How To Cockblock Yourself With Me

It has occurred to me that since I’m blogging about my sex life, I’m probably going to repeatedly talk about how I don’t get any, and then I will follow those comments up with jokes about fucking anything that moves within a 20-mile radius.  (Unfortunately, I don’t have many opportunities to do the latter, but I do make light of my sexual eagerness on a frequent basis – possibly more than I make light of my lack of dating prospects, which is a joke that has very thick, firm, turgid roots that thrust into the moist, silken soil of reality.)

The talk about not getting any isn’t much of an exaggeration.  I’m not a virgin, and I have been in relationships in the past, but the fact of the matter is that I get hit on… maybe twice a year.  Three times if the moon is in the second house or something like that.  I’m 5’0, fat, and the only thing scarier than the size of my ass is the shit that comes out of my mouth.

On the occasions that I do get hit on, there really isn’t such a thing as “hit or miss;” usually, it’s just “miss.”

#1. “And then you’ll drink my piss.”

After I ended my engagement of five years, I eventually changed my relationship statuses on Fetlife back to “single” and “unpartnered.”  An individual with some similar kinks that I had briefly conversed with before, and later accepted a friend request from, took this opportunity to ask me to dinner and the exchange of fluids.  I was delighted by the dinner invite, but also apprehensive, and I made my concerns known – I was newly single and, while interested in getting to know him, wasn’t promising any kind of sexual encounter with a complete stranger.  I was under the impression that he understood, as we continued swapping some flirtatious, geeky banter as we debated restaurant choices… and then he said something about dessert being “cum and piss.”

“Uh, no… no promises there.”  I generally tout myself as being immune to awkwardness, but had this conversation been in person, I would have sat there thinking, “…awk-waaaard.”

It’s not like his suggestion wasn’t catering to my fetishes, although I had previously told him they were very conditional, and he didn’t meet the conditions for them at the time.  It was just that, after every time I backed off and reminded him that it was just dinner, every response was the equivalent of, “…and then you’ll drink my piss!”

We continued trying to make plans, although I was booked for several weeks straight.  When I suggested a more appropriate time the next month, he told me I would have to keep him interested until the time came around.  There’s something about a man two decades older than me playing hard-to-get that just doesn’t sit well with me after he has demonstrated that he seems to think that dinner was the equivalent of purchasing a ticket to ride.  Instead of jumping on my reply, I let the response notification linger in my inbox for a week, until it was joined by a notification for a follow-up message, which I now copy and paste for the reader’s benefit, drunken typos and all:

“Well I see that by your lack of response that you didn’t want to slide your meaty, dice-rolling sausage links across the keyboard to feign any more indifference, and you’re probably because with your boyfriend already, and even if that hasn’t happened, there’s always another anime sap who would let you move into his off-campus trailer and eat all his pockey kawaaii!”

This experience has allowed me to reinvent an old cliché: “Hell hath no fury like that of a middle-aged man scorned.”  Especially the middle-aged man scorned by a younger woman.

#2. Sending me a picture of your cock.

I’m also a (rather disenchanted) member of OKCupid, and I received a few messages and a phone number to text from a conventionally-attractive fireman that lived about three-quarters of an hour away.  Because my membership to OKCupid began in an attempt to get myself out of my “box” and to try meeting new and different people, I opted to begin texting him, figuring that perhaps we had more in common than our listed interests indicated… and he was over 6’5”, so why not give him a chance?  (Being fortunate to have missed the height classification of “dwarfism” by about two inches, I have a thing for the abnormally tall.)

The first message he sent me was an MMS file, which my Droid requires me to manually open, instead of automatically showing me whatever gets sent my way.  Given the number of texting horror stories that I’ve heard from my friends about receiving unsolicited dick pictures from random dudes, I dashed off a caveat as a response before viewing it, saying, “If this is a picture of your cock, consider this conversation over.”

It wasn’t!  I explained why I had been wary of getting e-rectioned, we spoke for several days, and eventually, as it always will when I speak with someone, the conversation began to encompass our sexual preferences and experiences.  The fateful day came when he, as some half-brained heterosexual males may be wont to do, decided that the time had come to show me his genitals.

But he figured he’d be a gentleman about it.
“Want to see my dick?”

The problem with this question was (and still is) that looking at dick doesn’t get me off.  For starters, I find pussy much more visually and sexually appealing, purely visually speaking, and beyond my love of hardcore pornography, I’m really not much of a voyeur at all. In almost all things in life, I just don’t like to watch.  I don’t like sports, but I’d rather play them than watch them.  When one of my friends is controlling a single-player video game, I want to beat them to death with the analog stick, because no matter how proficient they are, they are doing it wrong.  I have to leave the room when someone from an earlier generation is using a computer in my presence.  This strong preference for action rather than spectatorship is practically in my blood.  My late grandfather, who was a student driving instructor for a brief time, called it “white knuckle time” every time he got in the car with someone else.  In his memory, I have perfected my heart-attack face, complete with my patented Grip Of Death and Shriek of Rising Blood Pressure.  So no, gentlemen of the world.  Unless you’re packing (and I mean literally packing a Mr. Softee, because I find dildos endlessly entertaining no matter what their application in life is), I really don’t want to see your cock before I’m the one pulling it out of your pants to play with it.

So as not to appear frigid, I figured I’d take the neutral-but-reluctant route: “Uh… I’m indifferent. :|”

AND LO, THE PHALLUS SPRANG FORTH, FLOODING MY SMS INBOX IN ALL OF ITS DECEPTIVE-CAMERA-ANGLE GLORY.

Indifferent didn’t really mean yes or no.  He didn’t violate me.  I could have just flat-out said no.  But only in the movies does a professed lack of interest really mean, “DO IT, SHOW ME, YES, TAKE ME NOW.”  Because I’m not a femdom porn star, if I ask a partner if they want to eat my pussy, and they say, “Uh, I’m indifferent,” I don’t rip open the crotch of my panties and sit on their face.

#3.  “It’s not a booty call.  I was wondering if you wanted to suck.”

Let me confess… despite my high standards and the title of this blog entry (“How To Cockblock Yourself With Me,” just in case you’re floundering amidst this sea of text), Conventionally-Attractive Fireman actually didn’t get axed for the dick picture.  And no, it didn’t have anything to do with his professed height, which I did have the common sense to question after he sent me a photo of his junk with the camera angled up at it from the bottom.

No, I didn’t cut CAF loose after the dick debacle.  I figured, with my new lot on dating, I would continue to withhold judgment on this potential suitor!  I figured it made sense to meet him in person and see if he was as boring as he seemed.  It couldn’t hurt unless he was a serial killer.  It’s not like I was getting any younger, any less horny, or any less single.

We didn’t meet immediately after the dick incident.  Because he was about 40 minutes away, I declined a date offer one day, because I didn’t want him to drive all the way to my campus just to see me.  When he was passing through town, we opted to meet up for coffee on a Saturday afternoon.  He was indeed 6’5”-ish.  My head came up to his stomach.

We ended up sitting outside of the coffee place in the sunlight (boo, hiss, evil daystar, etc.) for about an hour and a half.  The entire time he talked about his career.  No, I don’t have a deep, long-standing curiosity about the intricacies of physical training and fighting fires, just in case you were wondering.

So after he departed and I started spending the remainder of my weekend hanging out with people I actually had common interests with, he started up a conversation around midnight.

“Did you have fun today?”
”…well, I didn’t hate it.”

I know you’re slapping your forehead.  Believe me, in retrospect, I am too, but hear me out.  He had a Modern Warfare 2 poster and he commented on something that reminded him of Starfox during our coffee date.  (You’re laughing at me, “High standards she has,” you say.  You probably think I put out if they have a Playstation 2, and if you do, then I have painted myself incorrectly – I’ll only give video game head to gamers playing on classic consoles.)  No, okay, seriously, the reason these things mattered is because I figured, “Maybe we really do have some interests in common and we just didn’t get around to discussing them during our date.”

You and I both know that if this had been the case, this sucker wouldn’t be in a blog entry that rivals The Bible in length.

He asked what I was up to, I informed him that I was watching a film with some friends.

“Oh, you’re busy?  That’s a shame… I was wondering if you wanted to meet up and have some fun.”
”Haha, what a sweet sentiment.  While I appreciate it, I don’t do booty calls.”
”It’s not a booty call.  I was wondering if you wanted to suck. ;)”

After I barely contained my animalistic lust, I promptly took a cold shower and never contacted him again.

#4.  “Well I get that you’re big… but I don’t have a problem with that as long as you’re clean.”

Do I even have to elaborate on this?
It wouldn’t be very characteristic of me not to.

Another keeper from OKCupid.  This guy actually was interesting and had things in common with me – in fact, he was original enough that he had my attention from the first message, which was refreshing.  The conversation quickly graduated from site messages to text messages, stepped up from mundane to sexual, and I was baffled by how non-skeevy he seemed, even when he was talking about having sex with me.  (Over the past six months, anyone that has attempted to sext me has been laughed off and has made me very uncomfortable.  Not because they were talking about sex!  But because somehow, they failed to ignite the quick-start match between my legs.  Because they were creepy.)

The conversation went from the idea of a sexual encounter within a relationship to a hook-up, despite the fact that I had never hooked up with someone I hardly knew before, and didn’t think I was capable of “casual sex.”   We finally ended up whittling these plans down to something immediate: we were going to fuck when he got off work at 7 AM that morning.

The anxiety set in around 5.  “Oh god, what if he didn’t look at all my profile pictures and doesn’t realize I’m actually fat?  What if he didn’t read my profile, where it says, I’m fat?”  I promptly dashed off a message that basically said the same thing – “You are aware that I’m fat, right?  I don’t think it’s a problem, but I don’t want you to assume I’m some skinny chick with body dysmorphic disorder.  I’m a fat chick and I want you to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“Well, I get that you’re big… but I don’t have a problem with that as long as you’re clean.”

Here’s the thing.  This dude was a “fat dude.”  6’4”, broad, and what most people consider “fat” because he had a gut and some girth on other parts of his body.  You would think that he of all people would understand that being fat does not automatically make one disgusting, ugly, unhealthy, unwashed, slovenly, gluttonous, unintelligent, embarrassing (or embarrassed), desperate, angry, depressed, or <Negative Adjective Here>.

The only thing that differentiates my 5’0 fat self from a 5’0 skinny someone is that I’m fat.  I weigh more.  I have a very shapely, round, soft body.  I have calves that could crush the skull of a Kenyan wildebeest.  The fact is that all of those adjectives can apply to a thin person, and few people are going to assume that they do purely because of their body shape.  Living in a culture that touts being skinny as an automatic equivalent to being “healthy” ROCKS!

I’m not what I’d call a model of health, and I’m definitely not in the gym every day, but being obese does not automatically mean that I’m inferior to the rest of the world, or the epitome of every negative quality that a human being can possess.  Whenever someone I’m about to hook up with says, “Okay, I get that you’re a big girl, but I don’t care so long as you’re clean,” my first reaction is to KICK HIM IN THE BALLS because me being a “big girl” automatically means that I don’t have the hygiene practices that are standard for most people?

I hooked up with this guy. I will never be contacting him again.

(Author’s note: I am not a man-hater.  I haven’t received even a minimal amount of interest from women or anyone outside of the gender binary, so I have no horror stories to present to you from those arenas yet.  Trust me, it’ll happen eventually.  It’s an inevitability.  If I try to come, they will come.)

The Mighty Mini-Mite

I feel like I have a reputation among the people I fuck.  I know it’s total bullshit, but I feel like, if they could all clock one another on the street, they’d start whispering as I passed, “Hey, look, there’s the girl who can’t come.  Did she go for you?”  They would compare notes, and ultimately decide that I was just frigid.  My sex toys almost certainly have passed this judgment on me.  I feel like they crowd together in their little red box, whispering lies and slander, trying desperately to come up with outrageous reasons for why they all came up short compared to my right hand.

It’s not like I’m nonorgasmic.  I have orgasms.  I love orgasms!  It’s just that, for five years, I hadn’t orgasmed without manually rubbing my clitoral shaft with my right hand.  It didn’t work when other people tried.  The fact of the matter is that up until last week, I hadn’t had an orgasm that I hadn’t provided a little bit of assistance with in five years.  (And I’d only had two before that.)

Enter the Mini-Mite.

Image description: A small, orange, cylindrical vibrator on a red background. Also on the red background are four caps that go on the end of the vibrator in different textures: smooth, smooth with raised flat circles, large spikes, and small spikes.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking.

It’s day-glo orange.

That wasn’t my choice, but I don’t even care.  This little sucker got me off.  It could be the most vomitous shade of chartreuse on the planet, and I would still shove it between my legs.  (Although I suppose some might argue that I would shove anything between my legs.)  The color on mine was random, because it came as part of a toy bundle, but I think they also make it in purple and pink.  It only has two settings: off and awesome.  I’m okay with that.  If it only takes one speed to get me off, why should I complain?

I took it for three spins.

Trial Run #1:
The vast majority of my masturbation with this sucker was all clitoral.  I watched some of the hottest segments of The Crash Pad while using this thing, ejaculated a little bit along the way (when I ejaculate clitorally, I don’t tend to have an actual orgasm), and after that, opted to shove my jackrabbit inside me to speed things along.  It was the first “hands-free” orgasm I’ve ever had.

Trial Run #2:
I sat around watching an assortment of free internet porn for an hour and a half with this thing buzzing away on my clit, and ejaculated about four times, but couldn’t have anything that felt remotely like an orgasm for the life of me.  Because I was menstruating and wasn’t in the mood for clean-up, I didn’t put anything inside me so that I could actually get off.  I’ll admit, I was a bit disappointed.

Trial Run #3:
Fresh off the crimson wave, I sat down with an episode of Device Bondage featuring Tacori Blu (who I’ve decided that I don’t enjoy watching), my jackrabbit between my legs, a bullet wedged against my perineum, and the Mini-Mite on my clit.  I also opted to give my brand new bottle of Wet Platinum some use, and it was a thing of beauty.  With a little bit of positioning, the Mini-Mite hits all the right spots, and I was generally able to hold it there with my thighs.  I had another fantastic “hands-free” orgasm, complete with ejaculation – in not one, but two bursts!  It felt so good that I was able to excuse the fact clean-up from the entire episode took over 20 minutes.  (Showering, toy cleaning, trying to dab off the mattress and hanging the blanket I was sprawled out on.)

Now, that I’ve raved about the good, I’ll offer up the ugly truths about this thing.

There’s a problem with the “multiple heads” idea.  They don’t all stay on properly.  I find that the more textured heads are very secure when you attach them, but the two that are more smooth don’t want to stay on at all.  The smoothest, which is just a little rounded cap, won’t even give the ILLUSION of sitting securely on top of this thing.  It’s like the MiniMite is forbidding me from making a “boring” choice.  The semi-smooth head would attach, and it seemed like it was somewhat secure, but it had a tendency to come off between my labia whenever I moved the vibe.  Because the sensation of rubbing a porcupine over my clit isn’t doing it for me, the MiniMite now spends the bulk of its time without a head, which may not exactly be as the manufacturers intended, but is about the only way it’s coming anywhere near my clitoris.

In terms of powering it, don’t get me started on the battery compartment on this thing.  I initially assumed that I had been shipped a busted product, because it looked like there was no way in hell it was ever going to work.  I couldn’t figure it out when I took it out of the box.  Don’t misunderstand me – I was able to open it up, but I put the battery (one AA) in and tried to turn it on, and NOTHING HAPPENED.  I resorted to thrusting it at my best friend so that she could make it work.  At one point, I thought we broke it, because one of the battery contacts came off and just floated around inside loosely.  The only thing I can figure is that it wasn’t working because I was turning it the wrong way when I was attempting to turn it on.  I know it sounds stupid.  Believe me, it makes no sense.  I’m not technologically-challenged in the slightest.  I can program a fucking VCR.  I can figure out how to work your new digital camera before you do.  But for some reason, a $20 vibrator stumps me.

In general, the clean-up isn’t much of a chore for me, but I also haven’t been using the heads.  I can’t imagine that the spikiest heads would be much fun to clean at all.  The top half of the device does have some seams that have trapped a bit of gunk that I can’t get out with a wipe, the sink, or a Q-tip, so I’ll be taking a toothbrush to it the next time I’m cleaning my toys.

The Mini-Mite probably isn’t the best toy out there, but it definitely isn’t the worst.  It stimulated me more than a standard two-speed bullet does, so that’s a point in its favor.  It generally seems priced at around $20, but mine came free in a kit with three other toys that I bought from Amazon, and it seems to pop up in a lot of sex toy bundles.  My Mini-Mite was made by Mind Body Source, and if (when?) it dies, I probably wouldn’t bitch too much about replacing it.

Pros Cons
Lots of power for something that takes 1 AA. The battery compartment was initially mystifying to me.
Multiple heads with different textures. Not all of the heads will stay on.
The material it’s made out of is nice and silky-feeling. Pay attention to the little lines during clean-up.
I came. It has one speed.