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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Tap Shoes carries on like this at every possible opportunity. The part of me who’s a catty bitch sees this and makes eye contact with The Rabbi so we can laugh at her with our minds. But then there’s the other side of me who is actually happy for Tap Shoes because she’s found something that makes her feel sexy and alive, even if she looks ridiculous and sucks a little bit. I mean seriously, I wish you guys could see how she dorks out and she doesn’t even give a shit. I might even be jealous of this.

You go with your wacky self, Crazy Tap Shoe lady!

I, on the other hand, do not feel particularly sexy in class.

I signed up for it because I was hoping it would help me find my mojo, but instead I feel bruised and inadequate. (Here’s where my pig husband would be all “hey, bruised and inadequate–that’s sexy!,” but I disagree. He’s such a hormone.) It’s hard to feel sexy whilst flailing around a metal pole.

Maybe that will change, though.

I’m sort of this permanent quest for things that make me feel sexy because most of the time, I don’t feel pretty or sexy at all. There are, however, a few things I’ve discovered that make me feel sexy deep down inside. Some of them are the predictable, superficial things that are probably pretty common and some are not so obvious.

1. I love to buy lipstick. When I find something that looks pretty, I walk around for days making Angelina Jolie Poutyface at myself in every reflective surface I can find. Plus, it’s cheap and in seemingly unlimited supply, making it an ideal product to hoard. My lips are one part of my body I have absolutely no issues with, so that’s a bonus.

2. I do exactly the same thing with nail polish. In fact, I’ve been feeling like shit lately and have purchased TWO new colors in the past week (if anyone’s found the perfect shade of orange, let me know–it’s elusive!). It, also, is cheap and comes in 10,000 different colors, so there’s always one I don’t have. The best part is when my husband gets in the mood to do a full-on pedicure and makes my toezies look pretty (he’s just a little bit g-a-y but we’ve discussed this already. He’s reading Allure magazine as we speak.).

3. This one is a recent discovery, but wearing high heels is a big one! A few weeks ago I put on a very Maryanne-ish pair of wedgie sandals and felt like a tall, long-legged goddess. I glided through my day and felt like I was in charge. I went back out and bought another pair after that.

I can hear some of you complaining already: “these are all so superficial, Crissy!” And you’re right–they are. But this post isn’t about whether superficiality is right or wrong. What I KNOW is that looking good makes me feel confident, and feeling confident is a prerequisite to feeling sexy.

There are some things that get my juices flowing that aren’t quite so superficial, too.

1. Hearing a really great song–something with energy, bounce and a good beat and that’s not emo.

2. Getting enough sleep. This one is very hard to come by these days, with a 13 month old and a 5 year old. There is no such thing as sleeping past 5:30am, no matter what bedtime is. Without enough sleep I’m a wicked bitch and I’m prone to epic fucktardery. So. Not. Sexy.

3. Having a kick-ass workout to raise my endorphins (ever rubbed one out after doing yoga? I highly recommend it. Nothing can ruin your day after that, I promise). The workout part isn’t sexy per se, but the afterglow is divine. From what I’ve read, working out also releases testosterone and human growth hormone which both bolster libido. I don’t know if that’s what’s happening to me, but I can tell you that I feel strong and and less anxious if I’ve gotten some exercise in the morning and that leaves room for The Sexy.

4. Laughter is a big one! I chalk this one up to effects similar to working out–mostly stress relief and the endorphin rush. A good teary eyed, tinkle in my panties laugh puts me in such an awesome mental and emotional space, I totally understand why so many single ladies are looking for “someone who makes me laugh.” It’s hot!

5. Swimming or anything involving water. I’m a Cancer, which is a water sign. This has to explain why water revives me and makes me feel most alive (I don’t have to tell you about how much I love Sexy Time in the pool, do I?) I even kind of like the feeling of a wet bathing suit after I get out. Showers and baths work too, but swimming is the best. Plus you know that everybody is CLEAN, which is never a bad thing.

Anyway, I’m going to open it up to you Toy with Mes now because–compared to you crazy sexy people–I’m fucking boring. What makes you feel sexy… not horny, but sexy. And for the boy Toy with Mes, is there something you do for yourself that makes you feel attractive, or is this totally a chick thing?

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

What Makes You Feel Sexy?

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That all changed in my twenties, which I am freaking THANKFUL for, because without women, I would be pretty lost. Your Aunt Becky loves of The Ladies. It seems the older I get, the harder it is to have male friendships, but that’s a topic for another column or something someone else with half a brain can explain, because obviously.

I’ll be honest, Toy With Me-ers, I’ve even kissed a few of The Ladies in my day. And while I hate Katy Perry ALMOST as much as I hate Gwen Stefani (nothing, NOTHING could compare to the white hot hate I feel for her, though), she has a point: kissing girls is pretty awesome. But, I should add, I’m not going to be a trendy bisexual blogger because THAT is just too many labels for me.

The Women, though, they’re just hotter than men. Better kissers, too. And like so many of us, I have List of Weird Men I Would Have The Sex With. In fact, I wrote about it here, once, and you guys were all, “they’re not weird” which furthers my point that I love the Internet because I could say ANYTHING and someone would be all, “Me too” and you know that they would be telling the truth.

Anyway, I also have a List Of Women I Would Make Out With. I’d probably not do much more beyond make out with them and then ask them how they got to be so Full Of The Awesome and then maybe see if we could order pizza and stay up all night talking about our dreamy crushes on Justin Timberlake while we traded secrets. But I have A List, and I think it’s a good one, although it’s in no particular order (which will infuriate the Type-A people out there)(Hehe).

1. Zooey Deschanel. So, you can probably guess that I like quirky people because quirky people are far superior to normal people and she’s the poster child for quirky chicks. She’s what I like to call a “pocket pal” because she’s someone I’d like to stuff in my pocket and pull out to entertain me when I’m bored. It sounds creepy when I type it all out, but I assure you that it’s actually MUCH less creepy in my mind. Because I don’t have a box where I keep people under my bed or anything. Anyway, her character in Weeds is the only place I’ve seen her act and she’s random and adorable and pretty much I want to smoosh her face and then be her best friend. After we make out. Plus, she’s my age, which makes me feel like I’m not ancient Uncle Pervy Old Balls for thinking she’s cute.
2. . Okay, so I had to Google her to get the correct spelling of her name because I’m not so smart, and I am apparently TOTALLY not alone in thinking that she’s hot. I have good taste in women. So, THIS should be case and point for all of those girls out there starving themselves to look like gangly fashion models, because Hendricks is curvy and hot. Guys go WILD for her curves because she inhabits them without apology, and we all know there’s nothing sexier than a woman who owns her body. I know she got some flack for having those curves, but damn, I don’t know a single guy that wouldn’t drop whomever and whatever if she came a-knocking. So girls, if you’re out there, just take a look at her and remember: if you’ve got it, love it.
3. Natalie Portman. I like smart people, I make no apologies for this. It’s probably to make up for my own lack of intelligence, but either way, this girl is WICKED smart and I think it would be like osmosis if I could be around her. You know, particles of smart flowing from an area of higher concentration to an area of lower concentration? She’s beautiful and she’s smart as hell and while I’m not normally into ACTORS because I think they’d probably be insufferable bores, I would be willing to bet that she doesn’t take herself as seriously as some of the others do because this is MY fantasy, yo. Plus, did I mention that she’s both intelligent AND sexy? Nothing hotter, my Toy With Me-ers, nothing.
4. Carrie Underwood. I have A Thing for musicians, that I probably shouldn’t announce to the world because I tried to suppress it for many years after dating a string (heh, PUN) of worthless, aimless musicians. But, those are MALE musicians, and despite her recent nuptials, I think that Ms. Underwood and I could make out for a long, long time. Then she could maybe sing me an awesome ballad (like Journey’s “Faithfully,” which I love, and if you mock it, I will cut you) and we could swap party dresses and then attend some red carpet events and look all glamorous and shit. Nothing about this is going to be bad.
5. Megan Fox. Now, I went back and forth, my three brain cells knocking against my skull, trying to decide whether or not I should include her on my list. In the end, I decided that her hotness could overcome anything that came out of her mouth, and to that end, I would totally make out with her. She’s smoking hot and she’d probably entertain me by saying the sort of stupid crap I say on Twitter like, “I can see Alaska from my house!” Only I’m (mostly) kidding and she’s totally not. Her hotness can overcome a lot, though, which is probably why she’s gotten anywhere in life besides a life pumping gas. In fact, that’s why MOST hot people are insufferable, yet we all put up with them anyway.

So, Toy With Me-ers, now you’ve seen The Ladies I’d Make Out With, it’s your turn to tell us who you think is hot.

Post from: Toy With Me

Girls I Would Love To Hump

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They’re a hoot!

Mostly.

To be honest, I’m uncomfortable at toy parties, and do you know why?  It’s because every single one I’ve ever been to has been a lesson in humiliation.  I don’t like to be humiliated in front of all my friends.  Sure, I’ll humiliate myself on the Internet all the live-long day, but that’s different: it’s self-chosen, for one, and two, it’s the Internet. Everyone knows the internet’s all spam and porn and facebook and make-believe.

My first toy party was at a co-worker’s house.  (Yes, librarians have sex.  WHO KNEW???)  While lovely, the “Goddess” (it was an Athena party–that’s what they call their saleswomen) had us do an ice-breaker where we had to say our names and give ourselves a sexy nickname.  I was just like”…um… Kinky Kristen?”  I felt stupid, and to my chagrin, the humiliation was just beginning because next we had to stand in a circle and pass a vibrating ball from neck to neck while simultaneously passing a giant floppy double ended dildo from between our knees to the next person in line–the next co-worker in line.

These games serve their purpose pretty well because after practically making out with somebody, you’re a lot more comfortable passing them a vibrating, pulsating toy to inspect, but a few rounds of jello shots would also break the ice quite nicely. The bonus there is that you don’t look like so much of an idiot doing it. Also, I like getting drunk.

I ended up with some fuzzy handcuffs, the only thing my husband specifically requested.

Another party I went to was given by the same Goddess as the previous one, and at the same location, but this time she mercifully skipped the humiliation portion of the evening and cut right to the chase.  Remembering the last party, my sister-in-law (I dragged her along this time for fun) and I hung out in the back of the room and accidentally-on-purpose drank a whole bottle of rum between the two of us.  As the rum worked it’s magic, she asked a room full of librarians if anyone had ever “fucked [her] boyfriend in the ass with a dildo.”  Of course *I* already knew that her BF had a penchant for pegging, but nobody else in the room did. At first I thought, “Oh god–we have to leave now” since it seemed to go over like a fart in a space suit, but then everybody laughed and it was all cool again. That made me love my sister-in-law even more and it made it a night to remember.  Or, you know, not remember because of the rum and everything.

The last one I went to was around Christmas time at my friend Steph’s house and it was just…oh god.

GAWD!

First of all, our Goddess (Athena parties are quite popular around here because the company is based locally) was 45 minutes late and showed up wearing pants that were too small for her, highlighting her FUPA and camel toe quite nicely if I do say so, with a poorly fitting bra underneath a tee-shirt that said “Come to the NAUGHTY side with me.”  I had to wonder when the last time anyone took her up on that offer was because if you’re going to call yourself a “Goddess” you should maybe wear something that flatters you instead of wearing something that makes you look like a blown out hooker.  I was a little turned off when I should have been turned on. I like my toy Goddesses to be sexy.

The lewd act du jour was particularly horrid this time and we were forced to get on our hands and knees and eat a peeled banana out of another woman’s (clothed) crotchal area, and it was a race.  I totally won, but it was only because I wanted it over with.  I annihilated my poor friend Steph who was paired up with her sister-in-law (mine didn’t come this time THANK GOD).  That made for an interesting Christmas dinner for them both, I’m sure.

As if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough for poor Steph, the ahem, Goddess demonstrated bondage sheets by blindfolding her and leading her into her bedroom, friends and family in tow, and tying her to her bed.  Then she handed the sister-in-law a be-feathered riding crop and had her whack her with it.  Every one took pictures of course because what else do you do?

It was so uncomfortable everyone was in hysterics.

I considered hosting one of these parties myself, but given my remarkable talent for self-humiliation, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Plus, I’ve already got the toy aspect covered.  Don’t get me wrong–toy parties are a great idea and they can help empower women and their sexuality by getting them talking about “taboo” subjects amongst themselves.

Also, they’re a great way to actually check out products “in hand,” which can be really helpful when gauging size/shape/material/etc.  The stories that are likely to be told will be entertaining, and if you go with anyone you know, it’ll be that much funnier when you see them in the office Monday morning.  OR, at Christmas dinner.

Have any of you Toy with Mes been to/hosted/done one of these parties?  Did you have to play a humiliating sex game?  And most importantly, what did you buy?

Photo Souce

Post from: Toy With Me

Sex Toy Parties – Lessons In Humiliation

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I know, I KNOW, you’re shocked. I’m probably among the 0.00000000001 percent of people with a computer who doesn’t actually look at porn on it and the other person is probably a three-year old somewhere in Utah. I just have a deep seated fear of Internet Viruses, that’s all. Oh, and my computer sits RIGHT next to the window to my backyard and right smack-dab in the middle of my dining room, so that I’m constantly surrounded by my crotch parasites. The last thing I need is my kid to be all, “MOMMY, WHAT’S THAT HANGING OUT OF THAT WOMAN’S VAGINA?!” Because talk about awkwardness when I have to tell him it’s a bottle of soda. Thanks, I don’t need to scar my kid in THAT way, thank you.

But I realized lately that I’m going to have to do some major discussion with my children, who are now going to be part of the Internet Generation, before they get onto YouTube and see for themselves all that porn has to offer. I’ve opened many a “Dora The Explorer” clip to find out that ACTUALLY it’s more like “Dora The Explorer…of Butt-Holes!” So a simple click is going to probably turn the kid from looking at cartoons to watching some chick get double fisted by a couple of bikers.

I guess it’s probably MY job to teach the kids that what we see in pornography is not exactly what it’s like in real life. I’m not going to go over it with a step-by-step manual complete with Power Point or anything, but I figure it’s probably important that I clear up some common misconceptions before any of the kids actually start, you know, humping for real. (God help me when they do because I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT IN ANY DETAIL)

1. Not every woman you have sex with is going to scream like she’s straddling the line somewhere between ecstasy and intense pain. Oftentimes, you will find that your partner is quiet and you should be too, because you have roommates that you don’t need to disturb, lest they pee into your apple juice AGAIN. Plus, fake porn moaning is more comical than it is arousing, anyway.
2. Porn-style penises are gigantic. I don’t pretend to want to know how my children will be hung EVER, but the size of a porn wang is often so large that when I watch it, I involuntarily shudder, because it hurts my vagina FOR any of his partners. So just because HE is hung like a horse doesn’t mean that your penis is small. He’s the freak, not you. And average is just fine.
3. Shockingly, women don’t come to the door wearing trash-tastic lingerie and proceed to have The Sex with any and all people that may be ringing the bell (much). Life is not nearly as sex-filled as a soft-core porn. If you become a pizza delivery guy, you’ll probably never be seduced by an attractive blond with fake boobs who wants nothing more than to lustily pleasure you in her kitchen with her three best girl friends. Sorry.
4. Most women do not enjoy being forced to give a blow-job. Most women do not like to have their heads held down while they give oral sex. Do not do this to a woman unless she asks you to do so, and only then, PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION.
5. Acrobatics during sex have their time and their place, but too much position-changing and fiddling around can really get irritating after awhile. You’re not in the circus because you are related to me, who is so clumsy that I trip over the lines painted on the floor and your partner is presumably not nearly as bendy as many of the women you’ve seen, so just remember that flipping her around until she’s contorted like a pretzel may kill the mood. A lot.
6. Ejaculation on the breasts and face take a lot more time and preparation than it appears on the camera. You have to know exactly what you are doing to make it happen. More importantly, you have to inform your partner that it will be happening, or you may end up with a nice, shiny black eye afterward.
7. It’s likely that most of the time, neither you or your partner will be as well groomed in the crotchal region as the porn stars because, well, that sort of grooming takes a hell of a lot of money and effort. You probably won’t have that time and effort every single day.
8. The sex act itself doesn’t usually last as long as it does in the pornos because they take breaks in between takes. I mean, you’ve got to imagine the chafing there is intense. So don’t be discouraged if you don’t last for twenty minutes or longer every time. And for the love of all that is holy, NEVER tell me about it.
9. Porn stars don’t always use protection when they have the sex. YOU MUST ALWAYS WEAR A CONDOM. EVEN IF SHE IS ON THE PILL AND SWEARS YOU ARE HER FIRST, WEAR A CONDOM. ALWAYS.
10. Sex is much more intimate than pornography portrays it. Remember that sex is really about intimacy as much as it is about pleasure and you don’t have to be all “making love” this and “sweet caress” that to appreciate that it’s kind of awesome. Even more awesome than porn makes it out to be.

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Porn – Not Exactly “Dora The Explorer”

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Isn’t that weird?

What’s even more weird is that my husband was also asleep when it started and we sort of woke up together in the middle of Sexy Time. It was kind of awesome, actually, but HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN?

I’d like to say it’s the first time, but it’s not.  It’s happened before, except last time I was having a dream that I was having sex with George Washington (shut up!  It’s just a dream! Oh, like you never dream weird stuff! Besides, George Washington was a total badass. Not everyone knows that.) and old George was giving it to me pretty good, but then I realized it wasn’t George Washington at all.  It was just my husband.

I was bummed, you guys.  That shit was presidential.

Anyway, there I was doing Sexy Time with George Washington my husband and I had no idea how it all started.

It’s not like I’m a big sleep walker or anything, so I’m kind of surprised to find that I’m a sleep fucker.  Actually, I take that back.  I did sleep walk one time in 4th grade at my friend Katie’s house when I went looking for my mother, only I found her dad in his underpants instead (my mother was at home in her bed where she belonged and not in Katie’s dad’s bed, just fyi.), but that’s the only time I can remember anything like that going on. Just watch, now we’ll find out that I’m actually a chronic sleepwalker and I’m responsible for like, I don’t know, some sort of wild debauchery which I have absolutely no recollection of.

Come to think of it, I do wake up quite frequently with bruises I cannot explain…

Sometimes I wet the bed when I’m sleeping because I’m having a dream that I got up to pee, but I didn’t. It’s way more fun waking up wet from being  Sexy Timed instead of wet from peeing the bed. I am just saying.

And sometimes I wake up after a dream about somebody, and I’m either temporarily in love with them because of what happened in the dream, OR I want to kick their ass. Like, I don’t really think Pierce Brosnan is all that, but I had a dream about him and now I can’t watch Mrs. Doubtfire anymore without blushing because Pierce and I did some very naughty bad things together. Conversely, I’ve had dreams that my husband did something wicked douchey and I woke up with a major ‘tude that I just couldn’t shake for a while and every time I look at him I want to shout “HOW COULD YOU?” only he wouldn’t know what I was talking about.

Does that ever happen to you guys?

Do you wake up feeling guilty when you have a sexy dream about someone other than the person you’re currently doing Sexy Time with? I don’t, because it’s just a dream. It’s not like you can help it, right?

I’ve even had…ahem…nocturnal orgasms. Those are the best. They require no work! You have to get up to change your underpants though. That kinda sucks but it’s a small price to pay for a gift from the orgasm gods.

So anyway, I had to Google this crap because how random is it that we were both asleep during sex because sweet Jesus what’s wrong with us? Well, it turns out that it’s a sleep disorder specialists call “sleep sex” or “sexomnia,” and it causes people to engage in sexual acts such as masturbation, fondling, intercourse, sexual assault or even rape while they’re sleeping. Use of alcohol, ahem, or other illicit drugs *eyebrow raised at Ken* seem to be a trigger for some people, as is contact with a bed partner.

According to an article I read at USA Today, almost 8% of patients at a sleep clinic reported having either initiated or taken part in Sexy Time whilst asleep. Men did it more than women (shocking!) and accounted for three-quarters of the “sexomniacs.”

Some dudes even get hurt during sexomniac episodes because they wind up humping brick walls and stuff and wake up all chafed and whatnot.

It’s kind of funny, actually.

Researchers were pretty surprised by their findings because it’s not really something folks call the doctor about, but it turns out that almost one in 12 people who suffer from sleep issues report that at least some sort of sexual behavior (masturbation, intercourse, etc.) has happened while they’re sleeping. About 11% of men and 4% of women said they had engaged in “sleep sex.”

Huh.

So we both have some sort of sleep disorder.
OR!
OR!
We should prolly not party so much maybe.

So has this happened to you guys? I’d like to know because I’ve been going around asking people about it and most of them (like the guy at the post office) look at me like I’m on Quaaludes or something. Some people admit to falling asleep during sex, but only one other person I asked said she and her husband have awakened in the middle of sex.

Also, do you wet the bed?  It’s okay to tell.  We’re all friends here.

Post from: Toy With Me

Sexomnia – Kind Of Like Sleep Walking But With Fucking

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The Dirty One

Ludacris – Splash Waterfalls
“You do it standin up, orgasms hand ‘em up”

Yeah Ludacris? It’s that easy? You’re so good that you just stand girls up and hand them an orgasm? I really wish this were true. Or, I really wish I were sleeping with Ludacris. Who, by the way, is really named Chris Bridges. I wonder what chicks call him in bed – or rather what they call him when they’re standing up and he’s handing out orgasms like M&Ms.

The “Um, What??” Ones

Kings of Leon – Sex on Fire
“Your sex is on fire”

This just doesn’t even sound appealing. Like, I want hot sex as much as the next chick, but please don’t ever set me on fire. Also, if we’re having sex and you happen to notice that I’m actually on fire, I hope you’d stop drop and roll instead of singing about it. That’s the nice thing to do when you’re bangin’ a girl, no? “Hey sweetheart, let’s stop for a second because YOU’RE ON FIRE.”

Lady Gaga – Boys Boys Boys
“You taste just like glitter mixed with rock and roll”

Is this a compliment? Does anyone out there really want to taste like glitter and rock and roll? What does rock and roll even taste like? Whiskey? Heroin? The inability to afford food while you’re struggling to make it big followed by unlimited whiskey and heroin? And what about glitter, what’s with the glitter? I can imagine that having glitter in my mouth would actually be pretty awful. I mean, it’s grainy and gross and must be impossible to swallow. How is this a compliment? Who is turned on by this! Who!

The Cliche One

LFO – Summer Girls
“I like girls that wear Abercrombie and Fitch,
I’d take her if I had one wish”

Abercrombie and Fitch was popular what, 7 years ago? When I was in high school and the cool thing was to get dropped off at the mall by your parents and hang out in Abercrombie looking at the posters of the models, trying to breathe through the thick perfume haze they have pumping through the air vents while spending eleventy hundred dollars on t-shirts with sexually explicit sayings on them. Sayings like, “Waterpolo girls do it better in the water.” I’m pretty sure this is the opposite of sexy. Who wants to sleep with underage girls wearing tight, sexually explicit t-shirts? Oh wait.

Which brings me to this next category…

The Land Your Ass In Jail One

Sublime – Date Rape
Come on baby, don’t be afraid
If it wasn’t for date rape I’d never get laid

THIS IS NEVER OKAY. Sure, call me pet names like “baby”, that’s sweet and I definitely like that. But do you know what I don’t like? The thought of you drugging me and having sex with me against my will. That’s a superb message to send out to young and impressionable boys. And you just know there’s a group of teenagers sitting in a basement somewhere, listening to this song, drinking stolen malt liquor and saying to each other, “Yeah! Let’s do that!”

And you know who they’ll target first? The spoiled girls whose parents were too stupid to advise them against buying those fucking waterpolo t-shirts.

Thanks Sublime, really.

The ldkfjfgklj One

LL Cool J – Doin It
(unintelligible female orgasm noises)

Have you heard the end of this song? The point where the lyrics just stop and the woman LL Cool J has been singing to just starts getting off. No explanation, no words, just heavy breathing and moaning. During a SONG. What if that shit comes on when you’re in the car with your parents? WHAT THEN, LL? And, as if the thought of this song coming on at a bad time wasn’t enough, imagine actually having this on your sex mix. Imagine you’re really getting into it and this girl starts getting off and being all theatrical with her orgasm and your man is more into the noises she makes than the noises you make and now you’re not even wet anymore because you’re competing with this chick for who’s hotter while getting off and you’re not just competing, you’re losing. I think it’s pretty much all downhill after you lose the sex race to two people who aren’t even fucking in the first place.

Post from: Toy With Me

What Music Taught Me About Sex

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When we last left off, I had just told my friends that I had a mission, and although I wanted desperately to make a Blues Brothers “mission from God” reference since we were in Chicago, I couldn’t. No, my mission was simple: a crystal-studded ball-gag. It had to be both of those things, not either, not or, but both. I was dubious about my ability to find such a thing at a convention called “International Mr. Leather” but my friends assured me that this would be just the place to find it.

I didn’t want it for any other reason than to say that I owned one, actually, because honestly I don’t even know what one uses such a thing for, but I like shiny things (the shinier the better!) AND I like things that make other people cringe. Together, this was sort of the best of both worlds for Your Aunt Becky. I was already picturing all the mischief and mayhem I could get up to with such a thing: I could leave it in the refrigerator for guests to happen upon and wait for them to comment. Would they ask about it? Would they simply wait until they were on their way home and say: “dude, did you SEE the crystal ball-gag in Aunt Becky’s fridge? Girl is a FREAK-A-LEAK!” I could whip it out for holiday parties just because. I could wear it while I watched television to freak out my husband. Really, there was no end of awesome things I could do with such a thing, but the more I looked around at the leather studded men, the more I realized I was probably at the wrong type of convention for such a thing.

But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try. I’m nothing if not tenacious and it seemed like I needed SOMETHING to bring home from the convention. A souvenir of sorts. And since most of the stuff for sale was geared towards men, I was determined.

We’d only gotten passes to go to the marketplace as it had been sort of a last minute decision to go to this convention and I still wasn’t sure how to dress. Next year, we were already scheming about what events to go to and what sorts of illegal drugs (drugs are BAD, kids, just LOOK at Your Aunt Becky) to take so that we could stay up all night to stay awake for the real action. No, this year was all about observation. So we strapped on our wristbands and prepared to enter a marketplace unlike any other.

What greeted us when we walked in was absolutely unlike anything beyond my wildest dreams and I was in heaven. Dildos ranging in size from normal, average penis sizes to the size of fists were arranged on one table and instantly my vagina clamped shut in pain at the very thought of insertion. Another table housed what had to be butt-plugs, but I couldn’t be sure because I’d never seen anything that looked quite like them before. Everywhere, men paraded around wearing assless leather chaps, military boots and policemen hats. We were the only women in the entire room, which was thumping with drum and bass from a display featuring “semen-like” lube. I’ve been to trade shows before, but nothing, nothing could have prepared me for this.

The pornography, I could appreciate, as gay men tend to have some pretty awesome porn, the tables of condoms—all free—I smiled at, because hey, if you’re going to go to a conference that housed thousands of horny men, that’s pretty awesome that safe sex is being promoted. No, scratch that, that’s BEYOND awesome. Safe sex is the ONLY way to go. I was taken for awhile with shirts that had an area that was sort of a dry erase board to change what you wanted to say. The handwritten examples included: “Hi, I’m a bottom,” “I’m in room 945,” and “I’m HIV negative.” I’d never considered putting that sort of thing right out there, and my respect for the gay community grew even higher than it already was (which, I should say, is already sky high).

There was a table where you could get HIV tested and sign the board saying that you knew your status (which, hi, AWESOME, you should know that stuff), and every booth seemed to sell at least a handful of leather or rubber goods. I admired some leather skirts, although they were far too big as they were for men, and desperately wished that there were a COUPLE of booths devoted to women. The rubber stuff I found interesting until we came to a rubber box where a demonstration was going on. In that box, there was a person, who seemed to be vacuum sealed inside. I had never seen such a thing and still do not understand such a thing, and, Toy With Me-ers, I wish I could explain what was going on or why it was erotic, but I can’t. Perhaps one of you knows what it is. Not a single one of us did and it STILL keeps me up at night, wondering.

Nestled in the back, as we looked high and low for my ball gag, hoping to find it nestled in with the regular ball gags and whips and chains, that’s where the HARDCORE stuff was. There was an entire booth devoted to leather straightjackets. Another one devoted to bondage beds, so that you could tie your partner up. No, not SEX swings, actual beds made of straps so that you could be completely immobilized. It was wild, but I think the wildest thing I saw was a bunny suit. I know, you’re thinking like a PLAYBOY bunny, but it’s more like a leather body bag where the occupant is entirely bound (except, I saw, the penis) inside. I’d never seen anything like it before and my mind was entirely blown.

Soon enough, we had to move on, hot in pursuit of my crystal-studded ball-gag. Table after table, I stopped, hopefully, and looked around at the nipple clamps, anal beads, enema kits, and still, nothing except for a guy in a dog gimp mask who barked at everyone. All kinds of ball gags, leather gimp masks, floggers, corsets, and not a single crystal-studded….well, anything.

Turns out that my initial summation was correct. I was, in fact, at the wrong convention for such a product. Sadly, I had to leave for the train with my booby-prize in hand. A bright pink leather flogger that I knew I’d have to hide from my children, lest they use it upon each other. I made my way home, the smell of Memorial Day hot dogs cooking in the air, as I noticed how weird everyone looked in clothes now. I kept expecting the guy mowing his lawn to be wearing an executioners mask or a leather vest with nothing else.

By the time I got home, we were all emailing back and forth making plans to go back next year. You’re all invited.

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

In Search Of A Crystal Studded Ball Gag

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The bondage conference opportunity really just fell into my lap. A friend’s husband works for a major hotel in Chicago and months ago she happened to mention that once a year, during the summer months, the entire hotel is rented out for this conference. I’ve been to this hotel before for Whiskey Fest, for weddings, and even to accept an award for Funniest Blogger (of course, my winning had to have been a fluke because OBVIOUSLY) at the same time as the President of the United States was visiting. Of course, I pretended that all of the Secret Service was there for me because it probably was. It’s not every day that a mediocre blogger wins an award, you see, so the President had to be on hand to wish me well. It’s a shame I didn’t see him, but I’m sure that he was just hiding behind all of the paparazzi, not wanting to draw the attention from me In My Moment.

Anyway, so what I’m trying to get at is that this hotel is fracking HUGE. It’s not like some rinky-dink by-the-hour hotel in a seedy neighborhood in the city. It’s a gigantic hotel right in the middle of downtown, on the river they dye green every year on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s all glass and windows and sun and light and when I stayed there for Whiskey Fest, I’m telling you that it cost me a small fortune. So trying to grasp that the entire hotel had been bought out by one group of bondage loving people was boggling my mind. I’d never imagined that a single group could buy out a hotel for MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND, which is a big ass deal in downtown Chicago because the lake is right there and just, holy shit.

This bondage conference was clearly a Big Fucking Deal and I had no IDEA what to expect.

But of course, the day couldn’t start easily for me because, well, obviously. My leather pants seemed to have been lost somewhere, and my assless chaps were at the cleaners, and my patent leather catsuit just didn’t scream out “I take public transportation.” So, what does one wear to a gay bondage conference if one is not a gay bear? I simply didn’t know.

I settled on something simple: black shirt, blue jeans. I was certainly not dressing for success, but it was also nine in the morning on Memorial Day and I was taking the train into the city. Casually, I bid my family goodbye and hurried over to the train station, determined not to miss the train. When I got to the station, I noticed a shocking number of people waving flags and standing at the side of the road with small children in wagons. A motherfucking parade, I groaned inwardly, hoping that this wouldn’t interfere with my bondage conference as all of the cars in front of me crept along at a snails’ pace.

Finally, I parked and sprinted over to the train station where I expected to see the headlights of the approaching train and a throng of passengers waiting to board. Tumbleweeds awaited me. I was trying to catch a ghost train because I am not just obnoxious, but stupid, too.

As I waited another hour for the following train, the skies opened up and torrential downpours began to soak the three of us who had been too stupid to read the (holiday) train schedule properly. With no shelter, it took about three minutes to be soaked to the bone and I was suddenly glad that I hadn’t bothered to dress up.

Two hours after that, I emerged from the train to a very wet Chicago and then onto to the bondage conference. It’s safe to say that not one of us had any real idea what to expect. I’ve been through my fair share of sex shops and I consider myself to be fairly well versed in both pornography and debauchery and open-minded in pretty much anything that goes, but what would happen at a bondage conference that rents out the entire hotel? Would I gape? Gawk? I mean, I didn’t want to walk around like an asshole with my mouth hanging open like a total jerk, because really, that’s kind of rude, but at the same time, I DID want to properly look at what was going on. It was going to be a fine line to walk, especially since we were going to probably be three of the only women in attendance.

The first thing we noticed was that there was a gigantic sign announcing that the hotel was closed. All of the restaurants, bars, all of the things that would normally be doing a bustling business were shut down entirely, which was completely discomfiting and a sign of the awesomeness to come. Immediately following that was a sign announcing that all of the restrooms were now unisex, which was another awesome sign, because how often do you see something like that?

Our first interesting person sighting was a man dressed entirely in criss-crossed leather assless chaps, his ball-bag covered, but only barely, by a teeny pouch in the front. There were all kinds of silver studs up and down the criss cross leather straps, which bisected his body in the front as well, making him look like the world’s most badly protected biker because he was almost completely naked. Hardcore, yet kind of sexy. Perched atop his head was a leather policeman’s hat, which I immediately began to covet.

The three of us, in an effort not to stare, turned bright red, not because we really cared about what he was wearing, but because we knew that for the first ten or so minutes, it would be culture shock. Then it would be fine, again, something I remembered from my operating room days as a nurse. It’s weird to see an open body cavity until it’s just normal again.

I took my friends aside as we got our tickets and informed them that I had a mission and needed their help. I needed a crystal-studded ball gag. Would I find it? (find out next week)

Photo Source

Post from: Toy With Me

What Does A Girl Wear To A Gay Bondage Conference?

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They’re fine, I’m fine, we’re just not the same. It’s that old Sesame Street song, “One of these things is not like the other,” or some shit. I have to believe that somewhere, lurking in the shadows and furtively drinking whiskey from sippy cuppies at play dates, there has to be some other like-minded mommies and daddies that I could probably befriend, but they can’t advertise themselves anymore than I can. Instead, I try my best to fit in for the sake of my kids while remembering that not everyone peppers their vocabulary with “motherfucker.” It’s not easy.

Suburbanites Are Zombies
Most of the problem is that I have a sneaking suspicion that suburbanites are zombies in disguise. That’s probably faulty logic because I’m a suburbanite and I can barely choke down chicken, let alone brains, but it’s just that it’s so DULL out here. When the biggest accomplishment we can discuss is what my kid did at school, you know life has gotten L-A-M-E spells “motherfucking pathetic.” But that’s what suburbanites DO. We putter around our lawns (you should SEE my rose garden. No seriously, it’s amazing) and we fantasize about new siding for our house (yellow is NOT a good color for a house, let me TELL you from personal experience) and then we go to bed to wake up to do it all over again. You say calm, I say ZOMBIES.

I used to have a life, I promise you, and I fully intend to get it back because this rose garden shit may be kind of awesome (I am a wicked gardener), but so are crystal-studded ball gags and sex swings. Which is why I have developed a Master Plan. It’s time for a massive reinvention.

Gay Men And Leather
Starting with a convention that Your Aunt Becky is going to this weekend. A convention in the city composed of primarily gay men in my fair city (of Chicago) where my suburban counterparts would be flabbergasted by what goes on. Hell, I don’t even know what’s going to go on, but I do know that it will be full of the awesome. There will be a full leather market, lots of my gays, and oodles of debaucerous behavior that I can only dream of. I would SO bring you all if I could because OBVIOUSLY this is going to be beyond full of The Awesome.

The Wheels On The Bus Go Round And Round
I realize that as parents we sort of have to split ourselves in two pieces to retain part of ourselves and be an effective parent at the same time. I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t born to love The Wiggles and Dora the motherfucking Explorer, but I know that being all emo about it isn’t really worth it either. I think kids SHOULD be allowed to love that sort of stuff because they’re kids, and even though it sort of makes me want to stab an ice pick into my ear, it’s not all about me. I’m not a hipster parent and I can sing a MEAN version of Wheels on the Bus for four or five hours, but I can also get down (get down) to some of the raunchiest of the raunch on the next breath (when my kids are, of course, safely out of earshot. I don’t need to scar them any more than I already do by being, well, me).

Hey, I Sacrificed My Crotch
I just couldn’t possibly go through my life as one or the other: Aunt Becky OR Mom because I’m both at the same time. I’m less conflicted about it than I used to be and it’s certainly not a perfect union of the two halves because clearly, I’ve been in Mom mode for too long. It’s time to resurrect Aunt Becky from the ashes and bring her really back. Because if going away for a couple of days on my cruise has taught me anything at all, it’s this: I can be a better parent when I have the chance to really and truly get away. It certainly won’t always be possible because how often do I get a chance to go to this kind of convention? (answer: not NEARLY often enough). But when the opportunity presents itself, I will move heaven and earth to do it. My kids are worth it, and more importantly, so am I. I sacrificed my crotchal region, my body, and almost all of my time for them for so long that it’s time for me to take some of that back.

The zombies in suburbia (not the two friends I have in town, mind you) probably won’t get why would be important, and I wouldn’t tell them anyway, mostly because I don’t talk to them, because it would blow their minds. Actually, I have a feeling this might blow MY mind a little, which is good. My mind could use a little blowing these days. It’s been far too quiet for far too long.

So this is Your Aunt Becky, trying to make some motherfucking lemonade from some motherfucking lemons. I have a feeling it’s going to taste FABULOUS. Especially if I add some vodka.

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Sex In The Suburbs

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