Via Twitter, I had encountered this interview (1) concerned Ey’Van. She’s an African-American female blogger being interviewed about her blog which intertwines her perspectives on sexuality, sensuality, and intimacy (among other things). And as per usual, I found myself wondering, “Wow. That sort of thing must be nice. Getting laid and having a sexy husband and all.” For some reason, I’m often pulled into this mentality that those who are having sex are somehow infinitely wiser, happier and just more than me. 

Maybe this is because the conversation revolving around sex almost always focuses on the Other, versus the Self. Whenever I wander into B&N, looking at the sexuality section, it’s always about positions between two people, or how to create intimacy between two people. I haven’t found a book as of yet that discusses the intimacy with the Self that masturbating can (and does) create. 

Masturbating is probably one of the few things I really enjoy about myself because I’ve been doing it since elementary school, and watching porn since I was fourteen. I enjoy looking up new techniques, new positions and creating better orgasms for myself. Whenever I meet girls who don’t enjoy sex or have a hard time achieving orgasms, I want to help them because sex with yourself should be fun and ranked as a top priority (assuming you’re not asexual). 

The conversation of sexuality definitely needs to be inclusive, not just limited to the few who have regular access to sex. For a long time I used to feel that I didn’t need to learn anything about sex because I wasn’t having any and didn’t think it was a valuable use of my time. But even so, learning about protection, reproductive health and sexuality can easily empower a person (particularly a woman) and dispel a lot of stereotypes and false assumptions. This is even more true if you don’t prescribe to heterosexual sex, and prefer sex with people of your own gender. Same-sex sexuality is rarely discussed – if ever – and to steer the direction to the LGBT community would be excellent in clearing up a lot of the misconceptions. 

So, what are some benefits to masturbation? (2)

Health Wise:

1. Helps prevent cervical infections and helps relieve urinary tract infections because the cervix opens up which increases friendly bacteria, and allows more fluid to move into the vagina. The fluid lubricates the vagina, while flushing out bacterial organisms. 

2. Associated with improved cardiovascular health and lower risk of type-2 diabetes, because studies revealed that more orgasms and greater satisfaction with sex – without or with a partner – showed greater resistance to coronary heart disease and type-2 diabetes.

3. Helps work against insomnia naturally, through hormonal and tension release because the “feel good” hormone knows as Dopamine, is rises with a sexual climax. Afterward, oxytocin and endorphins are released helping you to sleep. 

4. Increases pelvic floor strength (“The pelvic floor makes up a significant piece of your body’s core, the essence of your very being. The foundation for all movement, balance, stability and flexibility begins in the pelvis” – 3). 

Psychological and Emotional Wise:

1. Improves our mood as it helps relieve out depressive emotions with mood booster hormones, Dopamine and Epinephrine. 

2. Relieves stress because you’re taking the time to take care of your body, amidst the stresses of everyday life. 

3. Strengthens our relationship to ourselves! 

4. Strengths sexual relationship with partner.

So the benefits of masturbating can help keep us both sane and healthy! The discussion of sex definitely needs to start centering around the Self, versus sex with another person because not everyone is having sex, nor is everyone interested in doing it with another person. The discourse about sex also needs to include not just heterosexuals, but people from all walks of life who don’t have a lot of resources available to them to understand their own sexual desires. 

Post from: Toy With Me

Virgin Sexuality

Post from: Toy With Me

The Art of Seduction 101

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

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

But.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everybody sing!

Where has all the sex gone?

Post from: Toy With Me

Where Has All The Sex Gone?

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

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

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

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

(I’ve used the glitter all up)(duh)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Post from: Toy With Me

My Ass Deserves New Lingerie

I remember watching one of those news magazine shows shortly after my older son was born that cited modern-day couples claimed to have sex 3+ times per week.

I immediately phoned my sister-in-law who was on her third child. “Is it true?” I asked. I was dumbfounded and seriously hoping I wasn’t abnormal, let alone underachieving. God forbid underachieving. “Do you guys have sex that frequently?” She laughed. She assured me it wasn’t even close.

Liars! I thought of those assholes whom actually responded to the survey. What was the saying? Something like: One man’s boner is another man’s blowjob? Phhhttttt. Nonetheless, I felt I was sorely less-than-mediocre. As a wife. As a woman. As a fucking human being.

But forward to current day, and the statistics reveal a different scenario. (Look, I get that you can manipulate information to say basically anything you want it to. I took a graduate course in statistics and have an MBA. What do you think they teach us in those marketing courses? To manipulate data, make the client happy, and thus, keep the client paying us. That doesn’t mean I can’t still be aghast.) On one site:

“50% of women find sex either depressing, embarrassing or a hassle”

Depressing? A hassle? Really? They’re not doing it right.

Embarrassing? Bare-assing, hopefully. But embarrassing? Disengage your brain and engage your loins. I don’t know a single woman who doesn’t have some body issue, and plenty of men do, too. But seriously, if you managed to get yourself naked with someone, it’s time to let that shit go. This is the perfect time to be thinking with the “little head” and the “pink parts.” And I might recommend a little liquid courage if it helps, just don’t overdo it, or it really could be embarrassing.

Another site tauts that:

“41% of women prefer sleep over sex”

Look. Ladies. (Dudes, you can thank me later in whatever way you deem appropriate, as long as it involves tongue.) You have the rest of your life to sleep, and soon enough you’ll be drifting off in your rocker anyway. If it’s the kids that are keeping you awake, train the dog to take care of them better. Don’t have a dog? What are you waiting for? (If you need a breed recommendation, I’d suggest the same breed as the Family Guy dog.) As I was saying… Ladies, fuck sleep and jump on your man.

Sleep is over-rated. Besides, getting the high hard one and knocking out an O induces: The. Best. Sleep. Ever. Also the side benefits (did you know there were benefits over and above the O?) are over-the-top amazing. You’ve heard of the Runner’s High, right? Well, orgasms induce the same endorphins. I call it the Fucker’s High. A thing that induces endorphins and burns calories – sounds like a fantasy, right?

I went in search of determining how many calories one could burn having sex. According to one website, “On average you can burn 1000 calories having an orgasm.” I call bullshit. If that were the case, there’d be the Olympic O-team. And I’d be a gold medalist. As I am capable of having six-plus orgasms in an hour (well, there was that one time … at band camp), I’d look anorexic if that were true. And trust me. I do not look anorexic. I think the estimate of 60-100 calories burned per orgasm is closer to the truth. My guess? Whoever made the 1000 calories-per-orgasm claim was a man praying on a woman’s insecurities and looking to get lucky. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Well, the looking to get lucky part, anyway. Praying on a woman’s insecurities? Reprehensible.

But wait. There’s more. “In addition to their … pain-relieving effect, endorphins are thought to be involved in controlling the body’s response to stress, regulating contractions of the intestinal wall (I think that means they help you be a regular pooper), and determining mood.”

Do you seriously know anyone who has been capable of holding anger and resentment through an orgasm? They don’t call it “make-up sex” for nothing. Finish an O, and I’m pretty sure most people are hard-pressed to remember why they were angry in the first place. And if they can remember, they realize the emotion that stirred the anger in the first place pales in comparison – it’s laughable even – to the post-coital contentment.

I’m no chemist. In fact, people close to me might even laugh at the idea that I have any knowledge of hard science whatsoever. But I love me some endorphins. Endorphins are related to morphine. Only legal. And free. Top that!

Orgasms also produce oxytocin: the anti-depression, love drug. Savor this little nugget, Ladies. According to Daniel G. Amen, MD, author of “Sex on the Brain,” oxytocin may be “why men are more likely to talk and feel emotionally connected after sex.”

The number of women who claim their men are emotionally stunted is unbelievable. The number of men who claim their women aren’t interested in sex is astounding. I’m no Albert Einstein when it comes to mathematical equations, but how about you trade an O for some oxytocin, ladies? Seems like everyone’d be happy then. Best part of the equation? Play it right, it doesn’t really take that long. 20 minutes? 30 if you’re less efficient. I’ve stood in line at Starbucks longer than that. And trust me, the Fucker’s High is better than a quad Americano.

Yadda yadda yadda. What’s my point, right?

My point is this. It’s true what they say that you don’t know what you’re missing til it’s gone (although it’s really a load of crap, actually, because it’s not actually missing until it’s gone, but W/E). I think what they mean is that you don’t appreciate the good stuff – you know, like a job. Or money. Or a mind-blowing non-self-induced orgasm — until the good stuff is no longer available to you. I’m rather fond of my toys, but nothing replaces the thrill of waiting in anticipation while someone gets to your spots just right. You can give yourself an orgasm. You can buy products that give you an orgasm. But, to my knowledge, no one has replicated the intimacy that comes from a kiss. And you can’t snuggle up with a toy after. Of course, it doesn’t leave a wet spot, either.

My advice? Got a warm body? Just do it.

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Post from: Toy With Me

When It Comes To Sex. Just Do It.

You know what I’ve never been good at, Toy with Mes?

Flirting.

I…I don’t get it.  I know this may come as a surprise to you, because most people think I am flirty and assertive and sexually powerful, but in actuality flirting eludes me. I mean, what am I supposed to do?  Am I supposed to do all that crap Cosmo would have me believe is the way to get a man’s attention–bat my eyelashes, show a little leg, flip my hair, tell people I’m not wearing any underwear?  WHAT?

I’m completely clueless and I’ve always been so jealous of people who are good at flirting.

In my college years, when I’d go out with my friend Suzi, she always had tons of guys buying her drinks and asking her to dance.  They seemed to gravitate toward her, and nobody ever seemed to notice me.  The wallflower. I always got stuck talking to the “wing man” while Suzi was guzzling down tons of free booze and collecting phone numbers on napkins she’d eventually use to blot her lipstick and throw in the ladies room trash can. “Thanks for the beer, sucka!” she’s say as she tossed it.

**I** wanted to do that!  I wanted to eat men like air!

I always tried not to put out the “fuck off and die” vibe I must have been broadcasting, but there’s still something missing and it’s taken me years to figure out that the reason why dudes didn’t talk to me at bars was because I didn’t flirt with them. In fact, I didn’t talk much at all because what the fuck do you say? “Gee it’s really crowded in here tonight” sounds like a totally lame thing to say, but that’s all I got.

My friend Stacy is brilliant at flirting.  She can’t help herself and it’s just a part of her being.  She flirts with everyone–men and women alike.   She’s even had me a little moist in my down belows on several occasions, just by looking at me.  She has this way about her and she makes such great eye contact when she’s talking to you, she just seems to say “I’m gonna fuck ya and it’s gonna be good” even when she’s doing something as simple as giving driving directions.

I’d kill for just a little bit of what’s she’s got going on.

All my flirting disappointments happened back in the day before anyone had email, let alone anything like a dating site membership.  Let me tell you: this isn’t a bad thing! I think I’d be even worse at flirting online!  I mean, my big “gee it sure is crowded in here” line is totally useless on the Interwebz!  Thank goodness I found a sucker I’m married because I’d be so screwed, you guys.  Can you picture me on like, some dating site, and being all “um…so… you wanna buy my panties?”

Yeah.

CLUELESS.

And no matter how hard I try to be cute and flirty, I just lack the flirting gene.

Looking back, my grandmother was a marvelous flirt.  She had the giggle and the eyelash thing down, baby!  I wish I had known to take notes because my mother is not a flirt at all.  In fact, she is the anti-flirt.  My cluelessness is my mother’s fault, obviously.  Isn’t she supposed to set the example or pass along the genes here?  And now, because I don’t know how to flirt, I won’t be able to teach my daughters how to flirt, and now my grandchildren won’t be any good at it either and look what you’ve done mother! You’ve doomed generations of your granddaughters to forever sit at bars, entertaining the “wing man,” buying her own drinks, and counting down the minutes till last call.

As much as I like to blame my mother for everything, upon investigation, maybe it’s not really her fault after all.  It could just be a cultural thing. According to a global study of online flirting conducted by Badoo.com, a social networking site that has over 80 million users in 240 countries, speaking 18 different languages, I’m not alone.  As it turns out, we American ladies are pretty craptacular flirters!

We need to take some lessons from our Spanish friends who are more than two times as likely than Americans to initiate flirting with men.  This comes from Badoo’s analysis of 90 million contacts made on their site and 90 million contacts can’t be wrong, Toy with Mes!!  Those Spanish chicks really know what they’re doing as they top Badoo’s “World Flirtation League” chart.  Next are the Polish ladies (which I never would have guessed), then Dominican Republic, followed by Italy and Argentina.

It’s not too surprising that the women in Latin countries take up eight of the top ten places.  I mean, they don’t say “hot blooded Latina” for nothing!  They earned that reputation!

Only very slightly less flirtatious than Americans are the Ecuadorians. The average American lady making the first move with 0.63 guys a month, compared to 0.62 by an Ecuadorian.

Why do we suck so hardcore, Americans?  What the hell is wrong with us?  I’m really into blaming people for stuff today, so I totally blame Disney for this one.  I think we all grew up watching princess movies and sort of waiting for our prince to come instead of going out and grabbing the bull by his horn!

And those sassy Canadian ladies come in at ninth place! At least they made the top 10!  Well done, Canada! It must be the cold weather and maple syrup, eh?

Below is a chart of Badoo’s findings that I ganked from sacbee.com.  Just so you know what the hell you’re looking at, the “score” refers to the number of “woman initiated contacts” per month accomplished by the average female in that country.  So if Canada has a score of 0.96, it means that the average Canadian chick makes 0.96 first moves with men per month.  I’m still confused as to what all that means, but you know.  My tiny girl brain does not comprehend numbers and math so maybe that’s just me.

At least I made it sound like I knew what I was talking about, right?  That’s all the matters.

Anyway,

WORLD FLIRTATION LEAGUE CHART

So yes. I am an American and I have the Anti-flirt gene and like any good American, I’m going to blame Disney and my mother for this. And the terrorists, of course.

How many of you lady Toy with Mes are flirtatious types, and how many are challenged like myself? What about you boys? Are you a first move maker or do you like to sit back and let the ladies come to you? And, perhaps most importantly, is what you’re doing working, or is it failing miserably?

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Post from: Toy With Me

Americans Suck At Flirting

Don’t you guys love it when somebody is all “Oh. My. God!  I have to tell you about the crazy dream I had last night!” and you’re all like “WAIT! Don’t say another word!  I’m going to go make some popcorn!  I want to thoroughly enjoy this experience! Don’t spare a single detail!”

No?

Me neither.

In fact, when somebody tries to tell me about a dream they had, I head for the hills.  I’d rather get a gynecological exam from my dad (did the thought of getting a gyno exam from your dad just give you massive douche chills because I’m still convulsing over here) than sit and listen to somebody’s dream. I mean, real life is bizarre and confusing and hard to understand, never mind the dream world. Am I supposed to help you figure that shit out too?

BUT if it’s a SEX dream, and then I really am like “Hold on!  Let me get my popcorn first!” because I luuuurrrrrrve a good sex dream don’t you?  Even when they’re not my own, I still find them fun. I don’t want to hear how you could fly in the sky on the back of your pet fish who is also your uncle in your dream UNLESS you end up fucking it. Then, I’m interested.

As for me, I’ve had some great ones, I must admit. One of my favorites and funniest and most bizarre happened when I was pregnant. I had watched a movie with my daughter earlier in the day.  That night, I had a dream about doing Sexy Time with Prince Derek from Barbie and the Twelve Dancing Princesses.  Now, I realize that Prince Derek is a cartoon/Barbie doll, but I couldn’t help it!  It was the pregnancy hormones plus he had a lot of really pretty shoes.

Clearly, Prince Derek is a very dirty shoe fetish boy, but that doesn’t bother me one bit.  I’ll try shoes on for him all the live long day if he lets me keep a pair or two.  I think it makes him kinda sexy.  You felt a stirring in your netherbelows when you saw that picture of him, I know you did.  It’s okay.  You’re okay.  This is normal, especially considering that in the movie there was a lot of sexual tension between Prince Derek and all those dancing princesses.  Talk about a reverse gang bang!

I dare say every guy would like to be Prince Derek.  All he does is roll up with his bag of shoes and suddenly there are twelve beautiful virgins just lining up for a chance to get on his good side.  It’s like walking into a strip club with an 8-ball of coke!  Even if you’re not into strippers and blow, isn’t there some middle eastern religion that promises dudes will get 12 beautiful virgins in heaven and so they do horrendous and crazy things to get it?

I rest my case.

Prince Derek is a pimp who knows the way to a lady’s heart and I stand by my dream to this day. I’ll even wear the shoes while I treat him like the nobleman he is.

I’ve also had several recurring dreams about Pierce Brosnan, who, in real life, I find to be kind of dorky.  Like, I think he thinks he’s sexy and it shows in his eyes.  He’s got that squinty look to him like “I’m totally making Sexy Face right now, look at me!  It’s Blue Steel, dude!”

See?

That’s kind of nerdy, right?

But in my dreams, that Pierce Brosnan is one dirty motherfucker and I’ve mounted him like the stallion he thinks he is on many occasions.  I’ve even had wet dreams about him.

But my most favorite sex dream is not overtly about sex at all: it’s about driving.

In this dream, I am driving the shit out of some fabulous little sports car. The key is that it has a manual transmission.  I’m speeding up and down and all over the place and I’m loving every minute of it, baby!  I drive like the wind in my dreams!  I’m rowing the gears and double-clutching and heel-toe rev-matching and the tires are squealing and the exhaust is blaring.

I have this driving dream about once a month, so of course I had to look it up.  After consulting many different dream books, they all seem to agree that metaphorically, dreaming about driving a car is analogous to sex and sexual performance.  Clearly, this means I’m a wildcat in the sack, or at least I’d like to be.

Whatever it means, you bet your fine little Toy with Me asses that my next car will have a stick shift, and it will feel right at home gripped tightly in my right hand. I just have to get a little more confidence first. You know, so I don’t totally lose my shit if I have to (GASP) stop on a hill.

But that’s enough about my silly sex dreams.  Tell me about yours, dear readers.  Do you have them?  Do you have the same ones over and over again? What’s your favorite?  Do you wake up at tad bit, ahem, moist after these dreams? Do you think it’s normal for a 36 year-old woman to be having dripping wet dreams about Barbie princes with shoe fetishes?

C’mon. Fess up. I’ll go make some popcorn!

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Post from: Toy With Me

Let Me Tell You About My Sex Dreams

Dear Gay/Bi/Curious Teenage Prankster Who Is Being Bullied By Bullshit Bullies,

Chances are, you don’t know me from a hole in the ground. In fact, a hole in the ground may look more familiar than I do, but I am Your Aunt Becky, and while we may not actually be related by blood, I have adopted you along with the rest of the Internet. It’s okay. Don’t worry. When I show up to your house for some family gathering and get rowdy and drunk and sing God Save The Queen, I’ll distract your parents so you can sneak some rum into your eggnog, okay?

Anyway, I hate to bother you with a boring letter since you kids like your text messages but what I have to say is important and I hope that you listen to it. Or parts of it. Tune out what doesn’t matter to you, but please, listen to at least a little bit of it. I may not be particularly smart, but I have lived about twenty different lives, so I’ve picked up some insight along the way.

Your teenage years are not the best years of your life.

What seems like a permanent and dire situation now, the things that make you hurt and ache inside, those things will stay with you, but the hurts and the aches, those subside over time. These are the things that will fortify you. They will strengthen you and they will make you a better person. Eventually.

I know that it seems like there is no other way out, believe me, I’ve felt that way before too. I’m willing to bet that most of the people who are reading this column right now have felt this way at some point as well. Maybe it’s not the same. Maybe we cannot understand precisely how you feel because we are not you. But even when things seem so bleak and so empty, even when all that you feel is a deep chasm of pain, it will pass. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but it will pass.

Things will get better.

Physically, my heart hurts when I see statistics like sexual minority youth are bullied two to three times more than heterosexual youths. In our lifetime, (yes, I am using the royal “our” because I am rightly assuming that you will be around to make fun of my obsession with bacon for a good long while) I would be willing to bet that this number will drop as bullying is taken more seriously by schools and parents alike. Certainly, that does not help you right at this very moment, as you are hurting from the devastating effects of verbal, emotional and even perhaps physical abuse, I know that. Let every unkind word, every insult, every horrible slur thrown at you strengthen your resolve to help the next generation.

You know that you must be part of the change the next generation of children who will grow up to be in your shoes some day. You can and you will.

These are not the best years of your life.

The best years of your life are yet to come. The years ahead of you will be long and they will be beautiful and they will be brimming with love. The suffering that you have withstood at the hands of cruel bullies and those who do not understand you will leave the sorts of scars that may never be visible to anyone but those who know you best. Those silent scars will only serve to help you as you can turn all of your pain and channel it into something greater, something positive. There is a whole world out there beyond your high school, beyond your small-minded town who will welcome you with wide arms, who will love you as you are, and who will accept you simply for being you.

It’s hard to remember all of this, I know, because even now, at age thirty, my high school years winking merrily in my rearview mirror, I struggle to remind myself that it’s not the end of things when I have a bad day. I have to take a breath and remind myself that it’s not going to break me when I’m bullied by someone. The days when I get harassed simply for being me aren’t bad days at all; because they make me stronger. Sometimes, I have to take a step back from the situation, let all of that hatred flung in my face wash over me and and allow it to strengthen my resolve to do more good.

These horrible bleak days are going to make the rest of your life that much better.

I want you to know that somewhere, Your anonymous Aunt Becky is rooting for you, kid, and she loves you dearly. You’ll learn that the world is a good place. High school may not always be, but the world is. I’m sorry that things have to be so hard for you and trust me, if I could take on those bullies, I would do it in a second (don’t doubt me on this). I have a loyal Prankster Army who’d back me up. Bullies are bullshit. No, let me rephrase that: bullies are FUCKING bullshit, and you don’t deserve the suffering they’re causing you.

There’s a big world out here, kid, and we can’t wait to meet you. Please remember that high school is temporary and the rest of your life, well, it’s wide open. We can’t wait to see what you’re going to do with it.

Please, do not give up hope. There is always hope.

If you’d like to talk to someone from the Trevor Project, here is the Phone Number: 866-4-U-TREVOR

And, loves, you know where to find me.

Much Love,
Your Aunt Becky

——

What would you say to one of the teens who are being harassed? What can we do to stop this horrible harassment?

Post from: Toy With Me

A Letter To My Gay Friends

Possibly related goodness:

1. With Enemies Like This, Who Needs Friends?

Note: This is part two of a discussion about threesomes. In Part one, Ken’s wife Crissy shares her thoughts on having a MMF threesome.

———–

So a little while ago, I confessed in the comments of my wife’s post about FFM threesomes:

“for whatever reason, i’d actually rather have a MMF than a FFM.
bonus for you! me and my tag teammate’ll work you over real good.”

Now, I know very well that MOST male fantasies involving more than two participants revolve around the FFM variety: that is, two females, one male. Ask just about any guy out there what their #1 wish would be, and you’ll probably get the “two chicks at once” answer. A guaranteed top three rank for sure. Hell, it’s in MY top three.

So when I commented what I did, I knew it would come as a bit of a surprise to some. I knew I was going against the status quo.  I also knew I was being honest.

As it turned out, that day, at lunch, one of my coworkers said, “I read your comment. I thought it was kind of weird.”

“Weird?” I asked. “How so?”

“Well you said you’d actually PREFER it to the FFM version.”

Now, he was totally 100% on board with the “two chicks at once” version, but the inverse was a lot less palatable.  That I’d actually RATHER partner up with a dude to take on my luscious wife was beyond his understanding.

When I dug at him for the reason, he confessed that it was because he couldn’t watch his wife fuck another man.  At that point, one of my other coworkers chimed in and said, “Don’t worry, Ken–I’ve got your back.  Well, actually, your wife’s back.”

Thank god for good friends!

One of the replies (TWM’s, actually) to my original comment offered up the idea that more men probably share the same fantasy, but are dissuaded from admitting it due to the fear of it being perceived as a (at least partially) homosexual act.

So, seeing as MOST men seem to have little to no trouble with introducing another female to the mix (and actually will proudly admit to such), but there are multiple stigmas attached to adding another male, I decided to compare the two.  I wanted to really get at this issue of why, for most men, is FFM > MMF?

Typical/actual responses:

• MMF — There’s another dude fucking the same girl as me. What if that dude is just a better fucker than I am?  What if the girl likes him better?
• FFM – One chick is great. Two chicks is more than twice as good. Who cares if one is hotter than the other?  I’ll love fucking them both.
• MMF – Hey, there’s two dicks in the room. They might even touch each other, or there may be some other kind of guy-guy contact. That’s gay!
• FFM – Two chicks getting it on is just plain hot. Lesbian or not, my dick is hard.
• MMF – If the female is “my girl” then she’s cheating on me! That makes her a whore.  And that’s a bad thing.
• FFM – That motherfucker is one lucky bastard.  God I envy him!

Same scenario, different ratios–very different feelings.

WHY?  *rubs chin*

The FFM is obviously male-centric. If there’s any dick action going on, you know whose it’s going to be. There is one object of worship: the singular penis in the room.  Sounds great, no?  But practically speaking, this is the biggest issue for the FFM situation.  You really can’t fuck two things at the same time with one cock.  Sure, you can switch it up a lot, but it’s still only in one place at one time. If you want multiple penetrations you’re going to have to use something else (dildo, bedpost, finger, vibrator, eggplant, toe, etc).  When the only cock in the room blows its load, that’s it for a little while.

In the MMF case, it’s the other way around: the woman is now the commodity which is in short supply. She is the object to be worshipped and attended to, totally unique in her abilities and characteristics.

(I recognize that I am leaving out the other permutations of MMF coupling–those which involve direct male/male contact.  This in no way treats them as less valid or less satisfying forms, but was done intentionally to sidestep the “homosexual” aspect which I believe clouds the issue of a direct comparison between MMF and FFM.  There seems to be NO evidence to suggest female homosexuality is any kind of deterrent to the FFM instance, in direct contrast to those objections raised over MMF.  I believe it is possible to be completely heterosexual and still engage in threesomes of either flavor.)

Like most human beings, I like to be worshiped.  It makes you feel special, right?  What’s not to like.  The thing is, that’s not the BIGGEST turn on for me.  What really gets me going is the EFFECT I have on my wife.  I want to worship HER, to see how, with my art and craft and strength, I make HER wriggle and squirm and moan.  It’s for exactly this reason that while a playthrough helps let off steam and retain harmony in the pack, it’s no replacement for those times that I really have my wife begging for it.  THAT’S the good stuff… When she’s so turned on she can’t see straight or form coherent sentences. Giggity giggity!

For the same reason, the idea of double-teaming a woman has an incredibly naughty allure.  I believe it’s actually MORE naughty and taboo than the FFM case, which has really become quite socially acceptable and mundane (see: homophobia). It’s all about her!

After all, the woman in an MMF threesome is ipso facto more girl than one guy can handle. Unlike FFM, with MMF there are MULTIPLE cocks, and MULTIPLE holes.  More opportunity to give it and take it.  Suddenly a new option “opens up”: double penetration. Not “simulated” DP… we’re talking about the real deal. Lots of motion, lots of friction, different partners, different cocks, different rhythms.   A whole new world of combinations (DP, DAP, DPP, oral/vag, oral/anal) becomes possible.  The center wants attention.  She wants affection.  She wants to be fucked senseless. The men in the room are tools–sexual tools that exist only for her masturbatory pleasure.  They have been objectified into dicks and fingers and mouths–inanimate objects that serve only one purpose: to get her off.  She is a sex-starved, take-everything-you-can-dish-out woman–begging for it all, begging for release–and she can’t get enough of it.

What is that but the very definition of sluttiness (and my definition of epically fucking hot)?

FFM threesome?  Fun, for sure.  Exciting too!

MMF threesome?  Now that’s a thing which promises to unleash the immense latent female sexual power and capacity that must otherwise be kept deep and held secret for fear of pejorative judgments and social stigma.

To behold that bottomless pool of raw dripping lust, exposed and revealed, and to recklessly throw one’s self into it, is, to me, the ultimate form of worship and intimacy.

So here’s the part where I ask the TWMs (particularly you men) to chime in with their own thoughts/experiences/reactions/criticisms/accolades.  GO!

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

Why I Want A Threesome With My Wife

Possibly related goodness:

1. My Husband Wants To Have A Threesome
2. The Weirdest Threesome Ever

You know what my husband wants?

A threesome.

I know, I know, everyone’s husband wants a threesome, but the kind of threesome my husband wants does not involve me and another chick.

No, no, Toy with Mes.  He wants it to be with…

Wait for it…

A dog!

I am completely not serious.

No. He wants it to be with another man (mostly because he’s not a dog person).

Up until last week, I had no idea that this is kind of unusual. Apparently it is! Last week someone suggested that perhaps a lot of guys aren’t admitting this is a fantasy of theirs for fear of sounding gay.  I would explain his feelings on the subject to you, but I’m going to save it for him to explain.  Instead, I’m going to share my thoughts on the subject because I am infinitely more interesting than he is.

In theory, this threesome thing sounds like a good idea for a lot of reasons:

• For one, sometimes in a relationship, that new relationship buzz wears off and you kind of get settled into things and you don’t get that whole super exciting new guy sex feeling anymore.  People try to get that back through role play and going to bars and pretending to pick each other up, but this is a new twist on that.  This is a way to get that new guy sex–without cheating!  HUH!  In my case, it’s even encouraged! Double HUH.  Sign me up!
• If one penis is good, two must be better, right?  I’ve taken inventory and I can definitely accommodate more than one guest at the hotel at once.
• Sometimes I get distracted while doing the sexy time.  More people = more stuff going on = more stuff to keep me focused on the task at hand(s).
• Group sex.  It just sounds naughty and fun!
• As it happens, I’ve already got the perfect person all picked out for us.  It’s my husband’s friend who plays the drums in his garage band.  Readers of my personal blog know exactly who I’m talking about and trust me you guys–he’s fucking hotter than Hades in August. In fact, many of my readers would gladly throw down for a chance at him.  He’s that strong, blue collar type with the muscles and the perfect hairless chest and the arms and the tanned skin and…oh dear.  I’m working myself into a kerfuffle again.

The problem is that nothing is black and white.  As many reasons as I can think of to get “double teamed,” I can think of an equal number NOT to go through with it…

• First, I worry about the emotional implications such an act would have on my relationship with Dreamy Drummer Boy.  I think I’ve told you guys before that I’ve never been able to separate love and sex, and so to have this kind of encounter with my husband’s BFF–who I’ve known for 14 years now and love already–would probably wreak havoc on my emotional life.  That’s not to mention the awkwardness on band practice nights.
• He’s married-ish to a psychotic alcoholic who could totally kick my ass and would love to have a reason to.
• DDB is physically terrified of me.  If I even so much as reach for him to brush something off his shoulder, he winces and shrinks away like I’m made of flaming cat shit.  I’m serious.  He about yells “GAH!” if I even get within foot of him.  His hands fly out to his sides like he’s trying not to get any of me on him.
• Birth control!  Unlike hubby, DDB has not had the pleasure of having a vasectomy.

It’s very sad because I think I/we could show him a pretty good time.  You know if I had the balls to actually go through with it, but I don’t think I could.  I can talk a good game and fantasize about being the type of woman who has a wild sex life like that, but if actually faced with the moment, I’m not so sure.

So then I got to thinking that it just can’t be with someone I already know and trust and will undoubtedly see again.  Perhaps a stranger instead of dreamy drummer boy.  But then there’s no free lunch there either!

• What happens when I develop feelings for New Guy.  That could be really messy.
• STDs!
• What if my husband, for all his fantasizing, discovers he does not like it and gets jealous or hurt?  I cannot risk damaging our marriage and relationship for one evening of woo-hoo.
• And what happens after everyone cums? How awkward is that? Does everyone just sort of get up, put their clothes back on and walk away? I mean, the guy doesn’t sleep over, right, because if they do, we’re going to need a bigger bed because a Queen size is just not big enough for three adults and I really need my sleep.
• It’s a lot of work constantly screening and picking up strangers.  As it stands I don’t have time to put my laundry away.

And then my mind moves away from practical, emotional concerns toward the ridiculous.

• Knowing me, I’d either run giggling into the bathroom as soon as my panties came off, leaving them standing there, quite literally with their dicks in their hands, OR I’d be totally mortified as soon as people started touching me and like, freak out.  It’s bad enough when I leave my husband with blue balls.  This is TWICE as bad.
• If by some miracle I actually got past the initial awkwardness, I’d probably play party hostess and make sure everyone is having a good time and check to see if anyone needs anything and if anyone is feeling left out and so on.  I would be my typical self and that means I’d be overly concerned with everyone else’s welfare–especially the “honored guest.”
• The epic nervousness means I would also be distracted by horrifying thoughts like, “OMG!  What if I pee?” or “Did I shave well enough?”
• What if I try to do some sort of fancy maneuver and fall off the bed or accidentally hit someone in the head or kick them in the face?
• Holy hell, what if I have…The Gas?

Oh, lord.  I am way too much of a spaz for this.  I am not made for exciting things.

Before you all get mad at me because I’m being a Negative Nancy, realize that I’m not totally closed to the idea, it’s just that I recognize my anxiety disorder would preclude me from actually enjoying it to the fullest.  I would not be able to just let go, sit back, and enjoy it!  If you’ve been paying attention, you would know that’s not how I roll: if there’s something to worry about, I will find that something and obsess on it.  It’s one of my many talents, actually.   It’s part of what makes me a super special snowflake.

So, yes. I’m not going to say it will never happen.  It’s just gonna take gallons of wine and an astronomical alignment.

But enough about me.  I want to hear about you guys now. Have any of you TWMs ever had an MMF threesome?  How did that work out?  Did you have The Gas or did you cause the end of one or more relationships or did you accidentally kick someone in the face?

**Catch the male perspective tomorrow with a special guest post by: Ken Gilbert!  (Crissy’s husband)

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

My Husband Wants To Have A Threesome

Possibly related goodness:

1. Why I Want A Threesome With My Wife
2. The Weirdest Threesome Ever
3. My Husband Posted Pictures Of Me On A Porn Site. I Liked It.