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-incrime ʼs 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 rockstar.) 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 aheavy 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 lockbox 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 lightbulb 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 lightbulb into his rectum and it broke.”

Post from: Toy With Me

So I was Fisting My Girlfriend……

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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

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The actual spot where the deed was done

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post from: Toy With Me

Sex On The Beach – Fantasy Fulfilled

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(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?

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So one evening a rabbi and a librarian walk into a pole dancing class…

It sounds like the beginning of an awesome joke, but I assure you Toy with Mes that it is not.  This really happened last week when my friend (we’ll call her The Rabbi because that’s what she is) and I decided to sign up for a Pole Dancing for Beginners class.

We were thinking of taking a yoga class or Chinese Aphrodisiac Cooking or AA or something but wound up with pole dancing.  I’m not sure how it happened and it’s not something I’d normally do because I’m not really very dancy.

I mean, I can Turbo Jam like a motherfucker, but put me in a position where I have to do some actual dancing and well, um.  No.

I just…no.

I took lots of dance classes when I was a little kid, and I don’t mind telling you that I thought I was pretty talented.  I practiced ballet, tap, and jazz like a pageant kid on crack until one day I overheard my mom ask my teacher how I was doing. The teacher was all “oh, you know.  She’s doing…fine.”

I was crushed.

I was expecting her to say “your daughter’s got some real talent, Mrs. Crissy!  She’s really quite something.  We’ve been thinking of moving her up to the advanced classes!”  But no.

That early trauma has sort of colored my dancing self-esteem ever since.

Fast forward thirty years (holy shit!) to last week, and I find myself  in an old re-purposed  mill building at a dance studio admiring the gleaming hardwoods, sky high ceilings, and velvety curtains. I got a little nauseous looking up at the ceiling with women’s names written in marker at the tippy top of the stripper poles.  The name “Crissy” was up there and I was like, “well, I can just go home now because my name is already up there” and I headed for the door, but The Rabbi wouldn’t let me leave.

The place was absolutely gorgeous and the staff was friendly, but I wasn’t so sure how this was going to go down due to my not dancyness and everything, PLUS it was the first day of an unusually heavy period (sorry boy Toy with Mes, but the ladies know how critical this piece of information is to the story) so I was wearing 5 lbs of bloat, had hideous fatigue, and was wearing a Diva Cup. Donning my tightest clothes and shortest shorts in a room full of mirrors and humping a stripper pole?  Sounded as enticing as running down the street naked with a bucket over my head, but there I was.

Our teacher is quite possibly the most muscular woman I’ve ever seen.  She’s totally diesel.  She’s got big but- not- too -big fake boobies and the most gorgeous ass.   I just wanted to ask if I could touch her.  And to top off the super sexyness, she’s got a Jamaican-British accent. It was hard for me to look at myself in the myriad of mirrors because the comparison between her muscular brown body twisting around the pole in perfect control to my bloated pasty one with arms flailing and legs akimbo?  Harsh, you guys.

As soon as we started the warm-ups, I knew I was completely fucked.  Our teacher simply hopped up, grabbed the pole above her head, and began lifting herself up and down without touching the ground.  She was basically doing sets of pull-ups.  I could not do this.  I could grab the pole, but the lifting was so not happening.

And then it came time to do a headstand with our backs against the pole and she just went “jooop!” right up against the it like it ain’t no big thang and the rest of us were just standing there, bent in half with our asses in the air looking at each other like, “no, no, nononononononono.  I’m not doing that.”  I  panicked because I feared what would happen to my Diva Cup when I stood on my head.  Would it spill and go back into my body and come out of my eyes or something?

Oh God!?!?

But she made me do it!  I was totally freaked out, but incidentally I did not bleed out of my eyes.  I might be late for class next time just so I don’t have to do that bullshit again.  Upside down is scary–I’m going to break my neck, I can just tell.

After the warm ups it was finally time to dance. She started off with a little Sade because it’s slow and sexy and then all of a sudden it was Lords of Acid and holy shit why are we flying in the air already?

Around and around the pole we went.  We went forwards, we went backwards, we hooked one leg around the pole, we hooked two legs around the pole, we kicked, we spun, we dropped it like it’s hot and before I knew it, the class was over and I couldn’t feel my arms anymore.

It was really, really, fun you guys.  Fun, but hard.  My arms were exhausted, and I have bruises on my ribs and legs because those spots make a lot of contact with the pole and they take quite a beating–especially when you’re a clumsy fuck like me and you sort of just smash into the thing instead of like, make sweet love to it or whatever like you’re supposed to.

Remember that scene with the fire pole from Bridget Jones Diary? It was a lot like that except I really could have used a helmet.  I might bring one next time.   They do that, right?  Strippers?  They wear helmets sometimes don’t they?

The next morning I couldn’t pull my pants up because my arms were so wrecked.  As I sat with incredibly deep and pervasive muscle soreness I realized that pole dancing is a lot less about sex and a lot more about gymnastics than I used to think.

I’ve got five more classes, and guess what? There’s a recital at the end!  Don’t worry–Ken has already started preparing for the videography.

Anybody got a DIY pole kit they need reviewed?  I’m gonna need to practice.

Post from: Toy With Me

My First Pole Dancing Class = Hilarity

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All that I know is that when I first heard that I was supposed to some day put the sausage like appendage dangling between the legs of the boys I so desperately wanted to kiss, I sort of wanted to vomit. It just seemed so UNROMANTIC to me. I’d always pictured My First Time with lots of diamonds and unicorns and fluffy clouds, not with a penis in my mouth. Even the penis of the dude that I was crushing on so madly that I could hardly focus on anything else. In my fantasies, he was supposed to tell me of my radiant, haunting beauty, not suggest that I suck on his balls. It just all seemed so…wrong.

As I got older, I fell in with a group of guys who seemed to think of me as a guy…with boobs! Something that would probably explain why I am able to freely sit around and listen to people talk about their poop without wanting to toss my cookies. It also accounts, in small part, for my colorful vocabulary, so I guess I should publicly thank them for this. Thanks, Metal Heads, for the term “meat curtains” something that, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to find not hysterical.

But since I was seen as one of the guys, they thought nothing of talking about sex with me, and since as teenagers, pretty much all we ever thought about was The Sex, we spent a whole lot of time discussing it. Most of us spent more time TALKING about it than actually having it, which was a good thing for our sexually transmitted disease count, but a bad thing for our hormone levels. They talked a lot about blow jobs, something that I had studiously watched in many a porno but never had much experience with.

Apparently, since this was before most of us had The Sex on a regular basis, blow jobs were considered The Holy Grail to my guy friends which made them all the more fascinating and mystical to me. Not mystical enough to use them as practice, of course, although they regularly petitioned, because that just seemed somehow wrong to me. What I frequently pointed out to them was that although they would go on and on about how amazing getting oral sex was from their girlfriends, not a single one of them would actually reciprocate. GETTING it was okay, but GIVING it was not. This would sadly be a running theme I would see for years to come.

Many years later, in fact for my birthday one year, I was out and about with my boyfriend and we happened to be getting down and dirty in a parked car, because that’s what you do when you’re in college and don’t have a place of your own yet: you screw around in cars. Let’s talk about glamorous. So, we’re making out, and he pulls the, You Never Go Down On Me card out of his back pocket. On my fucking birthday no less! It’s one thing to ask for Mr. BJ on any given Sunday, it’s another to be guilted about something on your birthday, the one day of the year that should be full of the awesome, right?

Aunt Becky is okay with most things. Aunt Becky is HAPPY with most things (except talking about herself in third person which is kind of stupid except when necessary because it’s funny when other people do it but not when SHE does it). Aunt Becky HATES to be guilted about anything ESPECIALLY when a simple, “Hey, CAN YOU…?” will suffice. But then I was young and dumb and my balls were only made of rubber. Now they’re made of platinum, baby, and I would have told him to shut the fuck up and go down on ME for being a bung-hole on my birthday, because REALLY? My BIRTHDAY?

Anyway, so there I am, going downtown, and I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was the wind blowing at an exact thirty-five degrees north-by-northwest. Maybe it was the angle of the motherfucking dangle. Maybe it was the pie I’d eaten for dinner. Maybe it was the particular shape of the moon. Maybe it was the third leaf of the ash tree on the fifth branch tilted just so. Maybe it just was. I don’t fucking know.

What I DO know is this: when the moment arose, your favorite Internet Aunt, the one who will one day show up at your holiday party in a very festive sweater and drink all of your vodka and make a spectacular ass of herself and probably you too, Your Aunt Becky did the unthinkable: she fucking barfed. All. Over. Herself.

Oh yes, I tossed my ever-loving cookies onto my pretty purple dress that I’d bought for my birthday effectively ruining it forever, because who wants to wear a dress that’s been bathed in a mixture of barf and spooge? Not fucking me, that’s for sure.

And as for him, pants still undone, penis slowly deflating, he looked at me with a mixture of shock and horror. I simply sat there, shocked. I wasn’t embarrassed, no, not yet. I was too shocked by my body’s reaction to be horrified.

Instead, I gathered the last shred of dignity that I had, calmly wiped my mouth with some fast food napkins leftover from lunch, and said, “So, you gonna go down on me now?”

He scrambled to open his door, barely making it outside before he tossed his own cookies. I smiled.

Revenge is a dish best served barfy.

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The Story Of The Birthday Blowjob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Post from: Toy With Me

In Search Of A Crystal Studded Ball Gag

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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What Does A Girl Wear To A Gay Bondage Conference?

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The Sex and Cruisin’

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Toy With Me, I’m going to tell you a story that I don’t think I’ve told anywhere else, probably because it’s taken me close to ten years to get over the humiliation of it. As someone who has carefully documented my colonoscopy for the whole Internet to see, this goes to show you that even Your Aunt Becky has the potential to be embarrassed. And how.

As most of the good shameful stories go, mine starts with a bottle of Boone’s Farm. It was the only bottle of Boone’s Farm that I’ve ever drank before or since, mostly because that shit is for puss-bags and underage girls and also because it tastes like liquid assholes. Now, at the time I was an underage girl (and probably a puss-bag) and I’d never been exposed to the wonders of wine coolers, mostly because that’s not the way I roll, but the person I’d gone halvsies with decided that blackberry wine was where it was AT. So we drank it and I got stupidly drunk. Luckily, I didn’t have anywhere to go except for my boyfriend’s room, so that’s where we went.

My boyfriend at the time lived in a very un-classy bachelor pad with three other guys (and one working bathroom). Being a nineteen-year old vixen and beyond wasted on cheap wine, I insisted that he crank up the music to eleven in his bedroom before we started getting our freak on. It was probably three in the morning, no problem for a night owl like myself, but plenty of problems for his roommate immediately to his right, who had to work in the morning. But we were stupid and drunk and had no immediate thoughts beyond, “loud music is good,” “tacos are a delicious wonderfood,” and “Boone’s Farm should be imbibed!” Clearly our logic was impeccable.

So there we were, about as wasted as I’ve ever been, getting our very drunken freak on in his tiny bed, Your Aunt Becky ridin’ dirty, when all of a sudden the door bursts open and his roommate (the one that hated me and picked a fight with me about nothing at every single turn) screams, “TURN THAT FUCKING MUSIC DOWN!”

Startled, woozy and now completely off balance, I then tipped over to my left. I miscalculated just how far to the left I could go and then toppled entirely off of the twin bed and onto the hard floor with a gigantic SPLAT! As if that wasn’t shameful enough, my naked ass sprawled out on the cold, hard ground, laughing hysterically, on the way down, I’d managed to expel all of the air that had been previously trapped inside in a loud, “FWWWPPPPPPP.”

Oh yes, yes, I managed to let out the world’s loudest queef in front of not only my boyfriend, but his friend, whom I hated with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns. Even over the cranked-up music, the queef echoed clearly around the room like a gunshot. I’m half-way surprised that the neighbors didn’t call the police.

What do you do in that situation besides laugh? Because that’s all that I could do. And that’s precisely what I did. If you’re going to be seen by your archenemy naked as a jay-bird, spread-eagled, drunk after having just emitted the world’s loudest queef, I can think of no better solution than to laugh your ass off. Well, that or scamper into the bathroom, for a good, shameful cry, but that’s not the way Your Aunt Becky rolls.

Now, I’m entirely aware that queefing is an entirely NATURAL phenomenon and normally, it’s one of those things that just sort of happens when you’re having particularly vigorous sex and you kind of titter about it later on, or, if you’re me, you laugh about it as it happens. Because if you can’t laugh DURING sex, why the hell not? But this, this was in an entirely new galaxy. It was like God was punishing me for drinking Boone’s Farm and having premarital sex.

I’d like to say that I got up, brushed myself off and stood haughtily before addressing my boyfriend’s roommate with some snappy retort like, “Knock much?” But I didn’t. I sat there on the floor laughing like a hyena on speed for a good twenty minutes while my boyfriend scurried over to his computer and turned down the music, ashamed of the scene I’d inadvertently created. He had daddy issues and was always bowing down before his roommate, terrified to piss him off.

Eventually, the cold from the floor seeped into my naked butt and I realized that I probably should put some clothes back on. Slowly, I wobbled back into an upright position and began to put on my clothes. My boyfriend watched from the other side of the room, clearly still a little put out by the whole situation which was a clear sign for me that he was not The One. Anyone who couldn’t see the humor in the situation, no matter how grotesque, was probably not someone I could date.

I settled in on the couch to sleep off the effects of the Boone’s Farm, vowing never, ever to take another sip of The Devil’s Poison ever again and once the room stopped spinning, sleep crept in. As the morning broke, the roommate woke up, and spying me on the couch, made certain to make as much noise as humanly possible on his way out the door. Head clanging loudly but shockingly sober, I pulled on my boots and winter coat and slogged out the door while glaring in the direction of my (now) ex-boyfriend’s room.

It seems that the indelicate nature of a queef could ruin actually a relationship. His loss, really. I mean, imagine if I’d farted at the wrong moment. I’d have been marched up and down the street with PARIAH on my face for the whole world to see.

So, Toy With Me-ers, do tell. What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you during sex? I want your nitty-gritty, most shameful, embarrassing stories. You can always go anonymous here if it’s really that bad. But I’m doubtful that you can top being dumped over a queef. Take your best shot.

Post from: Toy With Me

Lets Talk About This One Time I Queefed

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