Welcome Home

I was sitting on the porch in my pajamas still, drinking coffee and reading the paper (well, one of the newspapers I subscribe to on my Kindle) and my hand absentmindedly brushed my leg. I was surprised to feel a rough patch along the soft flannel. I looked and didn’t see a stain. I racked my brain for a moment. I’d just taken these pajama bottoms out of the dryer last night before bedtime. I hadn’t had a chance to spill anything on them.

Then I remembered.

An early morning blow job.

Mr. Scott came home yesterday after being gone for several weeks. He woke up early this morning from jet lag. I woke up just enough to realize he was awake.

After, as I snuggled up against him, I felt the cool moisture, the patch of flannel sticking to my leg. But I didn’t move away or clean up. We stayed snuggled in, alternating between dozing and kissing, until we heard our daughter wake up.

They’ve gone out now and I’m still sitting on the porch, drinking my coffee and fingering that little rough patch on the flannel and thinking about what’s to come later tonight.

Wicked Wednesday: Recollection

Last week I had a painful dental procedure done. It got me thinking about the various dentists I’ve been to and how some of them make me feel more relaxed than others. Going to the dentist is one of those necessities of modern life. For some of us it’s a necessary evil and because I move around a lot I rarely have the chance to settle in with a favorite dentist for the long term. I have a lot of anxiety around dental visits and need just the right person to calm me..

Last week’s dentist was quick and efficient but not necessarily relaxing, except for the relief that came from realizing that it was done in about an hour after they’d told me it would take ninety minutes.

One dentist I’ve had makes me feel more relaxed than any other. I could never exactly put my finger on why or how. He speaks gently. But deliberately. He’s awkward with small talk, but I can tell he makes notes to familiarize himself to make it seem like he’s remembering what I told him last visit. He’s cold in his brevity but warm in his tone.

I was discussing this with a friend who said he’d had a dentist experience that made him feel submissive even though he’s not submissive. Something in this particular dentist had sparked that feeling in him. And I think it’s the same with me and my dentist. He puts me in a trance of some sort. I want to please him by being a good patient. I trust him to do whatever he needs. To my teeth.

Dental erotica is definitely not my thing. Dentists and zombies are my top two turn-offs. But the trust I place in my dentist to handle a sensitive part of my body is similar to the trust of a lover.

 

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FFS Vaginal Contouring

It started with this tweet this morning:

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Suddenly everything else I planned on doing today was put on hold while I became consumed by the thought of vaginal contouring. What is it exactly? Judging by the photo it has something to do with applying make-up? To your vagina?

Let’s assume for a second that this is true. Don’t apply make-up to your vagina. First of all, your vagina is inside of you so no one will see it and it’s a huge waste of time and good make-up. And your external lady parts don’t need make-up, either. It assumes you take the time to be hairless down there. If you do, that’s fine, and if you don’t, that’s fine, too.

For me, the thought of one more point of grooming, for exactly whose satisfaction I’m not even sure, is just one more chore. I’d rather be having sex than doing chores. No partner of mine has ever mentioned he’d be more into me if I had more make-up on. Anywhere.

After I thought through the make-up scenario, I Googled “vaginal contouring” to see for sure what it is and I watched the first few minutes of the Ann Summers video. (This was not the easiest thing to do while sharing a house with my father and my child. But I triumphed. For you.)

It’s not about make-up. (False advertising click bait!) But it is one more point for women to feel insecure about. Vaginal contouring, or vontouring, is the insertion of a little device that stimulates collagen production in the vagina and labia, to make things plumper and thus tighter.

This article in Bustle claims it’s not about “a whole boatload of unnecessary vanity,” then goes on to say actually it is about vanity:

[I]t may be the solution for those looking give their vagina new look after childbirth. According to Dr. Giese, childbirth can mess with the plumpness of the vagina, as well as distorting its features a bit. And that’s not even including what it does to the actual opening. You push something the size of a watermelon out of your vagina, and things can be a little different afterward.

But vontouring isn’t only for women who have had children. It’s also for women who maybe aren’t so thrilled about the look of their vaginas in general.

And it’s so convenient that you can do it on your lunch hour or while your nails dry after a mani-pedi!

I read through several articles that all quoted the same statistic, that about 40% of the women who have had this treatment say it increases sexual pleasure. I’m suspicious of that stat. It seems to me that it’s impossible to say that the increase in pleasure is due to the physical outcome of the procedure, a placebo effect caused by a woman assuming there will be an increase in pleasure, or an increase in a woman’s confidence that actually has nothing to do with the physical outcome of the procedure. If it’s the placebo or the increase in confidence, that means the procedure itself is baloney.

Really, beauty industry? We do our hair and our nails and apply make-up to our faces. We pluck, wax, and shave all over. We stuff ourselves into Spanx and high heels. And I get it. We want to feel pretty and we all have different standards for what makes us feel confident and beautiful.

I draw the line at worrying about a part of the body that relatively few people actually see, compared to, say, a face. Believe me, I have my fair share of insecurities but it never once occurred to me to worry about how my vaginal area looks. Even after childbirth.

Men I’ve known both as sexual partners and otherwise have never once mentioned the way labia look as a deal-breaker. They’ve actually never mentioned the way it looks at all. They are pretty much pleased to see a cunt that is happy to welcome them in.

Women, I implore you, if you meet a man that you want to have sex with and he criticizes your vagina, kick him to the curb. Chances are he’s a selfish lover and the problem is him, not your vagina. Love your vagina and labia for the themselves and find a lover who will treat them right.

 

Choices

I chose not to have a threesome one time. I was casually dating a guy and on a hot summer afternoon he and his roommate appeared at my door. He said something along the lines of, “We were bored and thought a threesome would be fun.” I said, “No.” We had never discussed a threesome before. I didn’t like his roommate very much. In general I’m not against them, it just wasn’t a good idea that day.

He got mad and called me some names, then they left. I closed the door to my apartment and on that chapter of my life – we only saw each other once or twice after that. I pretty much forgot about that afternoon.

Lately, though, I’ve been wrestling with thoughts of if I was lucky or not that afternoon. So many women would have been coerced or bullied into sex, or outright assaulted or raped, after initially saying “No” to that situation. And the only thing that happened to me was two guys got frustrated and left my home. They may have been rude about it, but they didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do.

Considering today’s climate, I feel lucky. But I shouldn’t feel that way. All women should expect that if they say “No” to sex, the worst that happens is hurt feelings. All women should be able to expect their male acquaintances to be decent people.

The Stanford case has paralyzed me with anger. I’ve had trouble discussing it with people. I wonder, though, if mainstream opinions are finally catching on to the issue of rape and how it’s discussed. I hope so.

I shouldn’t be lucky. What happened to me should be the norm.

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The Outtakes

Thank you for all the lovely comments on my Sinful Sunday photo. You are all so kind and confidence-building.

Looking at the photo reminds me of all the awkward moments that led up to that one moment when I felt comfortable enough to want to share.

My husband and I are apart for several months, but I have a small child and a temporary housemate so genuine alone time is difficult to come by.

When I arrived at this house about six weeks ago, I unzipped a suitcase in the living room to grab something for my child and out fell three of my toys that I hadn’t realized my husband had moved from one suitcase to another when he was repacking my bags to redistribute the weight. Child and housemate were standing right there and I frantically threw a t-shirt over them.

My husband keeps sending me new vibrators to try out:

“Mommy! Mommy! You got a package from the mailman! Can I open it for you? Let’s see what it is!”

“Nooooo!!!”

I’m not very technically inclined. I use the radio in my car instead of the aux or the USB inputs because it’s easier. I use my phone for maybe one-fifth of the things it can actually do. It took me ages to figure out my first Lelo. It had four buttons! That was quite an upgrade from my previous one-button vibrators.

The one featured in Sunday’s photo can be controlled via my phone. But when I first got it, I turned it on with the buttons and I continued pressing buttons to see the different features. How it vibrates, how it rotates. But then I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. I threw it into the closet, where it thumped around and eventually found its rhythm banging against the wall, as I ran downstairs to download the app on my phone, and then use the app to turn off the vibrator, praying the whole time no one would come home early or drop in unexpectedly.

No sooner had I conquered that particular vibrator, a new one arrived in the mail. I played with it for about a week, consulting the manual and being slightly disappointed because it seemed like it should to more, for all the buttons it has. Determined, I finally figured it out last night. I was proud of myself. A lot of things have not been going well lately but I achieved a wonderful orgasm.

Some days it feels like that’s my greatest achievement.

Wicked Wednesday 1: Coach

It’s not on prompt but it’s been on my mind all day.

On my run this morning I slipped in some mud and it reminded me of another time I slipped in mud. It was my first run with my college coach. He was 25, fresh out of grad school. He was handsome. He wore a Louder Than Bombs t-shirt. I was 19, happy to run any distance he could set for me, and I was the only person on the team to recognize his shirt. We connected instantly.

For some reason I’d missed his first run with the whole team so he and I went out on our own a few days later. I wasn’t the fastest on the team but I could run the farthest distance. He wanted to see how far I could go. Around the ten-mile mark I took an amazing dive and was covered in mud. I was mortified. I was so uncool in front of this guy. He laughed, helped me up, and made sure I wasn’t injured. We were close to the school so we called it a day.

We had a scorching affair. Or an awkward one. Or one that ended badly. Or we lived happily ever after together.

Nothing happened between us. He was engaged to a woman he couldn’t stand, but wouldn’t break up with because they had been together so long. I was dating my way through the best runners on the men’s team. I was too naive to do anything about my attraction to Coach.

Or so I thought. After I graduated, teammates started asking me if Coach and I had been having an affair. I was surprised by the questions and rumors. At first I thought they were joking. “Seriously?” people said. “He spent more time with you than with anyone, including his fiancée.” I had no idea. I was clueless. Our close relationship as friends and our mutual love of running, the same music, and the same sports teams had led people to believe we were more than coach and athlete. We stayed up late having long talks in his office. When the team traveled we almost always sat together on the bus and in restaurants. It’s difficult for me to say now whether there were romantic overtones to our friendship back then or if my memory is altered because I want there to be.

I went to a Catholic college. I was no longer Catholic so sex as a sin wasn’t really on my personal radar anymore. It mattered to some of my friends, though, that the thought of Coach even crossed my mind a few times. At 19 so many of us are still carrying the marriage and monogamy ideal around and if you did anything to stray from the party line, it didn’t matter if you weren’t Catholic. The names still hurt.

Years later it was confirmed by my friends on the men’s team that Coach had been in love with me then and remained so for several years afterward. After I graduated our timing was always off. He was engaged or I was seriously dating someone. We were both single but living on different coasts. The crestfallen look on his face when I introduced him to my husband broke my heart a little.

I don’t regret not doing anything with Coach when I had the chance. Sometimes, though, on days like today when a memory of him comes back so strong, I do wonder what might have happened.

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked