Archive for December, 2008

Spread the Orgasm

I don’t know about you but when I feel broke, I become instantly infatuated with the words “free,” “sale” and “discount.” These days, what with my consumer identity shaken to its core by the world’s economic spin into oblivion, I don’t just love those words, I want to make love. Or, more specifically make orgasms. And not just because they’re free. But because it’s my duty. December 21st, 2008 was the Global-O, or Global Orgasm Day.

Yes, on this past Solstice millions upon billions of people (there’s no official reckoning) contributed a collective, physical orgasm to the universe, along with all the explosive energy that usually accompanies the release.

Did you feel it? Did you hear the entire planet moan, “Oh my god that was great?” Did you see the wave of peace, joy, compassion and well-being that floated around the planet like giant rings of smoke off the proverbial post-coital cigarette?

Lest you think I’m being silly, understand that he Global-O is a serious movement with anti-war roots. According to their website, the goal of the organizers is to shift the world towards justice and compassion. They’re testing the hypothesis that peace begins between the legs.

And they’re even measuring the effect with a device I can’t even pretend to understand. The Global-O is part of the Global Consciousness Project, which runs a network of Random Event Generators around the world. The Generators record changes in their randomness during global events. According to the website:

“Our minds influence Matter and Quantum Energy fields, so by concentrating our thoughts during and after The Big O on peace and partnership, the combination of high orgasmic energy combined with mindful intention for peace could reduce global levels of violence, hatred and fear.”

Wow. No performance pressure there.

Other than the quantum energy stuff, the other motive is to give the world a rest from consumerism. You know, ‘Get off those feet, stop all the running around and party planning, and screw a little, why don’t cha?’ (That’s not from the website.)

Sadly and amazingly, I have to report that I missed the whole event. Yes, I was out shopping. Some 20% off sale I couldn’t resist. Oh well, there’s always next year.

---

The Clairvoyant Between Your Legs

This goes under the category of, “What is happening to sex?”

Having recently read a curious post on the blog, “Why Women Hate Men,” I have decided to take on the topic of the clitoris, oral sex, and some men’s obtuseness as it concerns this prized activity technically known as cunnilingus (a name that I once gave a puppy and sadly, it stuck).

The post lacerated a 19-year-old guy in Las Vegas for writing a personal ad promising to bring delight to all whom responded to his free offer for unparalleled oral sex (his assessment). There was only one exception:  “smelly ugly girls” need not apply. Ah, a man of such discernment.

Now as seasoned, sexy women, we immediately write this impish knave off as the tongue-stud asshole he truly is. While at the same time taking pause to consider: is the state of oral sex so bad out there that some jerk thinks this is the only advertising claim he need make? One clit-licking offer, and boom, he’s The Tongue Man of the century?

Hardly.

In my experience, men fall into four buckets when it comes to oral sex. Bucket #1: they just don’t go “downtown.” In fact it’s “repulsive” to them. Could be a cultural thing. Could be they’re not into women. Could be I really don’t care.

Bucket #2 includes the guys who will do it when you push their head in that general direction. Usually this is after you’ve given them a blowjob and now you’re exercising the obligation guilt. They don’t hate it but they’re not crazy about it either. Usually, they’re just lazy.

The third bucket is for the guys, the blessed few, who start with oral sex, really enjoy it, get you off every time and leave you thinking, is he actually a she?

Then there’s the last bucket requiring some explanation as I stumbled upon it only recently while supine one evening.

Have you ever been with a guy whom you thought was so incredibly sexy that you wanted to make love forever? He’s got all the right moves, says all the right things, and when he kisses you, well, pardon my clichés, but it’s like two worlds colliding with stars exploding as you take a trip to the moon.

Except for one little problem. When it comes to oral sex, you just can’t come. And it’s not because he’s doing anything wrong. It’s just that he doesn’t realize the clit is connected to body, which is connected to the being, your being. Which makes the clit a kind of radar, a “clitdar,” so to speak.

Not to get all Tantra on you, but what I’m saying is the clit is another window to your soul. It’s so super-sensitive, so sourced with intuitive power, that it can pick up whether or not a guy is “okay,” as in, safe, “normal,” and trustworthy. If there’s anything amiss, the clitdar will sound the siren and shut down the whole operation.

Of course, you have no idea why this is happening. You are blinded by his sexiness. So you think, ‘It’s not him, it’s me!’ You pull out your mega-vibrator, about the size of a jackhammer, to complete the job. But trust me, eventually the truth will out itself. You will find the pea below the mattresses. And when you do, you’ll realize the clitdar was right. The clitdar is always right. At which point, you must step away from the jackhammer and probably him, too.

---

The Sex Schedule

After the age of forty or so, you think you’ve heard all the good lines. At least that’s what I thought until the prince (at the time still my younger boyfriend), uttered, “couples should see each other at least three times a week.” This was said with an air of authority and surety, like a cop pulling you over for a speeding violation, sirens shrieking and lights flashing crazily.

Now on the surface this may seem a reasonable statement. But let’s deconstruct everything. For starters, the prince is 28. I’m 47. We’d been together a year. Before you go off getting all “up and judgy” on that, just remember, nothing is as it seems. Life is a mystery.

I looked at the white wall in front of me as I pressed the phone to my ear, the words reverberating in my head. My brows furrowed slowly.

“Where’d you get that stupid rule?” I said spitting out the word ‘stupid.’ I sounded like an angry toddler.

“You don’t think a precondition of a relationship is actually seeing each other?” he said.

“Well, uh, I, hmmm.” I didn’t have a comeback. In the heat of the moment, my words always came later. Like a week later. At which point, it’s a “lateback” and useless. But I digress.

I blurted out something about how I didn’t put pressure on him when he got busy.

“That’s because I always make time for you,” he said quickly. “I schedule you in.”

I didn’t like his superior sounding ways. “You don’t schedule me in,” I said reaching through the phone for his juggler. “You schedule sex in. And when I’m not available you just get mad and then cut me off.” I huffed. “Admit it,” I said, “You’re breaking up because you’re not getting enough sex.”

He sighed deeply. “Even though you’re right,” he said, “I’m not getting enough sex, this isn’t about sex and you know it.”

I kept drilling on the same tooth, so to speak, but it was useless.

“I’m done,” he said. I can’t take this anymore.”

I don’t take rejection well and spent the rest of the night wallowing. I was thinking about a) Is that how it goes for the booty call generation? Does having sex means having a relationship and well, that’s all you have to do? (b) Is this what cougar life is cracked up to be? Not that I really consider myself a cougar but I thought it’d be easier than this. (c) Is it possible to just keep a relationship “light” once sex is part of the picture? Does sex automatically make the attachment deeper and more complicated, or is that just my little problem?

I didn’t have any answers. So I called Kate, a good friend with a couple of kids and the kind of husband who will wake her up in the middle of the night to dance naked under the full moon.

“How come you got a good marriage,” I asked sniffling. “You putting out regularly?”

Kate laughed. “Ok, what’s going on?”

I explained how I had just been dumped because I was too busy working to deliver sex three times a week.
“That’s so funny,” she said. “When my husband and I were first married, he said that he had to have sex three times a week. It was his only non-negotiable.”

“What a pig,” I said, “I can’t believe you still married him.”

“I told him my non-negotiable was sex at least every day.”

“Great, you’re a pig, too,” I screamed, “Am I the only one who can’t figure out how to make time for sex?”

“Sleeping together in the same bed every night definitely helps,” she consoled.

“There’s got to be more to it than that,” I said. “Can I hire people to organize all the crazy crap in my head?”

“You have to care about the other person’s needs,” Kate said seriously. “Which means they have to feel safe enough to tell you what those are. After my husband told me about his sex schedule, it made things a lot easier. Now when he picks a stupid fight, the first thing I consider, is this sexual frustration talking or something else?”

“Then what do you do?” I asked. “Pacify him with a blow job?”

“If I have to,” Kate said matter-of-factly. “You do what it takes.”

“Geesh,” I said huffily. “You’re so perfect. And such a martyr,” I mumbled under my breath.

I got off the phone with her and plopped on the bed. If Kate is right, I thought to myself, a woman needs only one relationship book. It’s short and it goes something like this, ‘put out or get out.’ (And don’t tell me that’s just the hurt talking.)

---

Tales of the Masturbators

Recently I did a poll canvassing my girlfriends about masturbation technique. I needed some fresh ideas. It was a Sunday night. There was nothing good to eat in the fridge. What the heck?

I wanted to know the basics. What, when, how and of course we all know why. Names have been changed to protect identities. I believe I might have forgotten to mention to everyone that I was even doing this post. Oh well. I’m sure they’ll love it.

Here goes:

Vain Fingers describes doing it in front of the full length mirror that hangs on her closet door. In a pinch, she’ll do it in front of the smaller mirror over her sink. Mascara, masturbate, eyeshadow, masturbate. You get the drift. The urge can hit her out of the blue, she says. Typically it’s triggered by putting on or taking off her bra and panties. (Maybe that’s Victoria’s Secret?) She grabs her trusty vibrator and standing with legs spread, “like in a yoga posture,” (forgive me, oh Guru), completes the task. Sometimes she puts high heels on and whips herself (just kidding!).

Soapy Fingers prefers a bathtub filled with bubbles and soft candlelight for mood. She’ll be shaving her legs and then maybe other places. Next thing you know, she’s rubbing herself in the other places with a bar of soap. She says it makes her come quickly, especially if she uses two bars of soap. As an experienced “soapabator,” she offers a note of caution: “soap stings on shaved skin.”

Brown Fingers (oops, I better not say that even though she’s a brunette – I’ll use Vibrating Fingers instead) starts by dipping her small vibrator in a jar of shea butter. Lying on her bed naked and spread eagle, she applies the vibrator on the inside rather than outside, which she simultaneously “massages” with her free hand. She says she read somewhere that the clitoris and the G spot are just two sides of the same coin, so she likes to “work it from both sides.” I didn’t verify this anatomical tidbit but I did star my notes here as worthy of further investigation.

His Fingers says she only masturbates with her boyfriend watching. I tried to explain that sort of defeats the purpose. “It’s a Tantra thing,” she defended. “We don’t have intercourse so as to accumulate the sexual energy and become really powerful.” I didn’t bother correcting her on the fact that Tantra involves refraining from actual orgasm, not intercourse. What they heck, they’re having fun.

English Fingers is, as you may have guessed, fond of the English cucumber. She hates the smell of plastic and silicone, so dildos are out and cucumbers are the new BF. She explained that she prepares by thoroughly washing and peeling the cucumber. She returns to bed with her green friend, snuggling with it under the covers to get the fridge chill off. “Is that like veggie foreplay?” I asked innocently. She didn’t answer. “Do you want me to continue?” She said in the voice of a stern librarian. I told her I got the picture and noted to myself to never eat cucumber salad at her house.

Web Fingers does it at her computer. Being an attorney, she doesn’t have a whole lot of time. This is her idea of parallel processing. Once in a while, she’ll check one of those sex video sites to move things along but that’s only if she’s (a) on a deadline, (b) on a business trip, and (c) on her personal laptop. Now whenever anyone says the word, “lapdance,” she thinks, “laptop,” and gets all excited.

Pillow Fingers is, I think, self-evident though at first, I didn’t think it was possible. She explained further. “I’ll be watching TV and my eyes will dart over to one of the throw pillows,” she said. “Next thing you know, it’s between my legs and I’m humping it. I can do it with any pillow.” No wonder some women love decorating so much, I thought to myself.

Dear Reader, could I make this up?  Can you add to the list? That’s a dare.

---