They post articles about how sexist our president is. And op-eds decrying Harvey Weinstein and Hollywood. They are all about #metoo hashtagging. (These are not bad things! Just wait to see my point.) They are my friends on Facebook (which is why I’m writing this here rather than on my “IRL” blog, because I’m not ready to be that publicly confrontational yet).

When one of my friends shared an article about Colin Firth and his wife, Livia Giuggioli, separating several years ago and she had a romantic involvement with another man during that separation, I shouldn’t have been surprised, although I was, to see all the comments criticizing Giuggioli. They were appalled that any woman lucky enough to be married to Firth would choose to sleep with another man. They have this idea of Firth being a perfect man and since they love the image they have of him, any woman who would deign to think differently must be crazy. The judginess of it all, after everything they’ve posted about sexual assault and misogyny, was more than I could stomach.

I called them out on it. There was no response to my comment but also no new comments on my friend’s post. Did I get through to them or did the conversation naturally lose momentum by the time I’d made my comment?

Ladies, we have to stop doing this. After all the outrage and revelations of sexual assault in the workplace last year, we can’t turn around and judge a woman for choosing to separate from her husband or have an outside romance (with a consenting adult) no matter how dreamy we find the public persona of that man. One person isn’t always the right person for someone else for eternity and everyone has the right to assess their relationships and make decisions about staying with a person or not. Also, these are people we don’t know personally. We know nothing about the reality of their relationship.


February 7 and Wicked Wednesday: Rainbow


I love rainbow-stripe clothing. It makes me so happy to see those colorful stripes.

That’s the Wicked Wednesday post I started to write to go along with a FebPhotofest picture for today.

But last night Mr. Scott took out a toy we haven’t used in awhile and it reminded me of the time we used it, which happens to be the last time I saw a rainbow, also.

We’d dropped off our daughter for a sleepover with friends and rushed home to have sex before we had to go out ourselves. We were going to a surprise party so we had to leave by a certain time. With that toy, however, Mr. Scott kept me on edge for so long that by the time I finally came, there was no time for a shower. I barely had enough time to throw my clothes on and smooth down my hair a bit.

It was a summer evening. It was sunny between passing thunderstorms. On the drive to the party, down a long, straight highway, one of the largest, brightest rainbows I’d ever seen stretched over the road. It stayed with us for several miles before the next storm caught up to us and made it dissipate.

I knew I looked like I’d just had sex. I wondered if people at the party would smell it on me. I felt sexy and confident. I wanted to say to everyone there, “We are parents and in our forties and we just had great sex.” Instead, however, I brought up the amazing rainbow we’d seen on the drive down. Most others had seen it, too. And I wondered who else had the same pre-party secret as us.

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

February Photofest


“Libraries Gave Us Power”

Quiet room. But not entirely still. Swoosh of turning pages, heavy sighs, chair leg pushing across smooth carpet. Run my fingers down the spines of the books. Feeling the fabric. The cardboard. The little reference number stickers with the corners starting to peel off. Breathe in deep. Old paper and new.

A creak in the floor announced my presence. I froze. My cheeks flushed. I prayed no one would look up and see me.

Even as a small child I knew there was something illicit about going into the grown-up room of the library. Even though I was so small I didn’t know the word illicit. I had to walk past the stern librarian to get there. Heart pounding. I always kept my eyes forward to avoid her stare and any questions.

I’d smile. I knew I was doing something wrong. But by whose standards, I wasn’t sure. My parents didn’t care. So why did anyone else? Except that it was a small town and everyone cared.

I’d walk down the aisles. I never looked for anything specific. I just enjoyed the thrill of being there. Of not knowing why exactly if felt so thrilling.

The grown-up room was mostly nonfiction, however. The juicy romance paperbacks were kept on a spinner rack next to the librarian’s desk, directly under that stern glare. It was my next challenge, once I outgrew the thrill of the grown-up room.

I’d spin the racks slowly. They always let out a groan of protest. Even with my back to the desk, my cheeks would heat up and go scarlet, knowing the librarian looked up at the noise. Slipping out an old paperback worn smooth, peeking at the cover.

I was certain everyone in the library was watching me, a gawky, nerdy young teen, with no boobs and no chance of having a boyfriend, pick up books from the romance shelf. Taking those books to the desk was like an out-of-body experience. This was back when you had to hand your books over to the librarian and the town was so small, there were no library cards. The librarian knew who your parents were. I pretended to ignore the books I was checking out. I’d absentmindedly finger the corner of a bookmark or flyer left on the desk, avoiding eye contact with everyone in hopes they wouldn’t remark on my books.

Now I want it to be someone’s business. I have the power, not the stern librarian. I can request anything from The Purity Myth to Lady Chatterly’s Lover to Little Birds from the library and someone has to find that book and put it on the shelf for me. Someone will think about me reading that book. Someone will see me reading that book. And maybe that someone will think about reading that book themselves. Give in to the thrill.

This if for Exhibit A’s Song Lyric Contest. Check out the entries HERE.

Receiving Head

If anyone, even Mr. Scott, asks “How can I pleasure you?” I’m likely to answer, “Get me a glass of wine and some chocolate chip cookies and leave me alone to watch an episode of West Wing.” A couple years ago I read a blog post by a woman who said she also dreaded those words even though she loved oral sex. (I wish I could remember where I read that!) It made me so happy to know I wasn’t the only woman like this.

This is one area of my sex life where I want someone to take charge (in a trusting, consensual way of course). Grab me and pull me to you. Put your hand in my pants and feel my wetness. Pull my underwear off. I want to lie back and let you do what you have learned through careful research are the things I love. (Mr. Scott seems to really enjoy doing all that research.)

I like a lot of things and it’s tricky to find the right combination sometimes. I know how to get myself off in about five minutes when I need a maintenance orgasm but working this out with someone else, even a long-term partner who knows me well, isn’t always easy.

I love having my clit worked over. Sometimes lightly. Sometimes firm pressure. Sometimes rubbing hard. Wide tongue lapping (although not like a slobbery dog), deliberate tongue tip flickering.

I love having something inside me. Fingers hitting my g-spot. The surprise of a cold, large, stainless steel dildo. A small vibrator delicately inserted. I often close my eyes and don’t know what Mr. Scott is up to until I feel it.

When I need something specific I’ll say so. If something is uncomfortable or for any reason not working I’ll say so.

I know this isn’t exactly a precise road map to my oral pleasure. I don’t have a lot of patience if things aren’t going right but I’ll put a stop to it and suggest trying something else if it’s not working. It takes a lot of patience on my partner’s part and the ability to read me and a willingness to learn about me. But once you figure it out, take charge. Be enthusiastic. Let me relax and enjoy myself. Because once I hit the zone I’m not going to be able to say much, or do anything other than lose myself in the moment, and you’ll be on your own for a bit. Carry on with whatever you’re doing until either orgasm or further instructions.

I was listening to Louder than Bombs this morning while I took a break from writing this post to have breakfast. When this song came on it made me smile, bringing my mind back to this topic. I really do like to stretch out and wait.

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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:


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.



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!”


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