The Birth of Bondage, Part III: King Dong

           This final installment in my bondage trifecta comes to you courtesy of a 1933 black-and-white epic with a large, hairy protagonist. The sexy horror story of which I speak is, of course, King Kong --- everybody gets off on 1930’s King Kong! Right? Right??

            Embarrassing as it is, that black-and-white ape gave me a ladyboner to (nearly) surpass every discomforting erection experienced in a septuagenarian high school teacher’s classroom.  

How can you resist that face?

            I was spending the rare couple of days visiting my father on the other side of the country --- my parents aren’t together so I don’t see him very often nor know him very well. I was sixteen years old and didn’t really know much about what tickled my clit pickle other than the occasional well-placed banana. We decided to test out his brand new in-home surround sound with a(n) (a)rousing screening of King Kong, which my dad had recently checked out from the library.

            Sandwiched between him and my aunt, also visiting, we set out to enjoy the film. Things were going swimmingly until the beautiful blonde Anne Darrow was tied up as bait to capture the monster. King Kong stomped into the scene and she writhed desperately in her binds, unable to escape the hairy beast’s grasp. I wiggled in my seat. Things were happening in my pants that were not supposed to be happening during 1930’s cinema. He grabbed the dame; I came. She screamed; I creamed.

Kinky!

            Of course, I didn’t really orgasm at the mere sight of a helpless woman, but I did begin to feel slightly uncomfortable wedged between family members. My arm itched to crawl in my pants; my dad’s arm was around my shoulders. I sat there trying to orchestrate subtle pelvic gyrations to assuage the monstrous maw in my pants.

            A bit later, King Kong was captured. A couple of hours later, I could concentrate on the movie. At that point, King Kong had long unleashed his wrath on New York and was in fact sitting back in the DVD case.

            “Did you enjoy the movie?” my father asked.

            “Yes, very much,” I hurriedly replied and skittered to the bathroom to regain composure.  

He's a grower, not a shower.

   

           

Lady Porn Day

          

  Happy Lady Porn Day, everybody! This is a day to celebrate the porn you love. Check out the link, it has a whole list of sweet lady-geared porn/porn info for those staunch feminists among us with sticks (butt plugs?) up their asses. I will most certainly do some exploring, as there’s only a certain amount of times I can watch the same video of two ladies tying each other up before I have to move on to another video of two ladies tying each other up.

            Yeah, I’m pretty one-track with my porn consumption. It was shocking even to me when I realized, while traversing an exceptionally complicated porn site, that all I wanted was the girl-on-girl rough bondage. WHERE IS THE GIRL-ON-GIRL ROUGH BONDAGE SECTION OF THIS DAMNED SITE.

            (…I was slightly frustrated.)

            When I realized that all I wanted was bondage, it blew my mind a little. Really, I had absolutely no interest in your water sports or your threesome or even your sweet, romantic lovemakin’. None of that had enough ball gags for me.  

            And while I’m still fascinated by my own psychology/physiology--- what makes me turn to rope every time? --- I’m beginning to own it. I don’t just watch numbly, letting it get me tingly without acknowledgement of what’s going on on the screen. I let it register in my mind --- this is what gets me off. “oh, that’s hot,” I say to myself. “she’s so trapped!” and on occasion, “damn it, why the hell is she so happy? She’s freaking tied up! Come on!”

            Yeah, yeah, I’m a filthy filthy bastard who doesn’t want women to be happy. It’s called fantasy and I’m going to go ahead and enjoy it, thanks to those women on the screen who act like they don’t. Good times and orgasms all around! Nobody is hurt and my clit is happy. I love hardcore bondage --- even rape fantasies --- and I’m going to take pride in it, not let it shame me as a powerful woman. They may involve submission, but I dominate my fantasies -- they don’t dominate me.

The Convenient Lover

            There is a breed of person who will love you only when it is convenient for them. They will love you ardently, compose sonnets to your nose, your pinkies, your breasts, bemoan the day that you dare love them back less--- but still they will love you only when it is convenient.

            A man from out of state loves me like this. On days that he is wounded and drowning in Jameson in an orchestrated performance of his own perfect misery, he loves me so. My plucky notes play to the tune of his woes and my very existence, for him, is a savior. Right then, he loves me. It just works.

            He loves me after watching a romantic tragedy, so that I may validate him.

            He loves me after a night of picking up other girls goes sour, so that I may give him purpose.

            He loves me when he catches a glimpse of me for the first time in months, so that his heart may swell at the sight of perfection. 

            He loves me as an enigma from afar and as a goddess up close. And for the brief times when he loves, he truly does love.

However, for him to love I must be elusive or within a ten foot radius. And either way, I am not an image of myself but the image of whatever ideal he has created today.

It is a love of convenience. A love of fervent yet transient emotion, ebbing in and out with his loneliness. But most of all, it is not a love of me. It is a love of me as I pertain to him.

This breed of person will worship you. But as much fun as it is to be a goddess, it is not so fun when you realize that your feelings never matter. You are there purely as an instrument of their personal destruction.

House Bars Planned Parenthood From Federal Funding

WOMEN. MEN.

This is not acceptable. This is not allowed. Nobody is allowed to endanger your right to your body like this. Without the right resources, sexuality can lead to disrespect, disease, pregnancy. What this bill does is make sexuality, in particular female sexuality, dangerous.

This is NOT TRUE. It is not inherent of sexuality to be scary. It is not dangerous. Sexuality is healthy. It is a tool for empowerment, self-respect, and love. Of course, it has consequences, and those need to be heeded. But this bill does not prevent these consequences--- it fuels them. It makes sexuality the criminal when it is in fact every congressman who signed this bill and condemned sexuality to a place of fear and shame.

Most of all, without resources, sexuality becomes scary, confusing, and uncontrollable. And it loses its ability to endow its owner with positivity and power.

Why are we denying something so crucial to ourselves? How can any human do this to anybody else? It is not right. Planned Parenthood says it best:

How could you?
How could you betray millions of women — and men, and teens — who rely on Planned Parenthood for basic health care?
How could you condemn countless women in this country to undiagnosed cancer, unintended pregnancies, and untreated illnesses?
Your vote was not only against those who seek care at Planned Parenthood health centers, but against every one of us who has ever sought care there, and against every one of us who knows that when we are healthy, when we are in charge of our lives, we thrive.
It was a vote against me.

Please sign the petition, for the sake of all of us. 

Bondage Bias? (More Terrible Alliteration?)

Oh man, this (NSFW) kills me. The woman could go to a cocktail party in that leash, that’s how classy it is.
Also, I know some people are into this, but it drives me nuts when i’m watching porn trying to get off and all i see are cocks being stuffed into loving, submissive mouths. I wanna see you tie her up and ram her, not just stuff your junk into her face.
None of that here! This fuckfest is all about her helpless nether regions and i love it. And the way he tugs her leash back makes me wish it were socially acceptable for me to be walked by my man friend just like his golden retriever.


Do other women enjoy watching oral? Seeing/reading about a man being sucked does nothing for me, and I feel like it's so prevalent in BDSM porn because they assume the primary audience is dudes. I always get blue ballsed as I have to stop to fast forward through that inevitable part of the smut.
But maybe I'm just missing the eager dick-lickers out there. Not that I don't like the occasional taste in real life, but I'm not really into it getting in the way of my fantasy.

Again, trying to keep the pictures on this blog somewhat classy. So here's a perfectly innocent teddy bear. With some long, hard stems in his hands.

Bangin' Beats

Jason Mraz is way overplayed. Still, whenever I hear this song my clothes immediately begin peeling off. I mean, come on, totally sexy slow hip grindin' beat, and the words "you're dancing naked there for me" are in the lyrics. Which tells me that I should not be sitting at my computer drinking coffee and eating cheetos while I listen to it. Instead I should be fondling my breasts rhythmically and making kissy faces at myself in the mirror (or a lucky paramour, if available). If you're not down to start your foreplay with a rousing rendition of Salt N' Pepa's "Push It" or the like, this is a softer, more luscious exercise in striptease. It practically wills my panties off.

Lest I strip to a broken record, I need some recommendations. What are your favorite bangin' tunes?

Orgasm Santa

Today, I sent off a vibrator for a friend who has never had one and couldn’t afford one. She has had far more sex than me, so imagine my surprise when she told me that she’d never had an orgasm!

            It not only surprised me --- it made me sad. Here was this woman who had men practically orbiting around her, but had never put her sexuality into her own hands. She had always allowed men to dictate it for her. I wanted to put the power of orgasm in her hands, to make her feel like she merited it. I wanted her to own herself.

            Tossing aside the feminist rhetoric: she is my best friend. And it made me sad to know that she wasn’t experiencing this amazing feeling that I was making happen for myself every night.

So, I partook in jack-off philanthropy. Because every woman should have a right to (and take advantage of her right to) hone her coming. Perhaps it’s a stretch, but I think that if more women were encouraged to own their orgasm, there would be more peace in the world.

That there is your corniness for the day.

corniness, vibrator. All in one.

Vibrator Vednesday: Bulgin' Barney

             

            When I made it out of the Babeland store with this neon masterpiece (neé Brigit), my friend’s immediate response was, “you’re fucking Barney!”

            And thus, my newest toy was christened. While I don’t fantasize about everyone’s least favorite neighborhood dinosaur, the giant purple wang was disturbingly fitting of the namesake. It even has scales on its shaft, which are supposedly reminiscent of a sexy merman but really just confirm the fact that I’m banging a childhood nightmare.

            I’m also not particularly fond of mermen, nor can I even begin to imagine how this colored schlong would fit into the whole tail equation. Is it retractable? Can they take the tail off, like pants? 

scales are so sexy.

            None of this matters, though. As established by the butterfly kiss, I don’t care if it looks like a friggin’ unicorn diving into a pot of rainbows, so long as it gets me off. 

            And Barney knows how to get me off.

 To start, he is quite well-endowed, both length- and girth-wise. A size queen I am not (although this one’s definitely for you if you are), but I’ve always been rather tight and I like being able to practice realistic penile penetration, not just the wimpy shaft of the butterfly kiss.  And the length is great no matter how deep (or not) you want it.

 He also has a soft silicone finish, hilariously labeled “mermaid skin.” Truly, its material brings out the nuanced differences between human and merman penis.

The motor rumbles through the entire length of the toy, which is great for trying out new positions. Obviously you can only stick it in you one way, but it becomes a great clit/lips teaser when placed, say, horizontally along the length of your vulva. Stick it on top of a pillow, straddle, and hump away! Or if you’re like me and like to make your job unnecessarily hard, tie your wrists together behind you, lay stomach-down with your butt in the air, and wield the toy from that angle --- that’s when his length really comes in handy for reaching your clit.

In this one, he's asking me back to his sex dungeon after a couple of drinks.

Yesterday I stuck him in me on strong vibration and went at my clit with another vibe, and it was glorious. Several angels harmonized above my bed.

He has ten powerful vibration patterns, although I just stick with the first three buzzes because intermittent pulsation doesn’t do much for me. Although I’m looking forward to experimenting more with different pulsations while he’s inside and another vibe is out.

My only complaint would be that the batteries needed replacing rather quickly. But I will forgive my sweet Barney, because he loves me so well. As for the two complainy-pants on the Babeland website, I don’t know where they’re looking because it definitely comes with a 1-year warranty, so if it’s faulty, get it exchanged! And if he starts struggling, Barney may just need some new fuel.

He’s fifty bucks, which is the most I’ve ever spent on a sex toy. But size, form, texture, and power make it all worthwhile. Not to mention sweet, sweet grade-school love. I love you, Barney; you love me. We’re a great big (incestuous) family.*

*reference to Barney theme song, I'm not into incest.

 

The Breast You Can Be

     

In which I describe my kinship with Kim Possible('s breasts).

   Yeah, yeah. I love dopey puns and abuse them shamelessly, hence the horrific title of this post. But I will not be  embarrassed, much like I refuse to be embarrassed of my breasts! (note: I also shamelessly abuse parallelisms).
        Anyway, this week I came upon Medicinal Marzipan's Teen Week, which is all about people's struggles to make sense of the fleshy masses that are/were their teen selves. Having recently experienced the nightmarish social milieu of teenagedom, and being still as hairy, horny, and confused as ever, I felt like I could contribute.
       So I wrote something. Something that will hopefully raise my blog slightly up from the depths of depravity in which you perceive it. Because I want this blog to be about sexuality, but I also want it to be about empowerment. And that starts with the little things, like self-confidence. And my breasts.
        Here goes! My spiel on another sort of self-love:

            When I was a young teen, I was relatively comfortable with myself --- so long as I didn’t look in the mirror for too long. I could deal with my legs, I could bear my stomach. I could even handle my nose even though my classmate had mentioned that it looked like an “upside-down kite” while sketching me in art class. Yeah, the description “upside-down kite” made me insecure.

            Most of all, though, I was insecure about my breasts. Everyone else’s seemed to take on a plump perfection whenever I compared them to mine --- small handfuls, fleshy nipples. Mine seemed pointy and protrusive. I felt like a surfboard wearing a cone bra.

            One day in middle school, I was in my art class painting a lumpy papier-mâché mini-me when the teacher called for clean up. We all washed off, scuttling past each other lest we take too long and miss the first precious seconds of recess. Kids tore off their smocks and scurried into their seats so we’d get off on good behavior. I wandered back to my chair last and quickly pulled my smock, an oversized T-shirt, off.

            My tank top went with it. Seeing as my breasts didn’t need it then, I wasn’t wearing a bra. Girls yelped. Boys shielded their eyes (I wasn’t too popular with the menfolk back then).

            Me? I laughed. I quickly yanked my tank-top down and giggled my way out the door as the lunch bell resonated in the classroom. My friend, who was also in the class, ran up to me wide-eyed. She exclaimed that I was really brave, that she would have just started bawling in embarrassment.

            To this day, I don’t know why I didn’t cry. I was so ashamed of my breasts back then that I could hardly look at them, let alone present them to a group of my peers. But I think that my little impromptu exhibitionism helped me discover a key to confidence.      

Honestly, I still look in the mirror sometimes and sigh, “upside-down kite.” Insecurities are engraved into us for ages --- they’re irrational, silly, and yet they nag at us like that one mole you’re sure is huge although nobody notices. But rather than picking ourselves apart, we need to flash and laugh. In that embarrassing second of my existence, I knew that I was me, organic and natural and pure. I couldn’t change it --- so I might as well have laughed. 

Sometimes, you don’t need to stand in front of the mirror and compose eulogies to your body parts to garner confidence. Sometimes it’s better to pop in front of it, make a funny face, do a shimmy, and walk away. You are you, lovely and smart and funny and raw. Worry less about why nipples like yours can't be found in your brother's playboy stash.

Instead of wondering whether people like you or not, flash the world a smile. Because you are you, and you can’t be anybody else. So you may as well love it, or you'll be left in tears. And that would be a shame--- you are so beautiful when you laugh!

           

Twat Twit

            I've created another monster in my attempt to penetrate the blogosphere. As you can see, with me, innuendo never gets old, and I'll be sharing that and other lechery on my brand spankin' new twitter account.
         

This was the dirtiest image I could find of Twitter....Actually, it's not at all, but I'm trying to keep the images on this blog somewhat PG.

         I'm a word exhibitionist. Truly, I have to put a significant amount of effort into not oversharing constantly. Sometimes friends have to jump in lest I become a complete social pariah.

           But Twitter will love me despite my vulgar proclamations! And it'll love me even without makeup on, and it'll bring me soup when I'm sick, and it'll understand that when I mutter 'I want a collar' I don't mean for the dog.

           And you all, hopefully, will love me too. Because lord knows I can't stay mum about my porn stash (porn 'stache?) forever.

Porn stash.

Porn 'stache.

PS I got my very first post comment today, and I practically jizzed with joy (note: people get uncomfortable when I say that too). Thank you, anonymous reader, for validating my existence! You truly made my day.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Meh, you'd better be one impressive dude, or I'm just gonna go bang myself instead.

On this here arbitrary holiday,
            I will be making love with a merman on a distant shore, the warm water nuzzling our toes as we canoodle in the unobtrusive, petal-soft sand.  
            ...Actually, I will most likely be shoving myself full of butterfly kiss while imagining that I'm tied spread-eagle to the bedposts.
            It's a holiday of love, and I will love whomever I want, however I want! (answers: myself, bound.)
            Really, whether you do or do not have a special someone to bang on this fine day, consider some self-loving, ladies. Love the power that you have to make yourself come. Isn't it magical?
          Just like a moonlit lobster dinner. Maybe even better. Hell, definitely better.

On Dirty Minds

hehehe. "dick."

         Yesterday, I was at a party talking to a very respectable fellow: cute, well-versed, and utterly filthy when drunk. Every conversation would quickly devolve into extended metaphors about his penis conquering new lands. After a while, the tales of adventurous dick dissolved entirely into giggles. Tears in his eyes, he apologized to me, the only girl in his audience: “sorry, I think about sex all the time!”

         I snorted, “it’s okay, I do too!” then plied my face into fake seriousness.

        No laughs. 

        He looked away from me, his eyes glaring, disgust playing on his lips. Turned away and began a new conversation with his dudes.  

        “Hey!” I wailed, “why is it okay for a guy to think about sex constantly but not for a girl?” But nobody listened to me. My indignant roars fell upon deaf dicks.

       I felt embarrassed, almost slutty, as though I’d said it simply to make him think of me sexually. Then I realized that no, I’d said it because I was bonding with the guy. It was a human connection based on something that we all shared, or at least I thought we all shared.

       Turns out, while men are allowed to turn any mentioned orifice into a longwinded vagina metaphor, the most I can do is giggle along like the delicate flower that I am.

      Screw that, man. I'd rather think about sex. That's the reason I started this blog. I want female sexuality to be open, to be proud. I don’t want it to be hiding behind the occasional mildly lewd double-entendre, or the suppressed guffaw at some guy’s nasty euphemism. I want us to make our own jokes, filthy and shameless. I want men and women to talk about getting off on a mutual level, not as though my mentioning my vibrator is a desperate attempt to get you in my pants. I want us all to bond over sexuality rather than women having to toe the virgin/whore line.   

     Oh, and by the way--- you missed one. That beer foam trickling down your chin? Totally begging for a cum joke.  

Desperate Countries call for Desperate Dude Denial

They're probably all home vigorously masturbating.

 
    A female Belgian legislator jokingly suggested a sex strike until a new government is set up in Belgium. Because everyone knows, when you want men to get things done, you deprive them even more of the one thing they think of constantly*. That'll get 'em focusing on legislating!
       Meanwhile, while we level-headed chicks are depriving dudes of the one thing they need from us, maybe the Big Important Men will finally be able to get something done. Darn you ladies, with your warm, cozy orifices! Alway distracting guys from what's really important!
        In all seriousness, though, thank god she was kidding. Ladies have a need for and right to bangin' just as much as the dudes. So let's not perpetuate the stereotype that each time we sex it up we're sacrificing some glorious part of ourselves to our penile pals.
        Belgian legislators did seriously propose to stop shaving their beards, which doesn't exactly convince me that she was joking. It was probably more like:


"...and to encourage the development of a new government, I propose a sex strike!"
expected murmur of agreement--- denied. 
"uh...ha, ha ha! Kidding, guys! It's a joke! Funny, funny!"

Or maybe it was like when I try to make a sex joke and everyone thinks I'm being serious. This happens a lot, mostly because conversations with me are essentially a series of sex jokes. I once convinced a friend that I banged a horse. Bestiality, legislative sex strikes. Same difference. 

 
* I'm perpetuating stereotypes myself, blah blah blah. It's a pretty true one. and don't worry, dudes, I don't think any less of you for it --- my mind hasn't left the gutter since '02.

The Birth of Bondage, Part II: The Ulterior Banana

         When I was older, I discovered that my fantasies of captivity weren’t merely child’s play. Not only that, but my tingly kink would emerge at times most unexpected. In high school, a couple of my guy friends and I had a penchant for kneeling in the corner of the Borders erotica section and hissing the most ridiculous sex tales to one another while struggling to suppress our giggles.  Nothing cracked us up more than a lavish description of a "veiny, throbbing member." 

            As I flipped through one of these books, I came upon an exceptionally ridiculous story (no pun intended)*. A woman was being held captive by two burly, well-endowed men in loin cloths. Blindfolded and naked, she was dragged into a dungeon. There, she was tied to ropes suspended from the ceiling. I imagined her floating in the air, weightless yet captured, a naked puppet facing the ground with her limbs spread (embarrassing side note: I am getting so horny writing this.) One of the men pulled out a bag of supplies. First, a canister of whipped cream. He shook it up and squirted it into her pussy**. Then, he grabbed a banana and shoved it in her. Eventually, as these things usually go, throbbing pricks emerged and proceeded to penetrate all available openings. I can’t remember whether the chef just played around with the banana or eventually ate his self-made cunt sundae, but it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that when I read this excerpt out loud to my guy friends, they died laughing. 

I will never look at dessert the same way again. Not that I ever didn't think of dicks whenever I spotted a banana.

I laughed along, because it really was silly. But what bothered me was their other reaction. Underneath the giggles I could tell they were sort of disgusted. The truth is that they were laughing not just because of the fruit, but because of the very idea: the humiliation, the overpowering. They didn’t understand how someone could get turned on by that. Meanwhile, here I was desperately trying not to melt into a pool of pussy juice in the corner of Borders.

All erotica is silly. That’s sort of the point. It plays to our basest desires, suspending us in fantasies that may be unachievable, or even unwanted, in real life. Do I truly want to be trapped against my will in a dungeon and violated with a banana? No. But a fantasy can be as perfectly absurd as one wants it to be, and while you can sit in the corner of a bookstore and quietly giggle at it, you’ve also got to remember that somebody is reading it and getting off. Don’t let a couple extra “pounding members” make you lose your respect for the unique spectrum of human sexuality. 

If this works for you, go for it.

* Keep in mind that I am describing it only in the vague accuracy that I remember it.

**yeast infection central. Don’t try this at home.

Vibrator Vednesday: Butterfly Kiss

I certainly don’t own enough vibrators to make this a continuous feature. But I do own a humble rumbling force that keeps me quite satisfied.

So I’ll be describing my mechanical minions until I run out. At which point I’m likely to buy more. Because my cunt is demanding like that. 

Butterfly Kiss

This twee pink masterpiece has been highly touted by the poor and horny. Banking at under twenty bucks, it’s a great dual-stimulation toy for those with light wallets. For those of you who, like me, care less about looks and more about affordable function, this sucker’s a good bet. Or maybe you’re into bubblegum insects tickling your lady parts. To each their own!

            Anyway, the toy has three vibration settings. I usually skip the first one because, honestly, it does nothing for this power pussy. The second one is good for some preliminary pleasure (“pussy, meet butterfly,” “butterfly, meet pussy”) and the third one is for when you’re ready to really get it on. For under 20 bucks it’s a pretty powerful little bugger (pun intended).

            The penetration piece has a respectable tip but the shaft is certainly no realistic dick, so if you really get off on p-in-v you may want to go in search of bigger things. If I feel like giving some love to my vagina I have to pull the vibe almost completely out and just push the tip in and out of my opening. Which effectively ruins the dual-action, as that butterfly is fluttering outside the realm of my clit at that point.

Here it is size-wise in relation to a hand.

            As for the g-spot, reaching it takes some acrobatics on the part of the vibe. Because the shaft is just TPR (thermo-plastic rubber) with no solid inside, getting it to curve towards my g-spot is a bit of an adventure. I usually pull the handle of the vibrator towards myself and away from my self, back and forth, to get any stimulation there at all. Honestly, I would not mind that shaft being a little more rigid (something I always say to my boyfriend at inappropriate times).

            But here I am complaining when, really, this thing is a cheap, quality venture into the world of dual-action vibes. If you’re a beginning masturbator, there’s tons to experiment with --- gentle, unintimidating penetration, variable strength clit stimulation, g-spot teasing, and maybe even a little ass-play for the braver among us (I’m still working on that one).

               Just don’t forget the lube, and may this pink meet your pink!

Note: All advertising is purely out of the goodness of my clit. I receive no reimbursement for these links --- i just really love Babeland. I'll probably rave about it in an upcoming post.

The Birth of Bondage, Part I: The Helpless Maiden

more like Jump Rope for the Loins.

 I have had a long and troubled history of being turned on at inopportune moments.

            Really, this began when I was little. All fetishes must take root somewhere, and mine took root in the yellow plastic jump rope that my gaggle of five year old friends and I would use to play a rousing game of Bandits. The evil bandits would capture a fair maiden with their length of rope and the battle between the bandits and the valiant knights would ensue.

            Simply put: I always volunteered to be the maiden. I would lie on the couch, the rope wrapped around my wrists as I clutched its frizzled ends in my sweaty little palms, bemoaning my inescapable bounds. I was content to watch as my friends destroyed the battlefield, toppling lamps, kicking coffee tables, scuffing wooden floors. And secretly, I wanted the bandits to win--- because who knew what terrible fate would await me then? 

We were way more creative than this. our games involved power play.

 Fellow fetishists, what was your earliest manifestation of subversive desire? Did you actually like it when Bobby tugged at your pigtails? Did throwing pine cones at Sally make your day? Were you excited to see everybody's toes at Millie's beach birthday party? 

Dirty Beginnings

I'd feel worse about swallowing if they were really that cute.

 Dearest readers, who I hope will soon exist and multiply much like the wee zygote  described below: 

I decided to start my blog at the very beginning. Here, I present to you the roots of this wonderfully disgusting human named Nat. 

         

My fascination with sex began when I was five years old, when my mother plopped me down in front of the TV and popped in a VHS about conception. I remember gazing up at those cartoon sperm, their little animated faces guiding me through the fallopian tubes, and becoming utterly enraptured. I followed their cheery eyes and swishy tails to the egg and watched its conqueror swell into an increasingly familiar-looking creature. Tiny features formed from the fleshy lump until the wee alien-- as an eager sperm popped into the screen to inform me-- was ready to emerge. I watched in awe as the divine cartoon slit birthed the creature.  

            From that day forth, five-year-old me decided she wanted to be an OBGYN when she grew up. While other kids were lost in glamorous fantasies of futures as movie stars and firefighters, I could see nothing better than plunging my hands into a warm orifice to coax out that small mass of life.

            Fast forward seven years: one hearty dose of pubescence and I discover that I’m far more interested in the other end of the baby-making process. Sure, everybody is fascinated by sex at that age. But me? I was obsessed. Not so much with doing it myself --- I knew I wasn’t ready yet (not to mention I was dorky, lanky, and completely confused). I was more interested in amassing an arsenal of knowledge, of understanding every aspect of the process, how anatomy met anatomy in an exchange that seemed to me simultaneously glorious and degenerate.

Nobody was a more committed sex ed student. My eyes were glued to the banana as our balding teacher rolled a condom onto it. Face correctly. Pinch the tip. Roll down.

Got it. 

            I’m older now and sex fascinates me no less.  Outside the bounds of public school sex ed and the shared home computer, I oft troll the internet for all sorts of smut. Sometimes, I’ll stumble upon something new --- some position, some pleasure point --- and feel, again, like that child who stared at the cartoon sperm with drool trickling down her chin.

 It was awesome. Sex is awesome. Because when you mix raw emotion with pounding, vulnerable bodies, exuding fluids, cries, and the most feral of our souls, you get something so dark and delicious that it’s almost unfathomable. And that, I think, is what I picked up on when I watched that pivotal VHS. I knew that what I was seeing came about of something secret and beautiful, an exchange of the most intimate parts of ourselves. That secret is what has seduced me for life.

Future readers, help me get to know you! 
When did you first discover sexuality? What prompted your interest? Are you as utterly  depraved as I am?