The following is part of Lilu’s TMI Thursdays. Visit Live it Love it for more.
I remember the first time we picked up the lube at the sex shop. It amused me to see such a “hardcore” image on the packaging itself. And that typeface! In heavy sans serif calling my name as if to say “FUCK ME IN THE ASS WITH HELVETICA!” Penthouse Black Label Heavy Duty Anal Lube. It was sexy indeed. A designer who’s trained to appreciate beauty can’t help but buy the lube with imagery. Imagine…
You, me and Helvetica. We got a date. Place your fingers in the container and then your fingers on my ass and play. Play that punky emocore Blood Brothers shit that makes me feel 7 years younger and in art school. I know it’s no longer my usual fare, but babe, this isn’t my usual night. Remembering the night I was hopping up and down covered in sweat and pushing bodies against me in a musical orgy of sound. Remembering the night they opened for Glassjaw. Or the night the cute boy who loved Poison the Well found out I loved Poison the Well. Back when the same music taste meant you were perfect together, instead of things that really matter like lifestyles and values. He asked me out and I said no because I’m an idiot. I can only imagine what would have happened if I said yes, in his white, Anglo-Saxon, privileged counter-culturalism that made me think he’d fuck on the first date. I’ll stroke your cock with heavy duty anal lube. Make sure you’re ready to ravage my Asian ass. Make me scream higher than that blood curdling Blood Brothers as you place your big cock in me bareback and ride. Ride, baby, ride.
I’m giving away my Heavy Duty Anal Lube to a random commenter because I simply have no use for it any longer.
1) I am currently at a Zen monastery living a monastic and ascetic life. (Yes, I am aware I am a woman of paradox.)
2) I am single.
3) Obviously, with one and two combined, I am celibate (one year, five months and still going strong).
4) I don’t want to use the lube on a future partner because it’s tainted with bad ex karma.
5) I understand the value of impermanence and do not want to hold on to it any longer.
6) I am willing to give the rest away to a worthy person. There is still a lot left!!
If anyone wants FREE Floreta approved anal lube, comment now!! Comment as much as you’d like. Tweet this. Whatever. Each tweet or comment gives you another entry. What, you don’t want used lube? Try me. ^_~
UPDATE: Happy April fools. Hope you enjoyed my humor.
I’ve got a penchant for you and a penchant for sake. So sake to me. I mean, lets be honest here. When I’m feeling kinda tipsy, I like to talk about sex, do you concur? When do I NOT like talking about sex, though, really? Other than spirituality, the two are my favorite topics. Scrumptious. Like you. Like me. How’s that apple tasting? Juicy, I hope.
Oh, about that sex thing. I would, with you. Lets be honest. I’m attracted to you. You’re the hottest thing since sliced bread. I want to butter you up and then taste you. Is that chheesy? is that bad? Sorry for the drunken heart-t0heart. I don’twant to cheapen our conversation. But it’s truth. The things I would do to you. We’ll wrestle on the white beach sand and get dirty. so dirty. Dirty enough to take off all our clothes and go skinny dipping. /oops, did I say that out loud? Well, I’ve got to cross that off my bucket list someday, somehow. I’m still a virgin, in that regard. Will you help devirginize me? Sorry. I’m not so eloquent with my sake. Uno mas!
I’d bite in to your flesh. Gently. Lick chocolate fondue all the way down to your naughty bits. Hot and tasty. Make your raspberry swirl. Yes, I stole that from Tori. Have you ever seen her play piano with her hands? Two-timing synths in a manage-a-tois with her in the middle? Looking all orgasmic? The things she can do with her hands… And tongue. The way she cocks her head against the microphone. Breathing into it. So close she could touch it. Open her mouth and tease. Liptstick red and ready for that palpable touch. Hot damn. Tori. Us bisexuals. We know how to party. I’d like to be HER man. Oh, where was I? Oh yes. You. And me. The whole thing seems terribly romantic. And just my style. No commitments. No promises. No expectations. I’ll trt not to mess it up with you. But I’m a hopeless romantic. You’re just hopeless. That’s Bouncing Souls. Don’t think my 90s pop culture references are just smashing redheads now. Those punk-rock boys make me wet too. Nipple piercings, shaved heads and tattoos. Take me, now. Hit me. And I mean kiss me. Show me I’m alive and breathing. Pull a punch and then pull my knickers down and ravage me. I’ll put up a good fight. Today’s a good day to die, but it’s also a good day to live. Let’s go.
Part of LiLu’s TMI Thursdays. Click for more awesomely bad posts.
I was eight years old when I discovered how “tingly” it felt to run my fingers around my little girl parts. I only ever did it over panties. But it felt good. And I’d rub furiously. Learning friction was fun. It felt like being tickled.
Mom caught me one day, under the blankets. A little mound of fast hands. She told me that was bad. And that I shouldn’t do it anymore. She might as well have told me it was the devil. I didn’t know what this was, or what I’d done, but I felt so ashamed. No one told me this was wrong.
Masturbation wasn’t something I learned about again until years later as a teenager. With the wonderful advent of the internet, I could search information that put my health class to shame. Internet forums. Detailed how-tos on blow jobs, masturbation, tips and techniques. Diagrams of the vulva. Learning what the clitoris was.
I had my fair share of seedy internet guy friends. The ones that would show me naked pictures of their fat, erect dicks against rulers. One dick, with a quarter on top to show the relationship of girth. If the quarter were a person, and his dick were a bed, it’d be a king sized one. That’s for sure. But, I didn’t care about braggy pictures. Not as a virgin, probably, not even now. As much as I like men who are “as big as my wrists”, guys who get all high and mighty about their big dicks really turn me off. Which is to say probably every guy “as big as my wrists”. If only dicks weren’t attached to egos, but that doesn’t stop me from liking them.
I had a Mormon friend who got asked once if she’d ever looked at her pussy. I mean really looked at it, in a mirror. Studied it. Enjoyed it. Some guy suggested she should, on the internet. Weird things can happen on the internet, and she was horrified. She’d never do such a thing!
Really, looking at your own pussy is a great learning process to self-exploration. And so, if she wouldn’t do it, I would! I didn’t tell her that, but I just grabbed a hand-held mirror one day and looked. That whole debacle inspired me, I guess. I turned the mirror round and round. Switching from normal view to magnified view and back again. I’d look at myself spread out on the floor, with a full length closet mirror in my parent’s room. Back against their bed, gazing, touching, feeling. I’d stare closely at my clit, rub it furiously then stare closely at it again. I read that they were supposed to enlarge after stimulation, and I wanted to see it happen.
Sixteen was when I learned about masturbation. When it clicked that this was the name for something I had discovered at age eight. When I’d read about orgasms and what they were and what they felt like. How you could tell when you were having one. These experiments were done home alone, of course. I think being sixteen was kind of a late bloomer, but I’m sure I made up for it.
The bathtub technique intrigued me. Everything I learned from Google. Because who knew you could orgasm from water pressure? Hot tubs. Showerheads. Unfortunately, they were not available, but the bathtub was. I masturbated every day that year. Sixteen was a good year. A very good year.
Each night, I’d take a shower and then finish off with the faucet running until the hot water got cold. I’d lie against my back, prop my hips up with the strength of my arms to hold it; like some crazy yoga move. I’d practice the art of orgasm. Moving myself in minor adjustments to hit the spot just right. Undulating my hips up and down until the feeling seemed unbearable and I’d invert my back to an arch with my head still against the mat; like a sardine version of the yoga fish posture. I learned about multiples in that bathtub.
Only thing was, as soon as I started this bathtub ritual, I began to get a rash on my back. Surely, it was no coincidence. The rash got so bad that my skin would start to flake and peel off. Little rash scabs. It covered my entire back. That didn’t stop me from my ritual, but eventually my parents noticed and I had to get it fixed. I never told them why the rash started. How do you approach a conversation like that? I would scrub and scrub and scrub the bathtub clean with soap, and mom’s bathroom cleaner, but still the rash did not stop. I felt so ashamed. Maybe I was being punished all over again, just like that night at age eight.
Eventually, the rash got better, and I weaned myself off of the bathtub; my favorite vice. I masturbated every night before I went to sleep. To help me sleep. The very first vibrator I used was an electric squiggly pen from my childhood days. I don’t masturbate daily now, but I do it a healthy amount. To this day, my back still has uneven skin tone and blotchy spots; barely noticeable now, but enough for me to nitpick. As embarrassing as it is, I have blotchy skin because of my sixteen year-old bath rubs.
As for me, all I know is that I know nothing. – Socrates
I don’t claim to have it all figured out, you know. Not a Goddamn thing. The way people are. The way love is. Communication break downs. That’s all I know. I know that the sun rises and sets and that the moon shines its moon-sun reflection on cold, wintery nights. I know that when my parents hem and haw and hover over computer screens like spacecrafts, under low voices and hushed tones while dad indulges in online affairs and mom tries to control him, that my stomach crawls on the inside and I have a harder time loving. I’m an alien here, and I want to fly away.
Once, I think I walked in on my mom masturbating; just a quick glimpse of fingers underneath silk nightgown, nothing graphic, but enough to put a scowl on my face and walk off, trying to shake the image away.
I’m a walking contradiction on most days. A cynical romantic. A slutty prude. An Agnostic that prays to God for hope. The conflicts in my life are minimal; all in my head. But they are enough to show me my mortality. No more enlightened than Buddha or Christ. I am only human after all.
So, when the topic of love comes along, I just want to hide in the recesses of my own cocoon. And whisper, I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not ready. Entanglements of the heart by my track record leave me codependent, and hovering like spacecrafts over computer screens. Like mother like daughter, they say. The similarities sicken me. I don’t want that. I don’t want this. I’m not ready.
The way an ex lover and I said goodbye was on my hands and knees and doggy style. Backdoor. I screamed loud. The loudest I’ve ever screamed. Top of my lungs, back of my throat, guttural screams. Not because it felt so good, but because it didn’t feel like anything at all, except maybe hurt. Void of emotion. I screamed to make me feel; to make the fake seem real. Communication break downs. That’s all I know.
Despite it all, I still have Hope. Hope that I won’t end up with someone like dad, who has a tranny fetish and a penchant for porn, online relationships, escorts. Hope that there’s something better for this cynic who freezes at the thought of marriage, because why cage a freebird, but wants a life partner just like the best of them? Hope for something healthy.
In twenty-ten, I will love myself, continuing on the barrel of self improvement that was 2009. If 2009 was sworn celibacy then twenty-ten will be openness for opportunities and new experiences; a meditation on impermanence, of the sexy kind. I will unravel spirituality through sexuality by cherishing those magic moments and letting go of attachments. Like me on all fours, screaming at the top of my lungs. Letting go. One big exhale. I will unravel layers of love.
No, I don’t like casual, but I am determined to find that love doesn’t have to come in boxes; in things called “relationships” and “commitment” and “romance”. Maybe I am too broken. I don’t know. But it’s all I can handle for now and I want to learn about love. The healthy kind. Not the codependence. Not the meaningless sex, but somewhere in the middle. I’m not sure what that looks like, how far my boundaries can go. Is it merely friendship? Friends with benefits? I don’t know. Is it blow jobs and practicing deep throat and strap-ons? Is it wrestling and choke holds and martial art moves? 2am sex after an amazing day learning how to swim, hiking to hot springs, and sharing a banana leaf umbrella under tropical storms? Or maybe just a good ear, belly laughs, and mango ice cream? I don’t know.
And so I write. Write my fantasies. Write my life. Write somewhere in the middle.
I’m willing to find out. Live my conflict. Like a bohemian, changing and bending. Never set in one way. It’s all I know. That I don’t know.
