally abusive relationship, this was just one more thing.

After he didn’t come home one night, I knew what was going on. My spidey-sense was strong and I just knew. So the next morning when he rolled in with hickeys on his neck claiming he “didn’t get much sleeping done, hahahaha” there wasn’t much left to be said that my fists of fury didn’t already say for me. He got a black eye for that one. If I’d have been any smarter, I’d have cut off his testicles and force-fed them to him. His excuse later on was that “he was scared” about his impending fatherhood and I suppose sticking his penis into someone else was his way of acting out.

But it bothered me for ages, long after I stopped being indignant, long after I expelled my crotch parasite, long after I dumped his sorry ass, why did he do it? Why had it happened again? I couldn’t think of any good reason why I’d been cheated on once again by an entirely different guy under entirely different circumstances and really, I had no good answers.

Science, my trusty and nerdly sidekick, thinks it can explain some of it. Turns out, some white coated geneticists have discovered that a gene known as “334.” Those without the gene, or with only one copy of have showed (in preliminary studies) to be more monogamous, interested in family life, and caring for their young. Conversely, those with TWO copies of the “334” gene seem to be either unmarried or have a greater difficulty in monogamy. Turns out, fidelity may have a genetic, not simply a social or emotional, link which is interesting and science-y, but not exactly an excuse.

Genetics aside, clearly there are other factors that go into why a partner chooses to cheat and shockingly (to me), most of the time, they have nothing to to do with the actual sex act itself. Most of the time, men cheat because they’re unhappy. In this case, he was furious with me for having the audacity to get knocked up while on the pill and then “ruining his life” and then “trapping him.” Always the smart ass, I snappily asked him if it was for his money or his good looks, which was a joke because he wasn’t working, instead preferring to lay around playing old Nintendo video games while I worked. This was his way of showing me just how unhappy he was in our relationship, and while I wasn’t particularly happy with it either, I was mature enough to know that that wasn’t the way to handle it.

There are countless articles devoted to reasons that men cheat. Most say that it’s just because that’s what golly-gee-shucks men do and there’s nothing we can do about it, because clearly there’s no such thing as personal accountability in a relationship (no matter how floundering they are). In that case, it’s clear that biology is biology and we should just give up and allow ourselves to have free reign over whatever it is that we want to do. I mean, let’s give into ALL of our primal urges, right? Nah, I don’t think so. I’m willing to bet that none of you do, either.

Men often claim, just to drive the stake in a little deeper, that they cheat because their spouse drove them to it for one reason or another. Maybe she didn’t lose all of the baby weight or stopped prancing around in those adorable little nighties as much as she used to. Maybe he feels that they no longer connect with each other, or he’s afraid of intimacy. Or maybe she just doesn’t give it up enough and Rosey Palm and her Five Sisters aren’t doin’ it for him. For each of those points, any of us can counter it with another. But it’s hard to hear that sort of thing because your initial reaction when you find out that you’ve been betrayed (once, of course, you take your fist off of his face), is “what did I do to drive him away?” So having that solidified BY CHEATERS is just digging the nail in a little deeper. But, it’s also bullshit because you’ve taken any sort of personal accountability by the cheater out of the equation. Cheating is about choices and the cheater is not the victim.

Ten years later and I still can’t tell you why men cheat, but I can tell you that it’s happened to pretty much everyone I know and while it feels like the end of the world, it’s not. They say living well is the best revenge. I disagree heartily. I find that giving someone a black eye and dropping a hugemongeous pile of dog shit onto the lawn of the cheater is far more satisfying. Not that I would know anything about that.

Post from: Toy With Me

Why Do Men Cheat?

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1. Smell – Oh, how I love the Man Stank. If you’ve never smelled a man after a six-hour bike ride, you’re missing out. I believe firmly in the power of pheromones and will nestle firmly in the crook of my man’s arm, taking in his M-A-N. Now, it doesn’t mean I don’t want him to shower for three days, but it does mean that I get it that people sweat. Men smell good when they sweat. They smell like ass when they wash with AXE body wash.
2. Sensibility – Men are practical creatures for the most part. They keep underwear for ten years, use the same pan for eggs each morning and rarely change the bed sheets until you give them the “what’s THAT?!” point in reference to one of the 17 sundry stains. Hey, it saves water and electricity, and admit it – it’s usually dark when you bone and they’re probably YOUR body fluids. I can appreciate the gallon jug of Heinz ketchup in the fridge, too. While the squeeze bottle might have fit better in the door, men know a deal when they see one and you can’t really blame them for hopping on the vat-o-ketchup for $4.99.
3. Style – Men can pull off a t-shirt ANYWHERE. Here I am, getting dolled-up in my best and trying to decide if I’m going to wear the strappy black Charles David sandals or the brown suede Steve Maddens and my man is dressed in one of three pairs of jeans, one of seven pairs of shoes and a t-shirt that (damn him) matches every one of those pairs of shoes! How they hell do they DO that!?!!!

Not so long ago, The Huffington Post posted an article about annoying male traits and had users rate how “forgivable” they were. Are we really still talking about the differences between the male and female brains (and is this information so fucking shocking that we need an entire book about it)?

Here’s the bottom line: I like dick. I said it before and I’ll say it again: give me an M-A-N. I covered it last year in Blow Jobs and Reassurance: A Girl’s Guide to World Peace and I’m going to cover what The Huffington Post left out today. If you want to date a woman, start hitting for the same team. Otherwise, stop it with your whiny bitch routine and embrace the fact that in front of you, you have a real, live M-A-N.

Questionable Man-havior 1
Cuts You Off When You’re Venting With A Solution To Your Problem

Get over yourself. Men are problem-solvers. Ever wonder why they wake up with hard-ons every morning? Aside from the fact that they’re DELICIOUS, hard-ons are problem solving. Men think more clearly after they’ve had sex. Women? We tend to think less clearly. We confuse sex with love and men think “Wow – I wonder if I have time to put a new chain on my bike before I leave for the office if we go for round 2…” Men like to get to the point, solve problems and move on. Women like to TALK about problems. Solution? Blow jobs. They keep your mouth busy and your man happy. Problem solved.

Questionable Man-havior 2
Goes Overboard With Protective Instincts

A-fucking-MEN! Kill the spiders, pick up the baseball bat when something goes bump in the night and grab my arm so I don’t walk into traffic. He cares and doesn’t want you to DIE! Men protect things they care about. So long as he doesn’t have you chained-up in the basement or install a GPS on your car and check it every time you take a trip, he cares. Let him care. You bitch about him NOT caring, so please…let him be protective. And be honest – you’re NOT going to kill the spiders. God knows, I’m not.

Questionable Man-havior 3
Too Ready To Fight

I’m not looking for a raging drunk who’s going to kick into ballroom blitz mode every time we go out, but I do like a competitive man. Men bust each other’s balls and have ongoing Whose Is Bigger? contests. Let them have it. I think women are more ready to fight than men are, especially when it comes to our hurt feelings. We will go nine rounds in a cage with a dude who forgot that they met us exactly seven months ago TODAY but we’ll berate a man who’s playing My Dick’s Bigger with his buddies? Lighten the fuck up – it doesn’t have anything to do with you, honey.

Questionable Man-havior 4
He’s Possessive

Admittedly, I like a little jealously. If we’re going back to GPS checking on the car mode again, that’s a little much, but I like it when a man gets a little possessive. Dogs mark their territory with urine. Men are little different. They pee on girls. You’ve all seen it and you know when it’s happening. Women are, in a very base sense, something for men to OWN. While our relationships may be a blissful exchange and equal partnership to the outside world, guys will pee on you every now and then. It’s a compliment. Embrace the pee.

Questionable Man-havior 5
He Had No Clue You Were About To Cry

Of course he didn’t. We’re hormonal. I don’t know about you, but I can cry on a dime. Dudes just aren’t wired that way and be glad they’re not. I need the Keith in the Six Feet Under scenario, not the David (though I do like me some Dexter…). Men will gradually become more comfortable around you if you let them know it’s OK. If you bash them for not being sensitive enough, they’re going to stop trying. Quit kicking your puppy. Pet him. He’ll pet you back in the way he knows how.

Questionable Man-havior 6
He Wants Too Much Sex

Ummm…is this possible? If you don’t want to bone your man, what DO you want to do with him? Guys can only talk so much. Girls? Oh hell…we’ll talk their balls blue. When you deny a man’s instinct to HAVE you, you’re denying who he is and of what he’s made. This is why men fuck around. Give it up, and shut up. That doesn’t mean you can’t talk when you need to or want to. Sometimes, honey – they just don’t want to hear us talk. Why is a sex drive bad? You’d complain if you weren’t getting any. Why complain that you are?

Questionable Man-havior 7
He Looks At Other Women

Is be breathing? Does he have a pulse? You look at other men. I look at other men. Strange is HOT. It doesn’t change that you’re the one he comes home to every night. Let him have it and stop making him feel bad for looking at something pretty. He looked at you like that once, after all. Hope he still does.

Questionable Man-havior 8
He’s Too Quick To Anger

Again, if the quick-to-fight drunk describes your other half, that’s not attractive. But again – testosterone. Ever seen a female bodybuilder snap (or a male one for that matter)? You’ve heard about Roid Rage. Testosterone gives men their brawn, heft and awesomely shaped hip bones (drool). Love them for having it. Otherwise, you’d be dating a girl. And if you want to date a girl, that’s cool, too. Just know that if you want a man who acts like a girl, you may need to address your wants and needs…

So, here’s where I’ll ask: what’s so bad about men being men? Dear Redhead readers, I want you to tell me. I delight in the fact that my man acts like one and while I don’t always like what he says and how he says it, I’m sure the feeling is mutual. However, I do adore The Man for being a M-A-N. Hip bones on which I want to nibble, the strength to bust a nut (literally) with a box wrench, the ability to lift bulky boxes and the good ‘ol Texas Hangdown…they’re all damn fine reasons to get up in the morning. And quite frankly, I’m tired of the womanly whining. If you want to be with someone just like you, date a twin or buy a clone. I adore the delightful opposites and quirky contrasts that come along with the male/female coupling ritual. I’m thinking maybe you do, too…thoughts?

Post from: Toy With Me

Men – I’ll Take The Good With The Bad

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But not the Grand Gesture kind.

I know that in the movies, the Grand Gesture romance moves always look so appealing. The guy runs through a busy airport to tell the love of his life that he’s sorry and he never meant to hurt her. Music swells as he sweeps her into his heavily muscled arms and they kiss, her perfectly made-up face expressing just the right emotion and then they walk off onto the plane together. Airport security, of course, is forgotten for the sake of the plot-line, as are his indiscretions or her past fuck-ups. The closing credits roll and you walk out of the theatre, happy. All is right with the world and you’re left wondering why you could possibly be annoyed with your husband for not properly loading the dishwasher. At least, I think that’s how it goes. I don’t really watch romance movies because I think they’re annoying.

And Grand Gestures, no matter how they appear in the movies, and how often you wish that John Cusack would appear at YOUR window with a boom box playing “In Your Eyes,” well, they’re kind of overrated (unless John Cusack is doing it). I had a Grand Gesture Guy once.

Right after I met The Daver, someone who must have been interested in me before must have felt another male sniffing around. So, he decided that the best way to handle it was to make me a Grand Gestures that I couldn’t refuse. It started with a bouquet of filler flowers on Valentine’s Day. You know, the sort of flowers that say, “I love you, but not very much (because I am cheap)?” Mostly Babies Breath and Carnations, neither of which scream, “I need you madly, Aunt Becky.” I wasn’t exactly wowed by his choice in flowers. If you want to win a lady—especially one who is very into botany—my suggestion is to find out what she likes.

The very next day, he sent me a huge bouquet of roses, which I do love. But having ignored his first bouquet and made it clear to him that I was pretty happily dating The Daver, I was getting slightly creeped out. Not because it wasn’t sweet, but because it was just a little overwhelming from someone who hadn’t even so much as called me in the weeks before the flowers started arriving. Nevertheless, he seemed to think that these Grand Gestures would have me running into his arms in no time flat.

It wasn’t working.

Since this didn’t work, he upped his game. The Grand Gesture guy decided that the next course of action would be to come to my house. But I wasn’t home for most of the week, thanks to my busy school schedule, so he just waited. And called. And waited. And called. And waited. By the time I got home, my parents house, I should add, where I lived with my wee son, my mother informed me that Mr. Grand Gesture had been calling all day and that he was waiting for me in the neighborhood. He lived about an hour away from me, and apparently had been waiting patiently for me to get home from school so that he could see me. When I went to see him (so that he would leave my parents alone), he didn’t really have anything to say. It was just the Grand Gesture that bordered on stalking.

The phone calls, I should add, never ended. I got no end of phone calls, text messages, emails and voice mails from him during this time that never really said much of anything. He’d quote sad songs, beg me to call him, threaten me that “this would be the last time he called me” (ha, don’t I wish?). With the exception of sending him a scathing email where I pretty much told him to eat my balls and go to hell, I mostly ignored him. I mean, what more is there to say?

After class one day, I was sitting at the train station (I commuted to college) with a friend. She pointed out someone sitting across the tracks staring at me, and when I looked up, my heart sinking, there he was, Grand Gesture Guy in the flesh, waiting for me. He’d apparently learned my schedule well enough to see that I was going to be on this particular train at this time and would be at the station (Or, he’d been waiting for hours in the sub-zero weather, I didn’t ask.). Reluctantly, I stood to speak with him when he came to my side of the train. Maybe he’d thought this would make me fall into his not-so-chiseled arms. Maybe he thought that this Grand Gesture to beat all Grand Gestures before it would prove to me that he really knew how to stalk me and that meant that he was a better fit for me than The Daver ever would be. I don’t know. All that I do know is that for someone who was so intent upon speaking with me, he really had nothing TO say to me when he finally got in front of me. And I sure as shit didn’t have anything to say to him besides “go the fuck away.”

Miraculously, he did.

I never saw Grand Gesture Guy again, except to CC him on my wedding pictures. And while I might occasionally crave romance in forms other than “Hey, I picked up the Thai food you asked me to,” I can totally appreciate that The Daver will never, ever follow me to Target blasting, “I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing” out of an ancient boom-box when I’m furious with him.

Mostly because we don’t HAVE a boom-box.

Post from: Toy With Me

The Grand Gesture Guy

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A few weeks ago, when I was feeling particularly moist in my lady bits, I straddled my husband and murmured in his ear that I wanted him to fuck him.

And he recoiled in horror.

Now, it’s not like I was coming on to a random stranger in the street. This is my husband. The man who vowed to love my bedraggled ass forever. The man who’s seen me barf, Exorcist-style, all over a hotel room after a vodka binge. The man who applauds every time I fart. We have no secrets.

So what the fuck is up with him being embarrassed about the word “fuck”? His answer: “It just sounds weird coming from you. It makes me uncomfortable. You’re my wife. Why can’t you say something else, like ‘have sex’ or ‘make love’?”

Without going into a huge rant about how I loathe the term ‘making love’ because the only thing I can picture in my head is hairy hippies going at it, let’s discuss for a moment the “You’re my wife” comment. The last time I checked, I didn’t have my vagina rights revoked the second I walked down the aisle. So what’s with the sudden need for a de-sexualized wifey?

After I grilled him mercilessly about what, exactly, he meant while marching up and down the living room like a 1920’s feminist at a rally, I managed to worm it out of him: It’s not that he wants a de-sexualized wife, it’s that he’s uncomfortable with my overt libido. He’s worried that he’s going to disappoint me because he thinks he can’t keep up with me sexually. The last time I checked, older men LOVE IT when a fresh-out-of-college blonde practically humps their leg and have no problem being just as horny, but maybe I’m living in an alternate reality. For him, though, knowing that he can’t keep up with me now makes him worried about what’s going to happen to our relationship in 5, 10, 15 years.

It made me take a step back and look at my own method of “wooing.” Gone are the days when you can look a frat boy square in the eye and demand he fuck your brains out. As it turns out, when you’re married and dealing with someone who you’re connected to for life, who loves you, who’s more mature than your previous loves, you have to work harder on making sure that person is comfortable and relaxed with you instead of being all, “OMG, give me an orgasm now, wheee!”

In other words, it’s no longer all about me. It’s all about connecting with the other person.

This has been a difficult lesson for me on how I view myself sexually and what it’s like to have a partner. I’ve never been good at being truly intimate with someone, and I honestly thought men would prefer a girl who’s rough-and-tumble in bed as opposed to someone who wants to talk about “feelings.” For so long, I’ve prided myself on being overtly sexual and anti-mush, but it shocks me that I’m married to someone who, it turns out, doesn’t mind a bit of tenderness. Not only that, but I’ve never even thought about how the guy was feeling; if he came, I assumed things were good! Not once did I consider that a man might want to savor the whole sex experience and not just bang it out.

Without going into too many graphic details, the next night, I took a different approach. I went a lot slower than I usually do. I focused more on touch and intimacy and being close (which, I’ll be honest, made me barf a little on the inside) than my usual “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.” And while I’m still not 100% sold on the perks of spooning afterward (long periods of touching = gross) I have to admit that it was really nice to see him so happy and at ease with everything (the sex wasn’t bad, either).

Post from: Toy With Me

I should Have Been Born A Man

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Women who decide to get involved with married men are stupid, opportunistic, gold-digging whores. I would, however, like to think it takes some sort of calculated smarts to wind up in an $11 million mansion with two small dogs (bill footed by Charles E. Phillips, co-president of Oracle).

Maybe it takes being smart to wind up on Oprah after your affair with a Presidential candidate goes sour.

Maybe it takes absolutely no sense at all because who in their right mind would fuck this guy? He always seemed to have two chicks going at once.

Serial adultery? Ladies, it’s time to wise-up and once again put on your big girl britches instead of leaving them on some married guy’s floor. I’m straight-up exhausted with all of the media talk about who’s boning who and whether it’s in or out of wedlock. Guys have screwed around as long as they’ve had the twig-n-berries setup and women…well, they’ve been screwing around just about as long. It’s always “news” to air out the dirty laundry of others and, quite frankly, I can’t blame the leader for latching on to Tiger like a bucking bronco.

I’m blaming the women.

What the hell are you doing?

Hello…I don’t know if you noticed, but that’s a married man. That means, at home, he has a wife, children, obligations. He may be a horny fucktard and cry about how his wife never listens, but if he wants license to go get some strange, he needs to cowboy the fuck up and get unhitched. And you, missy – you need to put your legs together and stop thinking about fun long enough to realize he’s not yours to touch. If you need a zipless fuck, go hit on the obviously single guy at the end of the bar who’s been ogling you all night. Take him home, bone his brains out and give him a wrong number the next morning. Remember when you took your classmate’s favorite marble and the teacher found it in your desk? Same concept. These are not the marbles you’re looking for. Move along.

It’s NOT glamorous to be a mistress

If you truly think it’s exciting to be involved in a covert affair with a man who will never go out in public with you and never leave his wife for you, you’re stupid. Completely stupid. I understand that mistresses throughout the ages have reaped financial benefits untold, but you’re still a home wrecker. Eleanor Herman, author of Sex With Kings (HarperCollins, 2004), reports that some royal mistresses received financial compensation up to $200 million. It’s generally not so glamorous in this day and age. Let’s take a little slice-of-life glimpse at the life of a mistress:

Watch your boyfriend/married man/fuck buddy who’s never going to marry you roll out of bed at 4:30am so he can rush to the gym to shower before heading to work where he’ll call his wife on the way and blame everything on the Johnson case. You get dresses and head to the office. While on the subway, Cute Guy With Bike glances at you but you glance away since Mr. I’m Not Leaving My Wife/Boyfriend wouldn’t take kindly to you seeing another man even though he’s seeing another woman. His wife. Go through your workday. Girlfriend calls to ask you if you want to double with your Mr. Mystery Man and her new BF. You decline, claiming late hours at the office when it’s really that, well, you can’t have a double date. Ever. Text comes late in the day. Mr. I’m Not Leaving My Wife/Boyfriend can’t make it to your place tomorrow night – he’s sorry but he has to spend some time at home. Flowers arrive at your office thirty-five minutes later from HIM. You smile. He really does love you. Colleague walks by your desk and knocks flowers off the corner, vase shatters on the floor. You call the janitor to come clean up the mess and busily scramble to save every blossom from the man who loves you so much. You head home. After staring at a pile of haphazardly arranged flowers and downing about 1/3 bottle of vodka, you decide to sleep. Alone. He’ll call tomorrow.

I acknowledge completely that the home may already be wrecked, but if a man tells you he wants to be with you and won’t leave his wife, he’s an asshole. Move along.

Stop acting all self-righteous

I don’t know nor do I care to know what went down to end the 8 year-long affair between YaVaughnie Wilkins and Cisco co-president Charles Phillips. Except…he wasn’t going to leave his wife for her. For fuck sake, girl – you got to live in an $11M lily pad and probably paid for nothing for 8 years. Take that cash you stashed and what’s left of your pride and move on. Not only have you wrecked your career and credibility, you look like a jilted psycho hose beast for putting up billboards and setting up a website to expose photos of you and your ex-lover. You fell with your legs open into a married man’s bed. You sleep in the bed you made…and now it’s empty. You can be pissed all you want, but the only one who looks like an ass…is you.

If faced with the decision to tumble with a ring-wearin’ dude (and even if he’s “progressive” and doesn’t wear a ring), here’s a few things to take into consideration:

• He’s married.
• He’s NOT going to leave his wife for you. They rarely do.
• Nobody owes you anything for the stupid decision you made in the first place to climb into bed with him.
• Why would you ruin your life for a man?

YaVaughnie Wilkins was far from working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when she met Charles Phillips. She was interning for fame financial analyst Mary Meeker at Morgan Stanley, a gig that business school kids would give their left nut to score.

Here’s what you did: you met a powerful man who thought you were a hawt young thang. You are – I’ve seen the pictures all over the internet. You slept with him for 8 ½ years and now you’re pissed it’s over. Guess what, girly: he owes you nothing. Relationships end all the time (don’t I know it) and if you’re too stupid to get a cohabitation agreement…which you probably wouldn’t get because your relationship was on the down-low…then Mr. Phillips owes you zippitydoodah, getoutofthehouse. You put yourself in the position, now you’re out of it. Way to waste what’s estimated at $250,000 for the high-profile billboards and website.

You’re not famous. You’re notorious. And pretty much a psycho hose beast.

This isn’t going to fix anything

Serial adulterers like Tiger Woods, New Gingrich (ew), Charles Phillips, and more politicians than I can count will always be around. One may even be living next door to you – they’re not necessarily high-profile, big swingin’ dicks. If you’ve ever been on Match.com and seen the relationship status “currently separated” on a profile…

that means STILL MARRIED. Right? Am I right here?

Some people have affairs as a catalyst to end things. Others do it for the excitement. I know those who have done it because there’s nothing so sexy as to have someone actually listen. And then there are the very few people out there who have the capacity to have successful open relationships. I’m not wired that way, but hey…I see that it can work. I can’t dis it. But I can say that if you’re a stupid woman who gets involved with a married man in the hopes that he’ll leave his wife for you…oh, honey. I’ll hold you down and Miss Manners can bitch slap some sense into you.

Do you really believe, in all honesty, that any person in an unresolved relationship (ummm…like MARRIAGE) has the emotional capacity to sustain an additional emotional relationship? They already straight-up suck at the one they’ve got going on and you think you’re going to be the panacea to make everything right with the world? It’s like being in the path of a snowball rolling downhill: sure, you’ll get caught up in it for a while, but it’s going to leave you dumped at the bottom of the hill or crashed into a tree. You’re simply in the path. You’re not THE path.

Wise-up, ladies. Go get your own man.

Post from: Toy With Me

Serial Adultery = Serial Stupidity
A Woman Takes On Stupid Women

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It’s called The Millionaire Matchmaker and it features Patti Stanger as the matchmaker who fixes up straight and homosexual men and women millionaires with the person of their dreams.  I have a wicked girl crush on her because she’s just all sorts of awesome.

She called somebody an “ugly firecrotch bitch” on one of the episodes and then she just shouted “take her away! Get her out of here!” and with a flourish of her arm, she exited the room and the firecrotch bitch was led out by Patti’s assistants, and the whole time I was watching it I was thinking “YES!  That’s what I have to do! I’m going to try that!”  But before I can simply start having people who annoy me removed from my presence, I’m going to have get that gay entourage full of buff guys going–otherwise I’ll just look like an asshole, standing there shouting “take her away!” when someone cuts me in line at the bank or whatever.

Clearly, Miss Patti doesn’t fuck around.  She takes her work very seriously and she doesn’t have time for people and their bullshit, so she cuts right to the chase.  She was interviewing this one chick (who looked a little slutty and confused) for a date with one of her millionaires and asked her straight out “are you a hooker?”

Hahahahahaha!

How can you not love this woman?  You can’t.  It is impossible not to love Patti.

But perhaps what I like the most about her is that she believes in old fashioned romance and chivalry.  She doesn’t want the people she fixes up to have sex until they’re sure they want to date one another exclusively, so before the date she meets with the guy and says “I don’t want you to put your penis here, or here, or here until you’re ready to date exclusively” and then she points to her mouth, her kitty, and her bum. This is great advice!  Had I followed it, I probably wouldn’t have had my heart broken so much in my early dating years.  Sex complicates the shit out of things.  At least, for me it does.  (I never understood how people could separate sex and love because I never could.)

Another thing Patti does is encourage the men to bring flowers for their date.  Can I just tell you how flowers make my panties fall off melt my heart?  Not that I ever get any, but if I did they would.  My husband doesn’t really do that.  In fact, in the 14 years we’ve been together, I think I’ve gotten flowers from him approximately 5 times, and that’s because I asked him to do it.  However, he did buy me a pair of socks a few weeks ago, and that was okay too because it made me feel pretty special to know he was thinking of me.  I smiled at my silly socks all day.

But here’s where some people would say that Patti is setting feminism back about 30 years: She tells the men to open doors, pull out chairs, etc. for their dates. Now, admittedly, I am perfectly capable of opening doors for myself–I’d have to be a total shitshow not to be able to do that, but it’s sooo nice when someone does it for you.

This is another thing my husband does not do, and the few times he has, I’ve certainly noticed it.  I think I’ve just stood there, agog, actually and said something like “um. What are you doing?” and then giggled like a little girl.  I have to admit that I love going out to eat with some of his more chivalrous friends because they run ahead to open the door for me. It makes me feel all princess-y and special and attractive and taken care of. Plus, it makes my husband look like a pencildick.

Who doesn’t like to feel taken care of whilst their husband looks like a pencildick?

Nobody doesn’t, that’s who.

And this is not a Patti thing, but  I also don’t mind when someone calls me “honey” or “sweetheart” or “doll.”  I get sort of squishy inside and it makes my day.  That’s why I had such a desperate housewife crush on Vinny, the stud at the deli counter.  He called me “sweetheart” and it totally made me hot for his hard salami. Plus he’s hot. That helped.  Some women would be about two seconds away from blowing their rape whistle if a guy called her “honey,” but I don’t find it demeaning or degrading at all.  It’s just flirtation.

Don’t get me wrong, Toy with Mes. I  consider myself to be a feminist, but my brand of feminism does not come in the form of rejecting any and all chivalrous attention by taking it as a symbol of chauvinism. I know the guy who just opened the door for me knows I can do it myself. He’s just being polite and kind, so at least for me, chivalry is a wonderful thing and I think we should bring it back.  The way I see it, regardless of what  motivates the behavior, it’s still caring behavior.  Whether a guy opens a door for me because he thinks I have a nice ass, or he’s got a thing for women carrying babies while wearing snot on their sweaters makes no difference to me because it makes me feel good.

So what say you Toy with Mes?  Is chivalry an old fashioned, anti-feminist practice rooted in condescension, or do your down-belows tingle when somebody opens a door for you?

And for the men, do you open doors for women and if so, why do you do it?

And if you don’t do it, is it because you’re afraid it would offend the lady, or are you just kind of a dick?

Post from: Toy With Me

My Brand Of Feminism Includes Chivalry

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