some one else’s sex, for once

This is an email I got from a reader/lurker of the blog. I asked if I could post it because it was both hysterical and well-written. I hope you enjoy it. I’m not particularly motivated to write today.

***

I’ve had sex. More than once, even. Those three magic afternoons taught me a lesson I wasn’t really in the mood to learn. That lesson, you ask? Keep reading.

I worked with a young piece of woman named Bonnie. She was everything that most people who lived in the woods dreamed of: buck teeth, cute little pot belly, a high-pitched, brash southern accent that also came with a mysterious Barry White-esque laugh. She did have a remarkable figure, though. It probably came from chasing swine in the backyard.

Bonnie and I had a shared interest in music and art; the common things that soon lead to nightly conversations smothered with delicate flirting and boxed wine. She told me about what she likes in bed and vice versa. In the mental state we were in, giving up all that information could only lead to sex. With all of her filthy little secrets she told me I knew that it was going to be good. Great even.

My pornstar hopes were crushed within two minutes of the humping. All the smutty images she gave me were washed away. I wanted to flick her in the forehead just to make sure she knew I was there. I even switched gears and threw her legs on my shoulders to get things movin’. No luck. The only motion she had going was provided by my manly thrusting, which I might add, can take the breath out of anyone no matter their determination. I’m no Dirk Diggler or anything like that, but I do what needs to be done.

Why in the hell would she lead me to believe that she was the trashiest girl around? I wanted a trashy girl, someone I could take home to the family so my dad would laugh at me. She said she was a “freak,” but that didn’t really mean shit. The phrase gets tossed around by soccer moms conversing at the park while their pushing their kids on the swings.

“Oh Debbie. I bought one of those thongs all the girls are wearing now.”

“You go, girl! Has Eugene seen it yet?”

“Not yet. I was gonna show him tonight after we watch The Incredibles with the kids.”

“Oooh he’ll love it. You’re such a freak.”

Women are incredibly sexy. Why do you think there are so many stalkers out there? If they want to hand out a spoonful of sex to a guy, the least they could do is pretend they were into it. Move around. Tell the guy what you want. That’s really hot. The lesson I learned is that guys just can’t win. They go out of their way to get the girl. They do 93% of the work in bed just to later get verbally annihilated by a giggling squad of girls in the ladies room. Just don’t sit there. It could scar a man for life. I promise. Oh yeah. Don’t let alcohol make your decisions when it comes to sex.

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go sell crazy someplace else, we’re all stocked up here

I realize I’m crazy.

Most of my friends are quite aware that I’m crazy, too, and they know it’s merely part of my considerable charm. My idiosyncrasies are what make me fun and amusing and wholly unique. They all know that there is not another soul in the world like me, and that it’s likely a good thing.

However, without prior arrangement, we usually fail to warn potential suitors about my particular brand of lunacy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a conspiracy, but I’m too scatterbrained to remember what side of the scheme I was on if I was involved.

I mention this because for a long time, the buttermint and I would commiserate on our terrible taste in men. We always seemed to be attracted to men who were completely wrong for us – men who would either take advantage of us or – worse – lay themselves down in our path with a spray-painted sign: “WALK ALL OVER ME, PLEASE.�

Even being as well-intentioned and considerate as I am, I still – somehow – managed to hurt people by not being what they expected me to be. I never understood how that was my fault, but I took the guilt and blame regardless. I beat myself up for a long time, wondering what was wrong with me that I couldn’t meet their needs. It took me a much longer time to realize that I wasn’t the problem. It was their expectations of me that caused such a rift.

These people who I went out with, and spent time with, were accepting to a certain point. They liked who I was. Oh, yes, absolutely. But would I mind changing just one little thing? And, oh, how about this one little thing too, please? Then, of course, there was an inevitable fight over something that seems so minor in retrospect, but to me was of grave importance. They may have been fighting for what they saw as a personal fixation, but I was furiously fighting for what I saw as an integral part of my being.

You see, it is truly rare to come across a person who has as much of an open mind and accepting nature as I do. It’s why I have so many acquaintances and friends from all walks of life – because I don’t assume anything about them. I don’t put them in boxes or label them. I support who they are and what they want to do. I encourage those around me to develop themselves as they see fit, in a way that makes them feel good, but without hurting those around them. Doesn’t everyone? I guess not. But in the same vein, I do the same myself without asking for permission first. I don’t feel like I need your okay to be me.

I’m an absolute nutcase. I’m passionate about things I believe in. I’m manic when I’ve had too much caffeine. I’m opinionated about everything. I will still listen to your opinion, although I reserve the right to disagree. I don’t usually take no for an answer, unless there is a legitimate reason for it. I will change my mind at the drop of a hat, and not tell anyone. I forget that I’ve already made plans and double or triple schedule myself. I’m not intentionally inconsiderate, I’m just forgetful. I write things down in a notebook I carry with me ALWAYS. I laugh out loud whenever possible, because it feels good. I cry when I need to, even if I’m not hurt or scared. I worry too much about other people, and don’t worry about myself enough. I could probably think of a thousand things about myself that drive other people to the bottle – or out the door. And if I looked at that list, I would probably shrug over most, and nod sagely over other things, because, yes, I do indeed drive people crazy.

This is probably one of my most disjointed ramblings to date, because it was supposed to make sense, but I think I’ve commingled some of my thoughts. To wrap up, I think the point I was going to make was that while I know I’m crazy, and some people can’t understand it – I get disappointed by people too. I get disappointed by the close-mindedness, the intolerance, the apathy, the ignorance, the fear and the hate. I’m disappointed by people who can’t grasp the concept of “if you have something to say, say it. Especially to my face, you punk.� I’m angered by those who like to cause pain, and I’m truly pissed off at poseurs and fakes. That is why dating is so hard, and why I get so frustrated. It’s why my trust and love has been abused more times than I can count. It’s also why I still have the faith to trust again, and hope this time it works out. Call me crazy…and I’ll probably agree.

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more sex? yes please!

It’s time for another installment – sorry this one has been so long in coming…pardon the pun…

Dear Toki,

I’m engaged to a really great guy – he’s kind, considerate, affectionate and devoted to me. We have been together for three years, and are getting married this December. We have so many things in common it’s spooky, but we have enough differences that we would never get bored. I love him with all of my heart.

My problem is – he’s always pestering me about having anal sex. I’ve done it twice, once when I was very drunk, and the other time it wasn’t so great. I don’t know how to tell him that I don’t want to do it – ever – without creating a huge fight. I don’t want to break up over something like this, but we’ve got to reach a middle ground.

Thanks,
Anal Sex-ually Frustrated

Dear Frustrated,

First things first, he’s kind, considerate, affectionate, devoted AND he wants anal sex all the time? Are you sure he’s not gay? Just checking.

Another point I wanted to make was that anal sex isn’t for everyone, just as toys and extras don’t fit into all healthy relationships. It’s okay. However, I have a feeling that the reason it wasn’t so great when you were sober is because of two things: He was in a rush, and you were tense.

I’m not a doctor, so I’m not going to go into the technical details. However, what I DO know is that while the poonani was MEANT to accommodate a penis, there is a reason the other one is joked about as being labeled ‘Exit Only’. In order for the experience to be more enjoyable for you, you need to be really, REALLY relaxed. Alcohol usually helps – not drunk (that’ll just kill your libido and make it more difficult), but I’ve found that being slightly tipsy will increase the giggle factor which makes you a bit more relaxed. And you’ll need to giggle – sex is fun, enjoy it. There are also numbing lubricants made specifically for this activity, so I suggest heading over to your local sex shop and browsing with your honey.

Don’t forget, I don’t care how turned on he is, he HAS to slow down. Take it at YOUR pace. If you want the most control, I suggest getting on top. That way, you are in charge of the movement and depth. If you want it to be at a better angle for less pain, doggy style is your best bet. But you might want to work up to that. It doesn’t let you have any control over speed or – worse – accuracy. It is, however, the best position for your ever-so-loving man to give you a reach around while he’s at it. And if he doesn’t, he’s not worth keeping.

Really and truly though, if you’re in a committed relationship, and you’re about to marry the guy, you need to lay down some ground rules – quick like. I’m not saying all bets are off when the rings go on, but I would suggest you guys have a serious talk about the future of your sex life.

You say he’s considerate, but it seems to me that if he’s ‘pestering’ you, he’s not respecting your boundaries. And in my humble opinion, that’s not considerate at all. You’re going to have to take the hard line on this one and be blunt.

If you are dead set against doing it, EVER, the next time he gives you the ‘baby, please’ look, stare him in the eye like you would a bad puppy that just peed on the rug and say “NO.� If necessary, grab him by the scruff and shake him a bit. If he has more than four brain cells that function at any given time, I would further that bit of reactive training by explaining that you are just not into that. End of story. If he pushes his luck I recommend electroshock therapy. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, right?

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