Toy With Me » Stories

DOC, ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS SUCKER’S NUCLEAR?

Morgan Shanahan — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 13:33:53 +0000

Third degree tears.

Shaped like a Y, the tip of which crept up to my sphincter leaving my nether region looking something like this:

They stitched me up so tight that when I’m 50, my vagina will only be 25.

Needless to say, I waited the full six weeks postpartum and then some to hop back on the bologna pony. And when I did? It wasn’t pretty.

Our little monster was asleep. All was quiet around the house. We took things slow. We dusted off the lube. And then we played a little game I like to call: just the tip.

Because that’s about how far we made it before it felt like I was SPLITTING IN TWO. Turns out there were a couple of issues standing between us and the hot, steamy, belly-free, skin to skin, real. actual. sex we had so eagerly anticipated. First of all, they really down-play that whole “breastfeeding can cause vaginal dryness” thing, and I was kind of blindsided by it. So was Scott. There was chafing across the board. Secondly, I was tighter than my pre-pregnancy jeans.

But we are determined folk. We quite liked our sex life before baby, and we reassured each other that with a little bit of good ‘ol American stick-to-it-iveness, we would once again see a day when a romp in the sack didn’t feel like driving a battering ram through a keyhole.

Still, I ran to my internet friends in dismay.

“OMG. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? I JUST WANT TO HAVE NORMAL SEX.” I lamented – eager for advice and encouragement.

As always, my girls were forthcoming. They lamented along with me. They e-stroked my hair and promised it would get better. And then I read the three little words that would change the course of history [in our bedroom] forever. It was my dear, brilliant, wonderful, [insert-glowing-adjective-here-because-she-effing-deserves-every-one] well, I won’t tell you WHO wrote these words:

Vibrating. Cock. Ring.

Totally helps relax the tight vadge.

Oh, and not the trojan kind. Buy one from a naughty sex toy site. It’s worth it.

I was intrigued. I mentioned it to my hubby, and [after he wiped the kid in a candy store grin off his face] he ran right out and picked one up.

Well…slap my ass and call me Pamela, because that shit WORKED. Loosened things right up, and got us back on the train to O-town (and I’m not talking about the city, or the shitty boyband, ifyouknowwhatImean…) I still pretty much praise my friend’s name on a daily basis.

And yet…there was still one hurdle to be lept. Just beyond my war-torn labia, things remained dry as the Sahara. The generic drug store lube we had wasn’t cutting it. It was time to break out the big guns…So we unearthed the novelty lube from my bachelorette party. It was one of those his&hers combo packs – kind of like that KY Yours + Mine stuff – except not like that at all, because as soon as the “his” met the “hers” it was like someone had LITERALLY LIT MY LOINS ON FIRE. The “chemists” at WET must have gotten a few ingredients wrong, because not only did I shriek in pain, but Mr.HABsorbent did as well. It burned his dick, ladies. We were officially in the market for some new lube.

So when our anniversary came around, and we sent our little panty liner to spend the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s house (I don’t have a clever feminine hygiene related nickname for them) Mr.HABsorbent turned to me with that shit-eating grin and said:

“Wanna go to Le Sex Shoppe?”

Truth be told, I did NOT want to go to Le Sex Shoppe. I wanted to go to Rite Aid, and quietly buy them out of whatever lube they had – well disguised amongst other less incriminating items like diapers and rocky road – before going home to drink some wine, have a semi-painful quickie, and promptly pass out for 10 hours of uninterrupted shut-eye…because despite having no problem airing intimate details of my sex life on the internet, I am kind of a prude in real life.

But my husband has been an incredible sport. So if he wanted to spend our one night off in the creepiest shop in town looking for miracle lube, then so be it.

We entered through the back (where the “violators will be towed” signs have also been amended to advise: “no oral in the parking lot”) made our way past the LolliCocks and Anal Speculum, and up to the display in front where we were greeted by “Rick” who looked like my old guitar teacher, but might as well have been working at The Gap the way he cheerfully greeted us. “Are you looking for something specific today? I’m here if you have any questions!” Much to my horror, Mr.HABsorbent welcomed the opportunity to consult a professional about our situation.

“Can you recommend a really good lube? Something that doesn’t dry up, get sticky, or feel like it’s giving you a chemical burn?”he inquired. [Oh dear god. Just what I need. The dude in the overcoat behind the bondage display knowing the in's and out's of my chafed va-jay-jay. Horrible pun yes intended.] “Rick” was eager to share his expertise. Turns out, he’d been getting lots of RAVE reviews on the KY Yours + Mine. Mr.HABsorbent cocked an eyebrow (oh my god, I can’t stop!) and turned to me – “you wanna try it?”

So there I was. Standing in the middle of Le Sex Shoppe on a Saturday night, with Rick, Trenchcoat Guy, and the mousy-looking Secretary-type who thought she was flying under the radar all staring back at me as I struggled to find a classy (!?) way to say “I have a flux-capacitor shaped scar in my oh-so-tight vagina that I am not looking to have lit aflame again, so no I don’t want to “try it” thankyouverymuch, and since we’re all listening so intently, there is baby vomit between my boobs, I’m covered in stretch marks, and my stomach looks like someone glued a deflated skin-colored beach ball to the front of it. Now who wants to fuck?

What I came up with after what felt like a good forty-five seconds of desperate silence as I tried to get my husband to telepathically understand the above sentiment was: “Um, I think…ah…I don’t think we’re….uh…I think that might be…overly ambitious.”

Rick actually laughed out loud. The Hubs, sensing my discomfort, gave me one of his crooked smiles, and dutifully reached for the plain ‘ol Jelly. (Y’know, the stuff they use at your OB’s office. Talk about sexy.) He handed it to Rick. But this party wasn’t over yet. “KY’s tried and true” said Rick, “but if you’re really having trouble getting wet, this Agape stuff rocks my face off.” Kill me. Kill me right the fuck now. Rick’s helpful advice had just expanded to include personal endorsements. He informed us that the best lubes have glycerin in them, which is great for vaginal dryness, but can also lead to yeast infections, and most chicks don’t dig that. As it turns out, Rick is kind of like a lube sommelier. And quite the salesman. By the time all was said and done, we’d ditched the KY Jelly, and walked out of there with [almost no modesty remaining] and two high-end, Rick-approved, glycerin-free personal lubricants. Uh…and also a membership to their rewards program…since we figured we might be back for more of this alleged wonder-lube.

So to tie in my Back To the Future reference and bring this baby full circle? The moral of the story is this: With a little high-octane lube and a vibrating cock ring DH and I were finally able to get my vagina up to 88MPH…’cause where we’re going…we don’t need roads. (What? Roads? That doesn’t even make sense. The lube was awesome. The sex was epic. The end.)

Rick’s Pick’s:

JO H2O Water Based Personal Lubricant

Pink Water Lubricant

Post from: Toy With Me

DOC, ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS SUCKER’S NUCLEAR?

Possibly related goodness:

DOC, ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS SUCKER’S NUCLEAR?

I Have No Intention of Getting Knocked Up!

Lola Berlin — Tue, 17 May 2011 13:37:20 +0000

PRELUDE TO THE DELUDE: This is my post Mother’s Day article about babies and shiz.

The Fairytale goes: Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, wed the beautiful Catherine and turned her into a Duchess and they lived happily ever after. The End. Finally they were able to chill out at Buckingham Palace and do whatever it is do indoors, which is where they probably spend a lot of time hiding out from paparazzi. RANDOM THOUGHT: I wonder if they call each other “babe” in the privacy of their own castle space. Imagine Kate saying to Prince Will, “Hey babe, could you please pass the strawberry jam?”

Kind of messes with the ideology of aristocratic convention when you infuse modern day slang. Meh, more than likely there won’t be any time for talking since the Duke may be a little too busy buttering the Duchess’s scone, if ya know what I mean. Not just because they’re newlyweds, but because GET THIS: Will has nine months to zap Kate’s royal egg and produce an heir for the second-in-line to the throne if he plans to uphold 200 years of tradition. Apparently the British kingdom is paranoid about a break in the line to succession so they expect immediate results (COURTESY Yahoo News).

Wow. That’s a lot of FUCKING pressure. And if you look at history, every time someone messes with tradition or royal rule, bad things happen. Like someone gets beheaded or there’s a curse over the land, hence the plague and the potato famine. If Kate doesn’t have that baby within eighteen months, in modern day language that probably means the death of Facebook or Google. Or the internet altogether. My God, how will we communicate without the internet?! My generation is not used to talking. This is the type and text era.

Say WHAT?! FOLLOWED BY: Fuck Me. Into procreation.

Superstition and sarcasm aside, I mean that’s what people do, right? They fall in love, get married and have a BABY. It’s a completely normal natural process. Unless…you’re me. You see, I have these baby fears. ALL the time. And it’s not just one fear — it’s every zygotic, embryonic, fetal fear imaginable locked inside the darkest enclave of the part of my mind that controls my uterus. The truth is babies scare me more than (insert worst fear).

For instance, I’m afraid I’m going to fall pregnant to the wrong guy at the wrong time and then he’ll leave me for a supermodel. Oh wait. That actually happened to Bridget Moynahan with Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen. See. It’s not just in my head. OR: I’m scared that I’ll finally be ready to have a baby and it won’t happen. Like my fallopian tubes will fail or my ovaries will be like, “Sorry. We’re out of commission. When we were willing to participate you couldn’t get your shit together and find some sperm. We’re over it.” Nooo, please grant me a child. I need to prove my mother wrong! Or in Kate Middleton’s case, the monarchy (and possibly the internet, if my prediction proves correct) is at stake.

SIDE NOTE: Don’t underestimate the value of your vagina. It’s the gateway to the future. You could be giving birth to the next King…or Copernicus (I was trying to be original there and not say Einstein)…or worst case scenario – Hitler (there’s no point in trying to be original if you’re looking for a bad guy). I suppose that’s where abortion comes in handy. Ooh Crude. But really, it’s hard to be nice when it comes to Hitler.

MOVING ON…

And of course then there are the logistics of pushing a small human out of your holy shrine. It’s not the head that freaks me out, but the shoulders. I gotta be honest guys, I am not looking forward to that kind of pain. Or the permanent damage to my body. MESSAGE TO FUTURE CHILD: If you’re leaving me with stretch marks, then I am imposing my Smurf obsession on you. Don’t worry, Smurfs are Awesome! Mama will be sipping her cocktail while you drink your milk.

What? I’ll have to make up for not drinking for over a year – nine months plus breast feeding stage. I have no idea how I’m going to get through that. But maybe it’ll be okay because I’ll have a bigger goal to focus on, as in GIVING LIFE. Hey check it: I made a person. Try to compare your highest non human forming accomplishment to that. You can’t. Mothers rock!

It still weirds me out that sex leads to baby making. I understand the science, but it’s a bit of a contradiction, particularly if you associate sex with fun. As the equation goes: Sexual freedom plus fertility equals a little bundle of responsibility, which brings me to my next fear: What if I’m an irresponsible mother? Or I just suck at motherhood. Or I get bored and decide I don’t want to do it full-time, like that writer – Rahna Reiko Rizzuto, who converted to part time mom after she realized motherhood wasn’t her thing (chronicled in her memoir – Hiroshima in the Morning).

I don’t want to be a deserter. I want to be a good mom – selfless, loving and not obsessed with beige (I still plan on being trendy). If motherhood comes my way, I hope I’m like Keri Russell. Babies totally suit her. If you think the girl can’t get any cuter, hand her a baby and you’ll see. Or just rent ‘We Were Soldiers.’ She also suits being pregnant. Think of her in ‘Waitress.’ She’s like my ultimate baby mama inspiration. Visually, that is.

For now I have no intention of getting knocked up, even if I meet the perfect baby daddy tomorrow. This is where contraceptives come in handy. Besides, I have to fulfill my pre-baby travel fantasy of going to Turkey, Morocco, Egypt and Greece. After that I suppose we’ll see, but hopefully the whole baby thing (if and when it happens) will be a pleasant surprise and not my greatest fear coming to life. As for the Duchess, well I guess we’ll find out if she meets the baby deadline through the tabloids…or if the internet suddenly stops working.

Post from: Toy With Me

I Have No Intention of Getting Knocked Up!

DOC, ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS SUCKER’S NUCLEAR?

Morgan Shanahan — Sun, 01 May 2011 13:25:47 +0000

Third degree tears.

Shaped like a Y, the tip of which crept up to my sphincter leaving my nether region looking something like this:

They stitched me up so tight that when I’m 50, my vagina will only be 25.

Needless to say, I waited the full six weeks postpartum and then some to hop back on the bologna pony. And when I did? It wasn’t pretty.

Our little monster was asleep. All was quiet around the house. We took things slow. We dusted off the lube. And then we played a little game I like to call: just the tip.

Still, I ran to my internet friends in dismay.

“OMG. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? I JUST WANT TO HAVE NORMAL SEX.” I lamented – eager for advice and encouragement.

Vibrating. Cock. Ring.

Totally helps relax the tight vadge.

Oh, and not the trojan kind. Buy one from a naughty sex toy site. It’s worth it.

I was intrigued. I mentioned it to my hubby, and [after he wiped the kid in a candy store grin off his face] he ran right out and picked one up.

“Wanna go to Le Sex Shoppe?”

But my husband has been an incredible sport. So if he wanted to spend our one night off in the creepiest shop in town looking for miracle lube, then so be it.

Rick’s Pick’s:

JO H2O Water Based Personal Lubricant

Pink Water Lubricant

Post from: Toy With Me

DOC, ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS SUCKER’S NUCLEAR?

Possibly related goodness:

DOC, ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS SUCKER’S NUCLEAR?

Las Vegas Fails On The Sexy Front

Mommy Wants Vodka — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 14:43:13 +0000

Right before Christmas, I did what all good girls do and packed my bags and flew to Las Vegas. Alone. I’d never been to Vegas, but every time I told someone I was going, they were all, “OMG, AUNT BECKY, VEGAS IS SOOOOO CRAZY,” so I was kind of disappointed when I un-boarded the plane and all I found were a couple of creepy looking old people playing the slots. No miniature Dolly Parton impersonators, no monkeys juggling bottles of ether, no aging strippers grinding on any poles. It was just an airport. With gambling. I shrugged. Whatever.

I met up with a couple of my girlfriends at Baggage Claim. They had also ditched their families during the Most Wonderful Time of the Year when you’re supposed to be all I LOVE FAMILY, but secretly you’re all I LOATHE FAMILY and we trundled off to our hotel. I looked for weirdness everywhere. I was praying for it. Bring on the weirdness! NOTHING. My hotel clerk was shockingly normal. Our room, despite being a penthouse – which was almost entirely unlike Penthouse Magazine – was also unremarkable. Apparently, it was NOT the Weird Time of Year in Vegas.

(the Rodeo, however, WAS in town)

Okay, if it wasn’t the Weird Time of Year, maybe it was the Sexy Time of Year for Vegas. I’d heard about the sexy stuff in Vegas, too. Prostitution and strippers and cab drivers that take you to strip clubs no matter what you say your destination is. Okay, BRING ON THE SEXY, VEGAS, I thought. I’m a SEX WRITER!

I had a MISSION! I was going to FIND SEXY. I was gonna BRING SEXY BACK.

Okay, that was going a bit far. But I did know that the other bloggers I was meeting in Vegas had lined up a Stripping for Dummies class which seemed like a good place to start. I got my SEXY WRITER glasses on and prepared to take notes on The Sexy In Vegas. (Keep in mind that I’d just had major abdominal surgery and couldn’t participate in many of the SEXY VEGAS activities)

Here’s my what I found out:

Stripping for Dummies: I watched a seasoned stripper try to teach twenty of my favorite bloggers (and friends) how to give a lap dance at ten in the morning on a Saturday. In Vegas. After a night of very hard drinking.

Not one of them could keep a straight face while they shook their boobies or waggled their “cookie” (the stripper’s term for a vagina which I’d never heard before. I sat in the back of the room drinking tequila, yearning softly for a chocolate chip cookie.) in their “partner’s” face. Their partner was a folding chair. It. Was. Hilarious.

The pole dancing part of the Stripper 101 Class was worse. Our instructor made it look effortless as she twirled and whirled around her brass pole. She blithely informed my compatriots that “it was so easy!” As I sipped my tequila, I was secretly glad I couldn’t participate. I didn’t want a tour of Las Vegas’s finest ER’s under my belt. Apparently, by “easy,” she meant, “probably going to make you fall on your ass.” Because that’s what happened. Not one of my friends could twirl, whirl, or otherwise work the pole.

Bloggers aren’t coordinated, I guess.

For having a ridiculously hot and talented instructor, I give the class high marks. For being ridiculously absurd, I give the class low marks. Stripping for Dummies: PUSH.

Pants Free Vegas: Multiple unrelated sources had informed me that people didn’t wear pants in Vegas. I consider pants to be complete and utter bullshit and I avoid them at all costs so I was thrilled. I tweeted about it. I blogged about it. I would have gotten a shirt made that said “PANTS ARE BULLSHIT,” if I’d had the forethought.

So I eagerly looked around my hotel for pantsless people. I looked for signs that said, “NO PANTS ZONE!” I looked scoured bathrooms and casinos alike. EVERYONE WAS WEARING SOMETHING ON THEIR BOTTOM HALF. The whole “people don’t wear pants in Vegas thing” was a TOTAL LIE.

I was Furious George. Also: deeply saddened. I put on pants. I was angry. I may have cried.

Pants Free Vegas: FAIL.

Escorts In Casinos: While I was looking for evidence of a Pants Free Vegas, I decided that it was an appropriate to look for prostitutes. Not, of course, because I wanted one (shut UP!), but because I wanted to see if there really WERE prostitutes hanging around. We have plenty in Chicago, but I figured that the Vegas prostitutes that hung out in our upscale hotel would probably be a little…classier looking. Or maybe not. I just didn’t know. But I was going to find out! I was like Nancy Drew! But a sex writer! Which is, uh, kinda the opposite of Nancy Drew, now that I think about it, but I digress.

I sat with one of my girlfriends in a small bar right off the hotel casino and just watched. People watching is always fun, but Vegas made it extra awesome. And sure enough, just on the periphery, I spotted a few escorts. Or what I assumed were escorts, at least. I didn’t ask them because it seemed rude and my martini was very, very strong. There’s a chance I’d have barfed on them. NOT SEXY.

But they were hot chicks in small dresses wearing tons of makeup who just stood at the edge of the casino scoping the place out. The tourists were all dumpy people in fanny packs (except for us. We were always wicked hot) so I could tell that these women probably weren’t there for the Rodeo. They were there for a different kind of rodeo. (AWWW YEAH).

Even though prostitution is illegal in Vegas and the surrounding county, it’s clear that the laws didn’t really matter where we were staying. I saw one of the escorts find a well-dressed guy and saunter off with him. I’ve been around enough people to know that they weren’t heading away to play a nice game of Monopoly or anything. And sitting just next to us at the bar was a woman clearly not with the party who were drunkenly (annoyingly) whooping it up. She took the drunkest guy aside, had a quiet conversation with him behind cupped hands, and then proceeded to hang out on his lap for the remainder of our stay at the bar.

It was kinda awesome.

Escorts/Prostitution in Vegas: WIN

Vegas, on the whole, was neither as rowdy or rambunctious as I’d thought (read: hoped) it might be. It seemed sort of like Cancun, but with older people with cankles. I’m not unhappy I went there and I’d probably even go back. But the sexiness was no more or less than Chicago.

And at least at home in Chicago, I don’t have to wear pants. Pants, after all, are bullshit.

—————

So, Toy With Me-ers, have you been to Vegas? Was I just there at the wrong time? Should I go back for more “field research?” Or is there a sexier city I could try to visit instead?

Post from: Toy With Me

Las Vegas Fails On The Sexy Front

Possibly related goodness:

The Story Of A Failed Orgy

Mommy Wants Vodka — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 14:04:09 +0000

In an uncharacteristic moment of peace (trying to bend spoons with my mind is hard, yo), I went back and read Chrissy and Ken’s columns about threesomes again. I don’t generally have the time to do that these days, what with the spoon bending and all, but I was trying to figure out what I should write about. Following up a post about cancer is kind of tricky and requires more finesse than I have.

And suddenly was like the heavens opened up and smiled down upon me. My muddled memory banks opened up and I remembered the delicious story of my failed foursome. See, unlike Chrissy, whom I love and adore and would scrunch up and put in my back pocket because I find her so adorable and charming and hilarious, I think threesomes are kind of awesome. Of course, I’ve never actually had one, so for all I know, they could be the worst thing on the planet. That’s just it, I don’t know, haven’t had one. But given the right situation I probably would. I do not know what that situation would involve, but I’m guessing unicorns, glitter and probably a whole lot of bourbon. This story is more funny than erotic which is pretty much my entire existence these days, but that is neither here nor there.

Back when I was in college, a couple of my friends were sitting around my parents house. My parents were often out of town when I was in college, probably to avoid being in the same zip code as my smarmy college self, which led to many parties thrown at my house. One of these friends, a guy named Mike, worked at a local video store, the kind that actually had a porn section roped off in the back. Frequently, for entertainment, we’d visit him at work and pick out the most ridiculously titled porn movies to watch together after his shift. (aside: this habit has made it hard for me to take porn very seriously now)

The night that we came up with our Master Plan, the four of us; Mike, Chris, Sharon and I had been sitting around my house, eating buffalo wings and watching Midgets Take Manhattan. During a particularly hilarious foursome scene, one of us made an off-hand remark about foursomes. For the life of me, I cannot remember what it was, and trust me, I’d give a lot to remember what it was. Like a kidney or, if not, at least a couple of dollars. From that remark, though, the conversation quickly turned into a spirited discussion about foursomes.

Specifically, we discussed how it was kind of bullshit that none of us had ever engaged in one. It was absurd that out of the four of us, not one of us had engaged in a threesome, foursome or any other -some. Complete and utter bullshit!

Well, we shrugged, looking around at each other, maybe we should try it. The midgets looked like they were having a good time. We should try it now before we’re all old and it’s too weird. Right?

(aside: we kinda had a point there)

The upside to the four of us having a foursome, we decided, was that we were not dating each other. We had no desire to date each other. We never would date each other. There would never be any emotional involvement or weirdness about how hard it was to see the others engaged in sexual acts because, well, it was just going to be fun. We weren’t going to have hurt feelings over watching our partners have The Sex with other women or men because we weren’t partners at all! Pure fun. I mean, look at the midgets!

Somehow, we’d decided that the night to Do The Deed would be a couple of weeks away rather than right then at that very moment. I think we’d needed to gather supplies like condoms and lube and alcohol (and chicken wings, obviously). We’d probably wanted to get some actual porn, too, because Midgets Take Manhattan was more for our entertainment rather than to get our rocks off.

Throughout the next couple of weeks, we hung out a couple of times. The first few times that we saw each other, we discussed the The Master Foursome Plan like it was a great jewel heist or a bank robbery we were carrying off, rather than some casual (safe!) sex. But as the date to have The Sex with each other drew nearer, I noticed an odd thing happening: we all started to get a little, well, awkward about the whole thing. Where we’d never been strange and shy before about The Sex, suddenly we were fumbling and stilted, each of us praying the others wouldn’t bring up The Sex.

Soon, the night of the Master Foursome was upon us and we gathered uncomfortably at my parents house, the four of us. We sat in front of the television set, a porn on in the background just as it had so many times before, and yet this time, no one was poking fun at the gigantic nutsack on the male star. No one mocked the overly loud, obnoxious fake orgasms of the female lead. No one even made fun of the horribly orchestrated plot lines (really, a pizza guy? AGAIN?) It was as though we’d been replaced by four stunt doubles who looked just like the four of us, but had no real idea how to behave around each other.

Not one of us mentioned the carefully planned orgy. Not once. I’m sure someone bought condoms and brought them, but no one mentioned or brought them out to show off. Minutes yawned oddly into hours. Still, we all sat there, glued into our spots on the couch, no one daring to move, in fear, perhaps that someone might whip out a penis or a boob or something.

Somehow, we’d managed to create the exact scenario we’d thought we were trying desperately to avoid: the awkwardness of a foursome. What’s worse, we didn’t even manage to have one. Thankfully, we managed to avoid any jealous lovers quarrels and hurt feelings, but I don’t think things were ever quite the same between the four of us. I’m not exactly sure why we didn’t have a foursome and I don’t know that any of the others do, either.

That was the way that foursome ended. Not with a bang (heh), but an awkward whimper (heh).

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

The Story Of A Failed Orgy

Possibly related goodness:

The Story Of The Golden Vibrator

Mommy Wants Vodka — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 13:17:59 +0000

After I told you guys all about my problems with finding appropriate places to hide my broken sex toys, my bosses here at Toy With Me took pity on me and offered to send me a new sex toy. It was gold, the email said, and because I am a cross between a magpie, an octopus and a heiress, the prospect of shiny things is always something that makes me do a Snoopy-style happy dance. I readily agreed, providing I didn’t have to give a detailed description of myself using said big, gold, vibrator. Because while I am proud as hell to be able to talk about sex openly on the internet, I do not need to write erotica, mostly because I’d be very, very bad at it. Plus, I write under my real name, and frankly, I don’t need the people who may one day hire me to write grocery store flyers to google me and see, “thrusting” or “gold penis” in my portfolio.

Once more, however, I digress. Happy with the prospect of using a sex toy that wasn’t held together by tape, prayers and sheer force of will (note to self: spend actual money on sex toys), I packed my bags for New York City, preparing for that big old blogging conference, BlogHer. While we writers normally write clad in such finery as “stained sweatpants” and “old tank-tops,” for some reason, we feel it is HIGHLY important to convince each other that we do, in fact, not, so we all spend months ahead of time shopping carefully for just the right outfits that say, “Hey World, I’m NOT actually a huge freaking NERD who writes on The Internet.” Because I do not plan ahead, I also ordered a bunch of things online right before I left, hoping they MIGHT get there before I had to leave.

My bedroom before I left looked as though a bomb of shopping bags, discarded labels and tissue paper had exploded inside of it, and because I do not plan ahead of time—ever–it looked that way as I walked out the door to catch my ass-early flight. Since I do have children, and I would have rather swallowed hot tar than bring them with me to a conference about blogging, or, really, anywhere that required an airplane ride, going out of town for a couple of days meant that I couldn’t just leave them locked up in the basement with kibble and a water bowl. So I had to get them a babysitter.

That task fell to my incredibly conservative mother-in-law. And when I say “incredibly conservative,” Toy With Me-ers, I hope that you understand the magnitude of what I am saying, because there are people out there who are just, you know, KIND of less risque than, well, US, but then there are people like, well, HER. She’s pretty much my inverse. If she saw one of my newly minted “Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirts,” I think rather than be horrified and disgusted and “tut-tut” a little bit, her brain might actually liquify in her head. She just couldn’t comprehend something like that.

So, to leave her in charge of my entire house, ALONE, for several days, well, this was going to be an interesting trip for her. I certainly thought it might be rather EYE-opening, but then again, that’s how I think about these things.

On Day Two, I called home to see how things were going and check in to make sure one of my kids hadn’t eaten off the arms of one of the other ones, and she said in her high pitched, sweet-as-pie voice, “Oh! And you got a PACKAGE in the mail!”

My heart thudded to a stop in my chest. The gold motherfucking VIBRATOR. She fucking got the GOLD VIBRATOR in the mail while I was out of town. Holy shit! Please tell me that she didn’t OPEN it or something!

Carefully, I said, “Oh, well, that’s for me. Can you put it in my room, please?”

But as I said that, she was distracted by a cacophony of shrieks in the background and had to get off the phone. And I was left sitting in my hotel room just wondering what had happened to the package. Because my children are as narcissistic (ahem) as their mother, they tend to assume that every single package that arrives has presents for them inside. Would they have convinced her that the package was actually for them?

If they’d managed to finagle the package open to see what was inside, would the box say something like, “Gold Vibrator?” And if so, would she even know what that meant? She was uptight and sheltered enough that I sincerely doubted she’d ever heard of a sex toy before, but if there was a scantily clad couple on the front, perhaps she might understand what it was. And, DEAR SWEET MERCIFUL BABY JESUS ON A STICK, what if she USED IT? I gagged just thinking about it.

There was no good way to be sure. I couldn’t exactly call home and be all, “oh, and hey, ABOUT THAT PACKAGE, did you open it? PLEASE don’t open it. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY LEAVE IT THE FUCK ALONE.” Because the minute you make something sound THAT appealing, you know whatever is inside has GOT to be 1) illegal 2) immoral or 3) both. And I don’t know the lady well enough to know if she’d be able to resist the temptation. I mean, with a freak-out like that, even someone like me, who IS very, very respectful of privacy, would be sorely tempted to open it up to see what was inside this mysterious package.

The rest of the trip, I heard no more about the package because, well, I didn’t call home again. I figured that I’d deal with Package-Gate when I returned. And when I shuffled through the door, late Sunday evening, there it was, displayed not on my bed like I’d begged, but on my computer, a nice flat box, with my name happily written across the top. I took it upstairs and tore inside, eagerly looking for my new golden toy, singing “I GOT THE GOLDEN TICKET, ERM, VIBRATOR!” in a stage whisper, but when I unpacked it, I realized my error in assuming.

Inside was the coat I’d ordered from French Connection. Oh well, I sighed, as I put the new coat on, and twirled in front of the mirror, there’s always tomorrow’s mail.

Post from: Toy With Me

The Story Of The Golden Vibrator

Possibly related goodness:

So I was Fisting My Girlfriend……

Ali — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 14:03:26 +0000

A few disclaimers. Firstly, this post is about lesbians. Yes. Lesbians. Secondly, this story is one hundred and ten percent true. And lastly, given that this story is one hundred and ten percent true, please feel free to leave your sighs of pity in the comments at the end. But please. Save it for the end.

So I was fisting my girlfriend. Does everyone know what fisting is? You should, because Nicole Antoinette took a fisting dildo to a bar and has pictures to prove it. But to clarify, itʼs the act of sticking (slowly and carefully, please) your fist up your partner-in crimeʼs hoo-ha (or anus, whatever pickles your cucumber.) Itʼs often perceived as violent and plenty of people wrinkle their nose at it, but itʼs actually gentle, loving, and delicious. More about pressure than pounding. But anyways, yup, fisting my girlfriend. And using my wrist, I twisted my entire hand (because, you know, that feels awesome and I of course want to be a queer sex rock star.) Imagine my displeasure when I felt a pop in my wrist. I thought nothing of it, though. I was a little preoccupied.

But the next day while I was doing the dishes, I dropped one. I had tried to pick up a heavy pot and my wrist revolted and hopped a plane to Tijuana. And I said nuh-uh. No way did I hurt my wrist doing the naughty. Iʼm twenty-two, not eighty. It had to have happened when I was playing tug-o-war with the 115 pound pit bull mastiff lab mix that wiggles between my girlfriend and I every night. Yeah. Thatʼs it. It was the dog. I made the decision to suck it up. Iʼm no pansy.

Now I was just graduating (why thank you for all those congratulations, thatʼs very sweet). And this was all during my last week of finals ever. And I was up at night writing a 12 page paper for my queer history class when the pain became unbearable. I decided this was the night, I was going to the emergency room. I looked in my wallet and realized, to my horror, that my insurance card was safely in a lock-box forty-five minutes away…at the abode of my parents. My sweet senior citizen parents, who love my girlfriend but who are far too vanilla for this shit. I finished my paper as quickly as possible and began to drive the forty-five minutes, attempting to come up with a story. It was the dog. Thatʼs it.

I arrived at my parents house at midnight to a chorus of their confused looks. I explained that Iʼm here for my insurance card and that Iʼm going to immediately peace out to the emergency room. Oh no, says my father. No one should ever go to the emergency room alone. Iʼm coming with you.

Oh Lordie Lou with a cherry on top.

So the nurse (her name was Jess, I believe) called me in and asked me what I did to my wrist. My father was at the front desk answering questions about my insurance (thank God) and with a glance to make sure he was far enough away I said:

“Well there are two possibilities. One is that I hurt it playing with a 115 pound pit bull mastiff mix. The second, far more likely possibility is that I hurt it while fisting my girlfriend.”

Jess looked at the ground. Her reply:

“To preserve your dignity, Iʼm going to write down the first option.”

I made my father leave my side when the hospital technician asked me that same question. You know. The one about the wrist Iʼd been holding close to my chest in a pained manner. I kicked old vanilla ice out. I didnʼt want to give my 65 year old father a heart attack, even if we were in a hospital. Anyways, I donʼt remember the techʼs name, but he looked kind of like Ogie from the movie “Waitress” (if you havenʼt seen it, see it. Great movie.) Anyways, Ogie Doppleganger asked and I answered “Well, there are two possibilities. One is that I hurt it playing with a 115 pound pit bull mastiff mix. The second, far more likely possibility is that I hurt it while fisting my girlfriend.” The blank stare horrified me. “Um, excuse me? Fisting? I…I donʼt really understand what that means.”

Well. I held my hand up. Made a fist. Sputtered “itʼs, um, well, itʼs…” I didnʼt have that suave explanation I typed up for you. Oh no. I just sort of stiffly jiggled my fist around with my eyebrows raised hoping that heʼd catch the idea-ball I was throwing. “Well, you stick this…”

He did. “In her vagina?”

“Yup.”

“And did you…?” He twisted his hand by the wrist.

“Yup.”

“Huh. I didnʼt know one could do that.”

My only response was “Welcome to the wonderful world of lesbian sex.” I can hear yʼall face-palming from here.

“Whew, Iʼm glad,” said Ogie Doppleganger. “I thought when you said fisting that you punched your girlfriend.”

I burst out with “Iʼm sorry.” I am sorry, I thought. Sorry for this extraordinarily embarrassing hospital visit. Sorry that itʼs three in the morning and Iʼm not asleep. But I wasnʼt sorry for sex. Really, thatʼs the moral of this story. The sex was 125.4 percent worth this encounter with Ogie and my wrist on the lamb seeking a black market plane ticket to Fiji with a jacked passport. The sex is always epic! Long live the sex!

Ogie seemed un-phased, as if he were echoing my philosophy on sex. Or perhaps he was just jaded, being an emergency room peep because he then nonchalantly responded with “Oh, no, really. Donʼt feel bad. Youʼre definitely not the worst one weʼve seen. We had a guy come in last week who shoved a light bulb up his rectum and then it broke.”

Someone needs to take that guy to a Babeland workshop.

The x-ray ladies chattered like chickens and were older than my father. “What did you do to your wrist?” I sighed as they positioned it on the x-ray table. “Well the first possibility is that I hurt it playing with a 115 pound pit bull mastiff mix. The other…is a really embarrassing sexual misadventure that Iʼd rather not recount again.” They glanced at each other and burst out laughing, knowing smirks as they cackled “I bet the doctor would love to hear about that.”

It wasnʼt broken. Just sprained. Yes, everyone, you understood right. I am fully committed to my girlfriendʼs happiness. I sacrificed my wrist for her! And those lovely podunk town hospital chickadees prescribed a splint, which they didnʼt know how to put on. Jess was back and struggling and she burst out “Oh no, we must look so unprofessional. We must look so stupid!”

“Really, nurse Jessica. Letʼs revisit why Iʼm here. You look fine.”

“Oh, but youʼre totally not the worst thing weʼve seen. Why just last week we had a guy come in who had shoved a light bulb into his rectum and it broke.”

Post from: Toy With Me

So I was Fisting My Girlfriend……

I Need A Place To Hide My Sex Toys

Mommy Wants Vodka — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 14:23:56 +0000

When I was in high school, I was probably looting around for some rogue twenty dollar bills or perhaps golden coins or something in my parents dresser when I came across a condom. I was suitably horrified. It’s not that I didn’t ever expect that they had sex or anything, I just never needed to THINK about it. I mean, these are people who told me when I was conceived (October 31)(shudders), so it’s not like they weren’t open about sex. In fact, weeks before this event, my mother had chased my brother and I around the house saying, “horny,” because we thought it was disgusting to hear coming out of her mouth.

I mean, isn’t it?

Anyway, so, I knew that they’d been spayed and neutered, so the concept of using a condom led me down foul and horrible paths in my mind I never, ever wanted to think about. Finding a stash of porn is one thing. Realizing your parents make the beast with two backs is an entirely different story.

Now that I’m a parent, I know that there will come a point when my own children will realize that I have sex and be equally disgusted. I, of course, know my children will come to realize that I exist and be disgusted by that as well, so I know I can’t win, but at the very least, I’ll have to start my own covert hiding of certain things.

Like, uh, well, SEX TOYS.

Thank Sweet Baby Jesus, I never found any of those, because I think I probably WOULD have died right then and there, but you know, the condom was bad enough. Just. Ew.

So, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what I am supposed to do with my pathetically small (and rapidly dwindling) collection of naughty things. My bedside table isn’t going to be cutting it any longer. In fact, I should probably start leaving things like books called “A Mother’s Love” (is that a book? If it’s not, Hallmark should get their asses on top of that immediately, if not sooner) and perhaps books of pictures of cute fluffy kittens, just to throw my kids off my trail. If they think I’m the most boring person on the planet, they won’t go looking for my collection of delicious narcotics (drugs are bad, kids), cough syrups that require identification (drugs are REALLY bad, kids), oils, lubes, and other assorted naughtiness that I might have stashed around my room.

My biggest problem with trying to find something to stash these things in is that I’m kind of (okay, that’s going to go up for Understatement of the Year) stupid. The medicine I take for my migraines makes me really forgetful and I am always misplacing things. Like my pants. And keys. And wallet. And really, most anything else that you CAN misplace. But if I lost my one lone remaining vibrating boyfriend, I’d probably cry real tears, which might actually make my rarely-used tear ducts burn in agony. No one wants THAT, least of all me.

So I turned to Google, my trusty sidekick, who I like to imagine with red hair, because I firmly believe that all sidekicks should have red hair, to see what HE had to say about it (yes, Google is a boy).

First, Google informed me that Tupperware was an excellent choice. I disagreed, because, HI, it’s see-through, and even if I bought the colored stuff, my kids always assume that anything in Tupperware is for them. I don’t know where they got so damn egocentric. Maybe they read my blog or something. Tupperware to store my sex stuffs is a definite NO.

Then, Google told me that I could hollow out a space behind a painting and put a safe in there and then put my painting back. This would presume I HAD a painting on my wall OR a safe, neither of which I have or want on or INSIDE my bedroom walls. Plus, my sex toys are cheap pieces of crap which is why they’re all broken and I’d feel TOTALLY absurd putting them inside a wall safe BEHIND a painting. But this gets an A+ for cloak-and-daggers, which is always good in my world.

Also scoring points for cloak-and-daggers stuff is the notion that I could take the time (or buy) books and hollow them out and then put each of my sex toys in them. Which would work well until I forgot which book had what toy in them. Or when my kid decided to read War and Peace or something and WHOOPS! out pops Mr. Pink! That would probably scar him more than finding it in my drawer, where he shouldn’t be snooping ANYWAY. But it’s a good idea and highly creative, so the idea gets marks for that, even if it isn’t practical for me.

Some ingenious company made a pillow that hides a sex toy and a bottle of lube. Which means, effectively, that you can hide that bad boy in plain sight until such time as Little Susie gets a cold and wants to snuggle up in Mom’s Bed and lays her head on the WRONG PILLOW. Next thing you know, she’s screaming that the pillow is biting her and you’re trying to explain that “it’s okay, that’s Mommy’s SPECIAL Pillow” and trust me when I tell you that your kid will tell the ENTIRE world that you have a Special Pillow. That vibrates. Uh, count me out.

Probably the best idea I found was a shoebox. I’ll probably use an ancient running shoebox or something gross that my kids would never want to borrow because the shoes are so butt ugly and stash my meager collection in there. Then I’ll hope like hell that they don’t have to make a diorama recreating the Battle of the Bulge or whatever for Social Studies and decide to go snooping. Or maybe they can use what they find inside in their dioramas (do kids still have to make those things?). Who the hell knows.

Either way, the shoe box seems like the best alternative for now. Well, the shoe box and some new sex toys. Because this is just getting pathetic.

So tell me, Toy With Me-ers, where do you stash the goods?

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

I Need A Place To Hide My Sex Toys

Possibly related goodness:

Sex On The Beach – Fantasy Fulfilled

Anonymous — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 15:33:19 +0000

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

Is That a Medical Device On Your Hoo-Ha or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Elizabeth — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 14:00:27 +0000

If you read my blog, you’ll know I have no limits in the intimacies I’ll share with you. I should have a tattoo stamped on my forehead as a warning, so that anyone who had a problem with this could turn and run before I got too close. This photo is your warning.

(And she looks so innocent and smiley…)

Last week I did something daring. It was related to the bikini waxing I got in preparation for a beach trip, and no the daringness was not the actual waxing, which for me was brave enough in itself. (I’m typically an au naturale gal.) And no it wasn’t something so conventionally unconventional as a piercing there, or some vajazzling, to which I say, shudder. As well as…yeah, you’re almost close.

I’m a type 1 diabetic, which means I need to take multiple daily injections of insulin and test my blood sugar 10-15 times a day. To make things a tad easier, I use a wireless pump to deliver my insulin, and the Dexcom CGM system to continuously monitor my glucose. Also, I’m only 4 feet 11 inches tall and 95 pounds, so I don’t have a whole lotta body on which to place them. The sites are supposed to be rotated, and after almost 38 years injecting insulin, I’m dealing with a lot of scar tissue that affects insulin absorption and the glucose monitor sensor readings. Also, I’m a little too vain to wear the devices on my arms or legs during the summer, so that leaves the belly, love handles and butt.

And now, down there.

Okay. I know!!!! But when I first got started on the pump three years ago, the pump trainer suggested several spots that could be used, and told me she’d worked with a woman who routinely used her private parts. To which I said exactly what you would say, Ackkkk!!!! and Nooooo!!!! and WTFBBQ!!!! But then…there I was last week, needing to change my pump site, and I looked down at my freshly waxed self and thought: This would make an interesting blog post. Oh, the things I do for readers.

Before: OmniPod pump site on the right, Dexcom glucose sensor on the left

The belly, happy for a brief reprieve…

(Note to self: Next time when you’re going to take a belly photo? Suck in. Also? Wear nicer shorts.)

And Now, After

Okay, yeah, I’m not going to show you a photo. But I will give you a minute by minute breakdown of my first hour on the downthere-pod (or, the DTPod.) (Or perhaps we should call it the LPod.) (Think about it.) Because I realize you’re dying to know. And want you to vicariously feel my pain.

9:50 A.M.: Damn, this thing is big. It’s actually almost as big as the part of my body I’m going to be putting it on.

9:51 A.M.: I’m going to have a serious cameltoe issue. Ha! I should buy a Camelflage! (Sidenote: You MUST click on that link and be amazed that such a thing exists. A quote from the site: “You have enough to worry about these days; the last thing you need to think about is your panties riding up during your cardio kick boxing class.” I mean, really people? Really???)

9:52 A,M.: Okay, here we go.

9:55 A.M.: …Presses some buttons, fills pod with insulin, presses more buttons and then… Ouchohmygoshowowowowowowoooowwwww!!!!!

9:56 A.M.: …jumping up and down wordlessly…

9:57 A.M.: …heavy breathing…Okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay. But feel strangely weighted on one side, like I’ve been stricken with a weird tumorous growth.

9:58 A.M.: Is this how it would feel to have one testicle? I think this is the first time I’ve ever really thought about how it feels for men, carrying those testicles around everywhere they go. No wonder they’re always making adjustments.

9:59 A.M.: …Pulls up jeans, fastens them, takes a step, quickly unfastens and pulls them down again. Okay, I will not be wearing jeans for the next three days.

10:03 A.M.: …Newly clad in sweats, hobbles to couch, sits…Owowowowowowowowwwww!!!!

10:04 A.M.: …Spreads legs, settles self veeerrry carefully.

10:09 A.M.: …Tries to read newspaper for distraction, but minutes later thinks: Oh hell, there’s no way this site is going to stay sterile. What’s going to happen when I have to pee?

10:10 A.M.: …Suddenly really has to pee. Desperately tries to think of other things…

10:14 A.M.: OMG, I wonder if I’ll be able to feel it when I bolus insulin.

10:15 A.M.: …boluses 0.1 units, just to see… Nope. Oh well.

10:16 A.M: But wouldn’t it be interesting if the OmniPod vibrated, like other pumps do? Make it a dual-purpose device. And I could call it…the OrgasmiPod!

10:17 A.M.: …grinning at self…

10:18 A.M.: …unthinkingly lies back on couch with newspaper–immediately stops grinning…

10:20 A.M.: …lists things that can not be done while wearing the DTPod: Lying down without pre-thinking how to arrange one’s body; wearing jeans; crossing legs; peeing; sex…All things that people like doing. The OrgasmiPod will probably not sell well at all.

10:25 A.M.: …tests blood sugar to see how well the site is working…104! (Normal is between 80 and 120.) Not bad for post-breakfast! At least diabetes-wise, the DTPod is a success.

10:45 A.M.: …My husband enters the room carrying our 3-month old daughter and I offer to feed her, trying to look nonchalant as if I’m not wearing a medical device on my cootchie…

10:50 A.M.: …Elizabeth adds one more thing to her list: Holding a kicking baby on one’s lap. Tries to explain the dilemma to her daughter. Sorry, Anna, I can’t hold you right now for fear of squashing or actually amputating a very, very important part of my sex life.

So that was my first hour on the DTPod. Really I did get used to it after awhile; it stopped hurting (I may have developed calluses) and I stopped feeling like a huge bloated tick was hanging off me, and was actually able to engage in conversation without making squinchy faces. But…I won’t be doing this again.

Although interestingly, throughout the three days using this site, my blood sugars were excellent, only got high twice, and this was while I was vacationing on the beach with no fixed schedule, and lots of salt water taffy. Why? Because, um, labia have a lot of insulin-absorbing fat? Maybe I should write to Insulet, the OmniPod company, to see if they have any interest in my experiment, and want to do more research. Imagine the headlines on their website:

Pod Placement

Post from: Toy With Me

Is That a Medical Device On Your Hoo-Ha or Are You Just Happy to See Me?