Fully Functional Fundraiser

I’m still alive!  Due to a lack of sexual accommodations for a hellacious period and a combination of Minecraft and classwork, I haven’t been able to play with any of my new toys very much… but things are coming.

In the meantime, I just figured I would post to advertise about the fundraising efforts of Fully Functional.

I’ll just quote directly from the fundraiser page, for the sake of saving time:

“Fully Functional: A Zine About Fucking Trans Women”

…is a collaborative DIY (Doin’ It Yourself) zine about the sex lives of trans women. It is designed to help trans women and our lovers share information about how we have good sex and what we do when we have sex that works.

The project of Fully Functional is to create an open-ended community resource for trans women and our lovers interested in sharing information about sex and our sex lives.  Published as a digital zine and, beginning with issue #1, a print zine, “Fully Functional” is designed to be an accessible medium for communicating and sharing information with each other.  It is the first and only sex zine dedicated exclusively to the sex lives of trans women and our lovers, and most basically begins with the question “How?”, as in, “how do I have amazing, fulfilling, passionate, hot, toe-curling sex?”  Contributors are invited to discuss the ins and outs of their own sex lives, with no one answer privileged over another.  There are as many answers to the question “how do I have good sex?” as there are contributors, and with that in mind “Fully Functional” has been designed as a sort of community cookbook .  Our zine is a community resource for sharing our knowledge, discoveries, and practices with one another and our lovers.

As we are preparing to publish issue #1 of “Fully Functional” we have reached a dilemma: we are desperately in need of a fully functional computer of our own with which to write, design, create, and publish this issue and issues to come.  The goal of this fundraising campaign is to gather funds to purchase a MacBook that will be the primary computer for “Fully Functional.”

I definitely consider this zine a worthy cause, because sex can be an extremely conflicting issue for individuals undergoing transition, and it is also challenging to feel confident about being an adequate sexual partner to a trans individual, especially if your partner experiences gender dysphoria.  While there’s no substitute for honest and open communication, new ideas can go a long way in the bedroom.  It’s hard to find knowledgeable sexual material geared toward members of the trans community, so I’m definitely intrigued by what Fully Functional has to offer.  I encourage anyone  with an interest to check it out and support their efforts!

Here’s a link to the fundraiser!

Why Your Screen Name Didn’t Make Me Wet

Every time I foray into online dating, I am met by some things that compel me to promptly foray right back out.  I think about it whenever I decide to check my OKCupid account late at night, or whenever I’m eying some of the “Meet in North Carolina” groups on Fetlife because I find myself very, very desperately wishing I had a regular sex partner so I wouldn’t have to do all the work.  I haven’t checked my OKCupid account in a few weeks, but yet again, I’ve found my mind wandering back to dating on the internet because of a conversation I just had with one of my best friends.

This particular friend was displeased with her eHarmony experience, but mentioned that she was thinking about re-activating her account on the site.  Because misery loves company, I said, “Why not try OKCupid?  I’m on there!”

This blog post was spawned because of the following conversation:

She:  “What should my name on this site be?  I don’t want to put my last name on this profile  I was thinking about this.”

Me:  “Yeah, I think that’s great!  It doesn’t give too much away.”

She:  “You don’t think it’s dumb?”

Me:  “No.  Seriously, once you see some of the names on this site, you’ll realize that you could have named yourself PeckerMcDongHat and still come away looking like a being of superior intellect.”

Which brings me to my point.

I know that the internet is a very big place.  I know that screen names are things that you can agonize over for hours because you want to choose the right one.  I know that some people are reading this and scoffing, “Yeah, well what does Sugarcunt even mean?”  (Exactly what it says on the tin, bitches.)  I’m not saying I have the best name on the internet, and I’m not here to offer any better suggestions.

I’m here because, if you have named yourself, “Oralmaster66698,” chances are that I’m just not going to be compelled to hit you up for a date!  Or even a no-last-names sexual encounter, for that matter.  When I get a wink from someone with a screen name like “bAbiGuRLLL,” I groan and delete the notification immediately.  “BigCock4U2Day sent you a message!” translates to, “Call your friends over to point and laugh.”  MakeUMyBitch247?  I’m going to laugh in your face if you approach me with the assumption that I’ll submit to you.

Here’s the thing.  I know it’s mean.  I know it’s judgmental.  But I’m on a dating site to judge you.  On this site, yes, a first impression is everything, because unlike real life, I can block you if you annoy the shit out of me.  In real life, it takes slightly more effort to avoid you based on a first impression (I solve this difficult-to-avoid problem by never leaving my dorm room), and because of the type of person I am, I’m more likely to judge you based on your typing skills than I am on your appearance.  You have more chances if you have the balls to approach me in person, because it will (hopefully) take you longer to out yourself as a moron.  “That’s not fair,” you cry.  Is it fair that you’re going to decide you don’t want to date me because I’m fat?  Well, on a cosmic scale, maybe not really, but on a scale closer to home, yes, it is.  You have the freedom to bypass me because I don’t meet your weight requirement.  I have the freedom to bypass you because a screen name like wAnT2cMipussy indicates that there’s a 95% chance that you don’t meet my intellect requirement.   I enjoy clever screen names, or original-sounding screen names.  I will even grant my attention to people who use small parts of their names as screen names, because I have met some people that I really like that do that.  When I see a screen name advertising the girth or tightness of your genitals, or your super dominance, or your ability to beat your face in the general area of your Shift key with impunity, I mock you and then I sit down to write blog entries like this.

And now I’ll nitpick a little further.  If your screen name has to do with fly-fishing or hunting and your profile says you love nothing but sports , you and I are not going to exchange messages.  If your screen name specifically mentions sports, I’m going to be skeptical of you.  I will block you if you message me and say, “You’re a girl” (strike one) “that plays games?”  (Strike two)  “So do you like, play Xbox?”  (Strike three).  If you send me a message that says nothing but, “hey,” I will not respond to it.  If your profile states that you are “looking for your redneck Romeo,” or a “girl to have your babies,” please don’t message me.

I’d sooner send a wink to PeckerMcDongHat.

(Disclaimer: I didn’t reach out and deliberately select these screen names, but they probably exist.  Rest assured that these were chosen at random and were not intended to represent any real individuals that I have had contact with.  I have much more scathing things to say about people that I’ve had to reject personally.)

Texture Fiend

Let me tell you a story about one of the worst things that has ever happened to my vagina.

I can promise you that it does not involve childbirth, but if you’re at all squeamish about or triggered by vaginal injury/tearing of any kind, then you probably do not want to read this story.

Young, dumb, and full of cum, Ex and I were working up to a marathon sex session after we’d been apart for our standard three months.  Three of the five years of our relationship were long-distance, and for some reason, phone sex just didn’t cut it.  *Cue knowing canned laughter from the audience members that have ever maintained a long-distance relationship.*  They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but they made a gross oversight in forgetting to mention the effect that it has on the genitals.

I’ve mentioned previously that I’m hard to get off, and producing an orgasm for me is a huge ordeal for the fingers, tongue, and any other appendages with nerve endings that may be put to the task.  After 20 minutes of working me over to no avail, my ex decided he was going to improvise and insert something to help him get the job done, lest his fingers organize an extended strike because of inhumane work conditions.  The tricky part of this was that there was nary a dildo to be found, because my sex toy obsession was restricted to online window shopping at the time.  So let’s think of some basic household objects to slot into the equation of x + condom = insertion, shall we?

For the sake of this article, I really did try to think of some things.  Here are some of the first suggestions that the internet offered up when I googled this question:

  • Produce
  • Hairbrush handles
  • Paper towel holders
  • Flashlight handles
  • Candles

Ex also knew someone who masturbated using a handful of markers, but we weren’t even going there.  Crayola products are just about the only childhood relics that are too sacred to go in my vagina.  (Although they do have a somewhat large, crayon-shaped crayon sharpener that I just had a mental image of fucking myself with.)

There I was, staring at my ceiling, soaking wet between the thighs, while my boyfriend trashed my room, searching desperately for something that he could put in my vagina with the minimal amount of effort.  Guess which of the objects from the list above he found?

None of them!

He found a wooden foot roller.

If you’re blanking when you try to conjure a mental picture of it, let me help you out.


[Image description: A ribbed cylinder of light-colored wood on a white background.  The cylinder is wide at both ends, and tapers to a slightly thinner point in the middle.  The wood appears glossy and smooth to the touch, and the ends of the cylinder appear to be flat.]

Okay.  Maybe those of you with more experience and wisdom (and who had received a comprehensive sex education that covered safe insertion) can look at that picture and go, “Maybe that isn’t the best idea.”  But for those of us who didn’t have the benefit of that, or at least some common sense, this looked like a totally viable dildo.  “Hell, honey, it’s ribbed for your pleasure! “  (Not a direct quote, but I know we were both thinking it.)  My foot roller wasn’t tapered as significantly as the one pictured above, but beyond that, it looked pretty much exactly like it.  He found it on my windowsill.  He asked me what it was.  I didn’t know.  What I did know was that I had received it as part of a massage/pedicure set.  I knew that it had a somewhat phallic shape.  I knew that it was made of smooth, seamless wood.  I also knew that I hadn’t seen my ex in almost four months and was ready to devour him, and because of that, everything else that I knew took a backseat to the fact that I knew that thing was going in my vagina.

And it did.

Oh my god.  It was good.  It was so good.  Intercourse had never felt that good.  I am not exaggerating.  I was in ecstasy, with that foot roller thrusting in and out of me and a devoted tongue on my clit.  It wasn’t very long.  It didn’t need to be.  It was amazing.  I genuinely have no real way to describe how it felt, because I have no basis for comparison in memory.  I couldn’t get enough of the thing, and I was so wet,

so close

my cunt was on fire my back was arched my toes were curling my right leg was twitching and that telltale cramp was forming in my thigh and oh my god, yes, yes, YES, I… flopped my spine back against the mattress, uncurled my toes, stilled my leg, and I was PISSED.


“Honey, you’re… bleeding.”  He sounded a little concerned.

Fire spurted from my nostrils as I sat up and grabbed his hair in a death grip, growing to twenty-times my size and towering over him.

“No, really, you’re bleeding…

The pleasure HAD NOT RESUMED.  His words were drowned out as Latin choirs sang in the distance.  My bed became a slab of ice and the temperature was sub-zero.  My room was now Cocytus, and I was buried in the middle of it, gnashing the teeth of my three mouths.


Our sexual encounter quickly devolved into a non-kinky shouting match.   Finally, tossing aside his fear of spooking me, he showed me his hands.  It looked like he’d fingered Carrie after the prom.  “LOOK.  Are you okay?”

It was right about then that I got a little nervous.  I was accustomed to a tiny bit of bleeding every now and then, but outside of menstruation, this was more blood than I’d ever seen come out of my vag.  But it didn’t hurt… in fact, I was feeling no pain at all, which is why I hadn’t realized how serious the situation was.  I rushed to the bathroom and held some toilet paper to my cunt until the blood flow was minimal, and as I was pressing it there, the pain set in.

Oh my god.

Let me tell you about the pain.

My cunt was on fire again, but it wasn’t the good burn from earlier – it stung.  It’s been a few years, but I vividly remember sitting on my toilet, trying not to cry because of a mixture of fear and pain, wondering if someone had turned a hive of pissed-off, razor-wielding hornets on my poor pussy.  It was scary.  I had no idea how bad the damage actually was, I just had some blood and pain as indicators of what I had done.  I felt confused, frail, vulnerable, damaged, and above all, foolish, because I thought it would be okay to put that thing in my vag.  Ex was pounding on the door, asking if I was okay, and all I could do was sit there and sniffle.  It didn’t take too long for the bleeding to slow down, and while I spotted for several days afterward, the damage wasn’t severe enough to warrant a doctor’s visit – at least, that was my opinion at the time.  In retrospect, I wish I had gone to the gynecologist just for peace of mind, if nothing else.  I still have questions about it.  Exactly what kind of damage did the edge of that thing cause: scratches, tears, scrapes?  Could it have changed the internal topography of my vagina?  Once I had healed up, I was convinced that my innards felt a little bit frillier than they used to, but that was an entirely subjective judgment from someone who didn’t often penetrate herself with her fingers.  Could I have gotten an infection if I hadn’t taken better care of it?

Now, do you want to know the scary part of this story?  I was the most sexually-educated person among my friends for years, and I thought that this roller would be okay to use in my vagina.

I was the one who told my friends that yes, they still needed to use condoms if they had anal.  I was the one that my friends asked about STDs, pornography, blowjobs, sexuality, and last but not least, masturbation.  I was the resident “sex genius,” and I thought it would be okay to stick this thing in my pussy even though it didn’t have rounded edges.  It wasn’t the ridges that hurt me… not initially, at least.  It was the top of the cylindrical shape that had hard edges instead of rounded ones.  I’m not going to deny that the ridges probably didn’t help, but once I started doing some reading on the subject, I realized that something with hard, pointy edges really shouldn’t have gone in my vagina.


When we’re showing them how to put condoms on bananas, if we’re even showing them that, then we also need to be teaching young adults what sort of things should not be put into their orifices and why, because they’re going to experiment with that whether you address it or not.  Instead of telling them not to have sex, tell them how to have sex safely and responsibly.  Instead of telling them not to masturbate, tell them how to do it safely and responsibly.  Even the teenagers who know more about sex than their peers (like I did) can learn how to do things more carefully.  If someone had told me that I shouldn’t put anything into my vagina until I made sure it had a smooth, rounded edge, I would have told my boyfriend to go fuck himself with a chainsaw before I let him put that thing inside me.

You can find all kinds of threads on the internet asking questions such as, “What can I find laying around the house to masturbate with?”  If it had been a masturbatory experience, would I have gone to Yahoo! Answers and asked if it was a bad idea to put that roller in my cunt?  Probably not.  It never really occurred to me.  It was just phallic enough that I didn’t think about the danger of the edges.

Do you know something important that I learned from Girl Scouts?

It was to be prepared.

Do you know what I learned from this experience?

Have a dildo for every occasion.

Why We Want the Wahl

I got out my porn and toys and my best friend asked, “Want me to bring you towels?”  Oh, beautiful angel of mercy.  You know me so well.  I meticulously arranged the towels and got myself set up to play.  I was ready for my mind to be blown.  For starters, I’ve never used a vibrator that wasn’t operated by AAAs or AAs until I bought the Wahl, but it goes without saying that a corded vibe is supposed to be intense.  I noticed that the Wahl’s cord has your standard, “Please don’t shower with me” warning label, but said label also warns against use on your genitals.  As I plugged the Wahl in for the first time, I caught sight of that warning label and laughed, knowingly, murmuring, “Puh-lease, what’s the worst that could happen?” Everyone raves about this thing.  I don’t think I’ve read a completely negative review of it yet.  Maybe I just haven’t been looking hard enough. It was cheap, and it was WORTH IT. While the thing is a little big, somewhat gun-shaped, and rather heavy at the head of the device, the two vibration speeds are both incredibly agreeable.

Refer to this image from Amazon, because I’m gripped by the urge to masturbate with this thing every time I remove it from the box, not take pictures of it.

[Image description:  The Wahl 7-in-1 Electric Vibrator is sitting on a white background.  The vibrator consists of a grey handle with a bulbous, round-edged, somewhat square-shaped head extending from one end.  The other end of the vibrator has a power cord connected to it, and the Wahl has a bell-shaped white end attachment sticking out from the square at the other end.  Shown around the Wahl are its six other head attachments: a head that is a slightly-domed, smooth, flat-ish disc, a head that is covered in three circles of nubs arranged in a bullseye pattern, a head that has a bullseye shape constructed by smooth lines and a nub, a head that is just a very large nub, a head that is a rectangle with four rippled shapes protruding from it, and a somewhat pyramid-shaped head with rounded edges.]

The Wahl has three settings: Off, Awesome, and OH FUCKING SHIT.
The first speed (which I nicknamed “Awesome”) is a pretty intense surface vibration that’s leg-twitch inducing when you brush it across the clitoris.  The second speed (“Oh Fucking Shit”) is a little different.  It feels deeper and more layered than the first, and it’s oh-so-satisfying.  To me, the vibrations from the second speed are far more penetrating than the first.  After experiencing the second speed, when I compare the two, I’m actually inclined to call the first speed a “light vibration,” even though there’s nothing light about it from a standalone perspective.  Both of the vibration speeds are almost silent compared to the battery vibrators in my arsenal.

I generally opt to masturbate quietly when it’s just me, unless I’m feeling especially sexy, but I didn’t get a choice on this.  It had been an hour of repeated, orgasm-less ejaculation.  (I think I counted five.  I think.)  The last segment of Belladonna’s Strapped Dykes 2 was off, and free porn was on.  I had the spot applicator (Epiphora‘s recommended jilling tip) on the Wahl. My anal beads were in, the Wahl was nestled against my clitoris and held in place between my legs because my hand had gone numb, and I had my jackrabbit in, thrusting against my g-spot.  It was just too much.

What came out of my mouth was not the confident, empowered moan that my lips are accustomed to.  It was like I was riding in the backseat, and the front seat was populated by an overwhelmed toddler that was reaching the apex of a hissy fit.  (Note to self: never reference anyone under the age of 18 in sex blog again.)  I wailed and it felt passive.  I shuddered, convulsed, my legs twitched like crazy, and I soaked the towel in another gush that was so late in the orgasm that it was almost after the fact.  A moment later, I felt like I lost all basic control of my bodily functions.  The dildo left me without any work on the part of my hands, but my ass was like a vice, even five minutes later.  To summarize the aftermath, I present to you the Lost Tweets, which Twitter stalled out and refused to post… probably for the sake of saving face for me.

“Oh.  So that’s what a queef sounds like.  No wonder it’s so taboo.”

“My ass feels like Thunderdome gone wrong.  FOUR BEADS ENTER, NONE LEAVE.”

It was all such a blur that I can’t even tell you whether I was using Awesome or Oh Fucking Shit.  I don’t remember.  As I was packing up the Wahl, I caught sight of the warning label again.  It needs something about temporary movement impairment.

My complaints about the Wahl are minimal.  The size is a little bulbous, and a majority of the weight is focused in the head of the device, so it’s a little unbalanced and a bit heavy, at worst.  It would probably be inconvenient to integrate into partner sex play if you had two bodies pushed against one another, like one might in the missionary position.

It will numb your hand if you hold it for too long, but I tended to solve this problem by positioning the vibrator with my hands, then holding it in place with my thighs.  (Additionally, the numb hand is still totally worth the orgasm.) Another complaint relating to the hands is that the heads require a little bit of effort to attach and remove.  I think this is reasonable enough when you consider that once the heads are fully attached, they don’t go anywhere, but, those who have problems with or disabilities relating to their hands (arthritis being the first and foremost that came to mind) might have a hard time forcing the different heads into place.

The cord means you need to be near an outlet, which isn’t a problem for me, but means that this probably wouldn’t be very convenient for sex out of the home.  Because of the cord, its size, and the small size of my portable toybox, the Wahl may not make it into my “on-the-go” kit.  However, the Wahl has a very special place in my bedroom.

Get one.  Get one now.  Get two for the hell of it.  Use the ripple-y head on your thighs to work out the soreness from reverse cowgirl.  (Did that.)  Use the deep muscle head on your back to give yourself the massage you need.  (Did that, too.)  After all of that, settle in with a glass of wine, your choice of porno, literotica, or fantasy, and use the spot applicator to have the fun you deserve.  Just make sure that the Wahl’s acclaimed “silence” isn’t essential, because while the vibrator might be relatively quiet, you won’t be.

Pros Cons
ORGASMS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s big, and a bit heavy.
Super-quiet. It numbs my hand after a while.
Multiple heads. All heads not suitable for genitals.
Amazingly cheap. It’s corded.
No batteries! Wouldn’t be very comfortable between two people in missionary.
You can use it for things other than jilling!  (But why would you want to?) It gets a little warm after a while.

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. :|”


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.