Roundups & Reflections

This week's Friday Sex Blog Roundup features some hot bloggers reminiscing about the past. Which got me thinking about The Year of yOur Lord, 2008.

I'm not normally a Best Of... kind of girl, but occasionally, especially since I'm so self-actualized (Thanks, therapy!), I wax nostalgic. Things you can learn from your past, and all that.

So.

You know the feeling you get when you can't remember when you spoke with someone last, and you're kind of okay with it? And you realize that, well, maybe you don't miss them quite as much as you always thought you might?

I've had a few of those this year.

It's sort of like the relationship that ended even though--or maybe because--you needed the other person like oxygen--like air. The aching and longing, the torturous suffering and heart-rending seems to last forever until you realize, one day, that you haven't thought about him at all. And you feel a little stronger for it.

The latter is pretty self-affirming. It's a Gloria Gaynor kind of feeling. A dance-around-the-house-pumping-fists kind of feeling. An I don't need you, check my shit out, I Am Sasha Fierce, Bitch kind of feeling. The former just leaves you hollow and sad, wishing you cared more than you do, and sort of ambivalent about picking up the phone because, hey, you've made it this many days/weeks/months without involving yourselves in each others lives, and things are mostly fine.

And dealing just takes so much effort.

You live your life, because that's what people do. And eventually, when a boy holds back telling you that he loves you--and you actually want him to say it, and would probably return the sentiment even though it freaks your shit out--you understand that the person you thought you needed like air would have likely suffocated you in the end.

I wish you all a Happy New Year. May all your wishes become horses. Do the work if you wanna ride.

Speaking of Pussy...

Last night I went to an office holiday party with a friend. It's a small office, a personal training facility, actually, and the party was at this bar I'd never been to.

Cool. So I take off my coat, get introduced to the "big boss" (who's like, 23 years old), shake his hand and compliment him on his choice of venue.

"I've actually never been here before, so this is great," I said, in a friendly, outgoing way.

His response: "Yeah, it's usually a much younger crowd in here, so that's not surprising."

Um.

What?

The dude totally insulted me and the best bit was, he didn't even know it.

He was nicer to me later, when I was talking to his septuagenarian employee, Dick. Dick, who stood well over six feet. Dick, with his boiled wool striped Santa Fe vest. Dick, whose lank body leaned in toward mine while we talked, his kind eyes shining like a boy's. Dick, who was pretty taken with me, and with whom, truth be told, I was pretty taken.

It's nice being appreciated for your wits and your tits.

Boss Boy came up to Dick and me and tried to get in on our conversation, but his remarks were flat. Dumb. Inexperienced. Green, and not in the Ed Begley, Jr. way.

When I encounter boys like Boss Boy, I'm always relieved that I don't have to teach them about how to treat a girl. His stupid remark might have taken me by surprise, but it offered me an insight into his insensitivity and self-centeredness: He probably has no idea where to find a G-spot, and he probably has never made his girlfriend come by licking her pussy.

Speaking of pussy, here's my latest Sex Blog Roundup, courtesy of Fleshbot.

If.

A couple weeks ago I had a phone conversation with Aaron, my Californian Friend-in-Fornication (That's so much nicer than Fuckbuddy, don't you think?). He'd told me about a girl he was seeing, and I asked about their date the night before. He told me all about her: she's smart, funny, enthusiastic with the blowjobs and a tad clingy. I understood immediately. I know that type.

I also know this: I can't tell Aaron about anyone I'm seeing, or he'll get jealous. We both know this, and I've gotten accustomed to not bringing up sex I've had with other people. It's not like I see him more than a couple times a year anyway, so why bother with/worry about all that? We've known each other forever. I've had sex with him now for more years than I was married, but I can count the number of movies we've seen together on two fingers. Our relationship pretty much defines the "It's Complicated" status on Facebook.

But I started to wonder, what would happen to that relationship if he got serious and exclusive with someone? What would happen if I did? It seems wrong that we would just not ever see each other again.

So I, in a premenstrual funk and against my better judgment, started that conversation.

In the midst of my mediating arguments between kids, taking special requests for dinner, and removing a splinter from the foot of an eight-year-old, I asked what might happen if we found ourselves in that solution.

And somewhat to my surprise, he came up with a great solution: If either of us decides to be monogamous, we'll have a last fling in Vegas.

Nice, right?

He said this: He doesn't see himself becoming exclusive with anyone, any time soon (me, neither, except I find myself thinking about that more and more); he thinks I'm hilarious and fucking smart and we have incredible sexual chemistry.

I don't see a future with him, seriously, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of just tossing him aside like yesterday's crossword.

I am not comfortable tossing people aside.

Which is why, last week, I got a little freaked out when my friend (with whom I have not had sex) Luke put his arms around me and said, "I like you a lot."

And I like him. But I don't think I like him "a lot." So now what?

There are people I like a lot, but here I go, getting emotional and forgetting to live in the moment. Thinking about what ifs.

I like my life just fine, at present, but I think I could enjoy it a whole lot more.

And, you know, I've never been to Vegas.

Best. Trailers. Ever.

Got a case of the Mondays? Bet I can turn that frown upside down!

Seriously. I think I've been clear on my stance that certain porn has the power to cheer even the dreariest of days (and it certainly is dreary out there today; hey, Hurricane Ike, what's up?)

I've seen a lot of Internet porn--low to highbrow--and I have to say that the trailers on FuckingMachines.com are probably my favorite appetite-whetting (I said whetting) tidbits ever.

In fact, I own several video shoots that I keep on my external hard drive for, you know, days like this.


Nothing says Happy Monday like white cotton and a Sybian. Enjoy!

Wednesday Wank: The Flex A Pleasure

My, oh, my.

When I saw the Flex A Pleasure, I thought, "Well, this should be interesting."

I was right.

Given my love for bullet vibes and simultaneous G-Spot + clit stimulation, it seemed a perfect match. The Flex A Pleasure, made by that renowned institution of sex toy manufacturers, Doc Johnson, is basically two bullet vibes connected by a small, flexible piece of plastic tubing. Each bullet obviously has its own motor, but the pair are controlled by a single dial.

See? Simple.

Did I mention it's waterproof? Um, it's waterproof.

Now, I don't really NEED another bullet vibrator, but I'd like to find ONE that actually fits my particular shape. I've yet to find a rabbit (or beaver or dolphin) vibe that lines up with my parts, and that's what impressed me about the Flex A Pleasure: The customization factor.

I whipped out the Flex A when Kelly and I met for an afternoon rendezvous last week. He looked suitably impressed and not at all threatened, as sometimes happens with those huge vibrators that tend to make men feel smallish. Nope, he whistled, flashed me a grin and took hold of the connecting tube.

I'm more of a sensation gal than a size queen, so the fact that there was no discernible shaft wasn't an issue; if you like to be filled and stretched by your vibes, this is probably not for you. But here's what got me: Kelly was holding it inside me, pushed up against my g-spot, and I took the other end and bent it up to my clit.

Yeah, it was like Tag-Team Coming.

THEN, we discovered the most impressive (in my opinion, natch) use of the Flex A Pleasure: Kelly pulled it out of me and fucked me while I held the other end on my clit...from seven inches away. Think about it: when you're banging and you need a little extra bump, you reach for your little bullet vibe, right? Except that you've got to hold your hand and wrist there--in the space where your sweetie is slamming into you--or else you don't get off. That can get a little tricky, especially when you try to reposition your legs.

So, by holding the Flex A Pleasure by one bullet and straightening the connector, you can stimulate your clit with the other and not have any impediments to good old-fashioned banging.

Overall, I give the Flex A Pleasure three out of five stars, purely for personal, subjective reasons: 1. It uses a size N battery. Who has those on hand when stuff runs down? 2. It's made of plastic and jelly. It's a very thin coating of jelly, which makes me wonder why it's there in the first place, and my uber-sensitive nose could smell it. Unforch.

I love that it's waterproof, though, and the control knob is studded with little rubber grips so you don't lose control completely mid-wank. That's a nice touch. Also, it's pretty powerful, and comes in pretty colors, too. Naturally, mine is pink.

Maybe better suited to me would be the Slimline G Twin; it's made of hard plastic, with no smelly jelly.

I think I will still use the Flex A Pleasure, though, because I totally want to use it as a butt toy, and tossing a condom on the plastic bullet and warming up pre-buttseks sounds like a hole lotta fun.

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