“How can one talented tongue please dozens of people at the same time?” read the poster. How, indeed. “Tickle your Ear-rogenous zones” invited another. I’m guessing they weren’t talking about sticking a tongue in my ear, but I couldn’t be sure. Needless to say, I was intrigued.
“Five orgasms a day,” I said, barely glancing up from my knitting. “Minimum.”
Her eyes grew large. ”How do you manage that?” she asked.
“Two orgasms upon waking, two before sleep, and at least another one sometime during the day. It keeps me happy. I’m in a much better mood when I cum regularly.”
She sounded confused. “But you don’t live with anyone; how do you have sex before and after sleep to get your orgasm quota?”
I looked up, surprised at the question. “The five orgasm minimum is self-generated. When I have time with a lover, often that number goes up. I reach my orgasm quota by myself, no problem.”
It’s been nearly a year since I wrote Emerging as My Primary Partner.
It’s all fine in theoretical ideals of how to be my own partner: how to look at myself curiously and lovingly in the mirror, how to consider myself rather than become chokingly entangled in another person, wrapping around them like kudzu vine.
Joseph Gordon-Levitt has written and directed a new movie, Don Jon, in which he also stars. After premiering at Sundance in January 2013 and set for wide release in October 2013, the trailer came out last month. I'm excited to see what Joe does with the topics of porn, fantasy, relationships.
A few months ago a lovely man popped my bootblack cherry. After he licked my boot, a sensation I found surprisingly erotic, my fascination with leather and bootblacking was further entrenched.
I'd shown up at this queer dungeon party just to watch, to relish my voyeurism, not having pre-arranged for a playdate. Noticing the bootblack stand being set up, I looked down at the tall leather boots I was wearing.
Shyly, I approached a guy in a leather vest and told him I'd never done this before, had my boots blacked. "I'd be happy to be your first," he said, offering his hand as I stepped up onto the raised seat. Hands resting lightly on the tops of my feet, he walked me through what he would do.
Full-length windows framed daffodil blooms bright against vibrant and deep greens. For the comfort of bare flesh, the furnace was turned up, and turned up again. As dusk gathered, six of us breathed, coming together consciously with intention. We were here to explore ourselves. Together.
Inspired by the Bodysex viewing and discussion at Portland's In Other Words Feminist Community Center in February, we were here for a Self-Pleasuring Ritual. My co-facilitator for the Bodysex event, Barbara Wynne, spearheaded, hosted, and held space for this ritual.
In the invitation to this ritual of self-pleasure, Barbara wrote:
The room was full last Friday for a public viewing of the Bodysex Workshop DVD in Portland, Oregon, where I make my home. I had hoped we'd have twenty-five people show up, and almost twice that number attended.
Many friends were in the room, and seeing their curious, supportive faces in the audience calmed my loudly thumping heart. I'd hosted a private viewing in my home last year, but this was the first time I'd shown it publicly, my own body, face, cunt, and orgasm flickering on the screen behind me.
It started with a glance that stretched into a gaze. I was looking at her, really looking, after barely-looking for months. I took the moment, savored the time.
I saw the curve of her jaw, the way her lips rested together, the tension in her forehead that smoothed out as I continued to look. We were matched, eye to eye. I noticed the red rings, the puffy places under her bottom lashes. She'd been crying.
As the gaze lingered, under the spotlights of being seen, something shifted in her eyes. She was basking in being seen as much as I relished doing the seeing. It felt like forever since we'd done this. I had missed her, missed noticing her actively, instead of just passively hauling her around my life.
The collective gasps, laughter, nods, and the rustling of audience members crossing and uncrossing their legs delight me. Attending something sexy, whether a film festival or a play or an event that is billed "sex-positive," inevitably has me smiling in appreciation at my fellow attendees. We are all there for the same reason: we are interested in sex.
In some circles, that's remarkable. Publicly admitting one is interested in sex - shocking! Or not. To me it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
You really don't want to miss this. If it is remotely possible to get yourself to a showing of Bike Smut as it crosses North America, I urge you to make it happen. Minneapolis gets it Saturday 9/22. Milwaukee gets it Thursday 9/27. Then Chicago, Detroit, Toronto, and more. In fact, you might be able to get Bike Smut to come (or cum) to you. Write them at email@example.com. The tour is in process. See bikeporntour for the ever-updated information.
This was my designated Summer To Get On A Bike. (Eventually I also came to think of it as Getting Off On A Bike.) Perhaps it was overdue, or perhaps it happened right on time. But early last spring I vowed that I would not go another summer without spending a significant portion of it on a bicycle.
During the first few weeks, I was sore and raw and I cringed at the prospect of mounting up. Getting my crotch accustomed to the pressure was a challenge. But in a surprisingly short period of time, long stints became much easier, even pleasurable, on my tender bits.
Part of that ease and pleasure was perseverance, as well as installing a cushy, wide saddle for my ample hips and ass. Then I got some padded shorts. I wasn't about to let soreness between my legs dissuade me from my goal.
"Pornography is inherently exploitative and damaging to women," she said, wide-eyed and earnest.
It was all I could do not to roll my eyes at this friend-of-a-friend. With as much diplomacy as I could muster, I began talking with her about pornography, feminism, and the intersection of the two.
"Oh, no, I completely disagree that all porn is exploitative and damaging," I said. "Are you aware of feminist porn?" She was not.
“I’m on the verge of getting too high to drive myself home,” she whispered. “I better come out of these ropes soon.”
Last December I attended my first rope bondage meeting. In a beginner’s class, I saw the model become visibly floaty as her arms, hands, and torso were bound. The instructor told us the body often responds to bondage by flooding the system with chemicals that give a sense of being high, or “rope-stoned.”
Enthralled, I watched the grace of the instructing rigger, deftly moving rope around the model’s body, pointing out where nerves could become compressed, offering safety protocol at every step. It’s like knitting on a big scale. It also looked intensely pleasurable. And sexy.
My mind reeled. I want to make someone feel that; I want to feel that myself.
The tension between sexuality and religion is not news.
As a person who considers herself sex-positive, and who associates with other sex-positive people on and offline, I'm well familiar with the often-justified assessments of religion as damaging when it comes to holistic health, especially as vehicles of guilt about bodies and sexuality.
The criticisms, the examinations, the tirades - I often agree with them. But I'm also left with a nagging feeling, that such categorically dismissive views on religion end up alienating people who might otherwise be allies for a saner attitude toward sex and sexuality.
Many a writing teacher told me to limit my number of sentences and paragraphs beginning with "I." Since posting here and on my own site, I've tossed that directive aside, embracing I-statements wholeheartedly.