So I was fisting my girlfriend. Does everyone know what fisting is? You should, because Nicole Antoinette took a fisting dildo to a bar and has pictures to prove it. But to clarify, itʼs the act of sticking (slowly and carefully, please) your fist up your partner-incrime ʼs hoo-ha (or anus, whatever pickles your cucumber.) Itʼs often perceived as violent and plenty of people wrinkle their nose at it, but itʼs actually gentle, loving, and delicious. More about pressure than pounding. But anyways, yup, fisting my girlfriend. And using my wrist, I twisted my entire hand (because, you know, that feels awesome and I of course want to be a queer sex rockstar.) Imagine my displeasure when I felt a pop in my wrist. I thought nothing of it, though. I was a little preoccupied.

But the next day while I was doing the dishes, I dropped one. I had tried to pick up aheavy pot and my wrist revolted and hopped a plane to Tijuana. And I said nuh-uh. No way did I hurt my wrist doing the naughty. Iʼm twenty-two, not eighty. It had to have happened when I was playing tug-o-war with the 115 pound pit bull mastiff lab mix that wiggles between my girlfriend and I every night. Yeah. Thatʼs it. It was the dog. I made the decision to suck it up. Iʼm no pansy.

Now I was just graduating (why thank you for all those congratulations, thatʼs very sweet). And this was all during my last week of finals ever. And I was up at night writing a 12 page paper for my queer history class when the pain became unbearable. I decided this was the night, I was going to the emergency room. I looked in my wallet and realized, to my horror, that my insurance card was safely in a lockbox forty-five minutes away…at the abode of my parents. My sweet senior citizen parents, who love my girlfriend but who are far too vanilla for this shit. I finished my paper as quickly as possible and began to drive the forty-five minutes, attempting to come up with a story. It was the dog. Thatʼs it.

I arrived at my parents house at midnight to a chorus of their confused looks. I explained that Iʼm here for my insurance card and that Iʼm going to immediately peace out to the emergency room. Oh no, says my father. No one should ever go to the emergency room alone. Iʼm coming with you.

Oh Lordie Lou with a cherry on top.

So the nurse (her name was Jess, I believe) called me in and asked me what I did to my wrist. My father was at the front desk answering questions about my insurance (thank God) and with a glance to make sure he was far enough away I said:

“Well there are two possibilities. One is that I hurt it playing with a 115 pound pit bull mastiff mix. The second, far more likely possibility is that I hurt it while fisting my girlfriend.”

Jess looked at the ground. Her reply:

“To preserve your dignity, Iʼm going to write down the first option.”

I made my father leave my side when the hospital technician asked me that same question. You know. The one about the wrist Iʼd been holding close to my chest in a pained manner. I kicked old vanilla ice out. I didnʼt want to give my 65 year old father a heart attack, even if we were in a hospital. Anyways, I donʼt remember the techʼs name, but he looked kind of like Ogie from the movie “Waitress” (if you havenʼt seen it, see it. Great movie.) Anyways, Ogie Doppleganger asked and I answered “Well, there are two possibilities. One is that I hurt it playing with a 115 pound pit bull mastiff mix. The second, far more likely possibility is that I hurt it while fisting my girlfriend.” The blank stare horrified me. “Um, excuse me? Fisting? I…I donʼt really understand what that means.”

Well. I held my hand up. Made a fist. Sputtered “itʼs, um, well, itʼs…” I didnʼt have that suave explanation I typed up for you. Oh no. I just sort of stiffly jiggled my fist around with my eyebrows raised hoping that heʼd catch the idea-ball I was throwing. “Well, you stick this…”

He did. “In her vagina?”

“Yup.”

“And did you…?” He twisted his hand by the wrist.

“Yup.”

“Huh. I didnʼt know one could do that.”

My only response was “Welcome to the wonderful world of lesbian sex.” I can hear yʼall face-palming from here.

“Whew, Iʼm glad,” said Ogie Doppleganger. “I thought when you said fisting that you punched your girlfriend.”

I burst out with “Iʼm sorry.” I am sorry, I thought. Sorry for this extraordinarily embarrassing hospital visit. Sorry that itʼs three in the morning and Iʼm not asleep. But I wasnʼt sorry for sex. Really, thatʼs the moral of this story. The sex was 125.4 percent worth this encounter with Ogie and my wrist on the lamb seeking a black market plane ticket to Fiji with a jacked passport. The sex is always epic! Long live the sex!

Ogie seemed un-phased, as if he were echoing my philosophy on sex. Or perhaps he was just jaded, being an emergency room peep because he then nonchalantly responded with “Oh, no, really. Donʼt feel bad. Youʼre definitely not the worst one weʼve seen. We had a guy come in last week who shoved a lightbulb up his rectum and then it broke.”

Someone needs to take that guy to a Babeland workshop.

The x-ray ladies chattered like chickens and were older than my father. “What did you do to your wrist?” I sighed as they positioned it on the x-ray table. “Well the first possibility is that I hurt it playing with a 115 pound pit bull mastiff mix. The other…is a really embarrassing sexual misadventure that Iʼd rather not recount again.” They glanced at each other and burst out laughing, knowing smirks as they cackled “I bet the doctor would love to hear about that.”

It wasnʼt broken. Just sprained. Yes, everyone, you understood right. I am fully committed to my girlfriendʼs happiness. I sacrificed my wrist for her! And those lovely podunk town hospital chickadees prescribed a splint, which they didnʼt know how to put on. Jess was back and struggling and she burst out “Oh no, we must look so unprofessional. We must look so stupid!”

“Really, nurse Jessica. Letʼs revisit why Iʼm here. You look fine.”

“Oh, but youʼre totally not the worst thing weʼve seen. Why just last week we had a guy come in who had shoved a lightbulb into his rectum and it broke.”

Post from: Toy With Me

So I was Fisting My Girlfriend……

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Their cumulative awesomeness will have you forwarding a link to this article to all your besties.

First up we have a lovely new douching product called Waterworks that my good friend Dingo called to my attention.  It’s not so much that it’s a new kind of douche bag that makes this awesome, it’s the marketing that I love.  I thought everyone knew douching is bad for your kitty and you shouldn’t do it, but  this product claims that since it shoots plain shower water up your hey-nanny-nanny, it does not  disturb the delicate Ph of the vajeen because  it’s ALL NATURAL WATER.

Can I ask you something Toy with Mes?

When you walk into a room, do people shudder and hold their breath because your monkey is funky? VAGINAL ODOR RUINS LIVES,  you know, but with the Waterworks douche bag, you never need worry again!  Just read the testimonials!

I love Dingo because she’s always trying to help me find ways to fix a funky twidget.  She sent me this next one, too…

Move over Vajazzling, here comes Twattoo! There’s a spa in New York City that is now offering what is called a bikini ink treatment, aptly nicknamed, “twattooing.”   It’s an airbrushed image that lasts a little under a week, and this confuses me because I bet it’s expensive as a motherfucker.  Why would I go and pay for someone to airbrush Jesus’s face (that’s totally what I’d get you know, because that way my husband could contemplate The Lord while worshiping at the altar.  Talk about a cum to Jesus meeting! HA!) on my crotchals when I can just grab one of my daughter’s My Little Pony, or no, wait!  HELLO KITTY temporary tattoos?

The answer is, I wouldn’t.  Don’t be silly.

I just got an awesome idea though, you guys.  BlogHer is in NYC this year, is it not?  Maybe that spa that does the twattooing can offer all the gals going to BlogHer a little ink for the pink! Maybe they can even design a special BlogHer twattoo!  Call me, BlogHer peeps!  I’ve got some designs all sketched out!  You’re def  gonna wanna give me a free ticket after you see them.  Consider it my volunteer service performed.

This next one is from a facebook friend of mine.  Apparently, this S-E-X T-O-Y thing is not new. They’re not really sure what this thing is, but it sure as hell looks like a stoneage dildo carved out of antler bone.   Apparently even the stone agers were chronic masturbators just like US!  Some things don’t change, you guys–there’s your proof right there.  I wonder if LELO made that one?  Talk about a boner.

Oh and have we heard of  Camelflage yet?  It’s “The Original Privacy Undergarment” and it prevents people from seeing your bulging lady junk through your tight pants.  I’ve sort of already had a solution to this problem for years though– I try to wear pants that fit properly.  But if you like to wear tight pants and you’re sporting a big ol’ camel toe, then these are the panties for you, my friend!

And I’ve saved the best for last!  Another facebook friend alerted me to this next thing–quite possibly the most entertaining article I’ve read in a really, really, long time.  Craigslist has yet again proven to be a blog fodder goldmine and this time it brings us “straight” dudes looking for a J.O. bro!  That’s right, folks: there are guys out there who insist they’re STRAIGHT but advertise in the m4m section on Craigslist for a jerk-off buddy.   Jerking off can be lonely business, and so just like some guys like to play poker once a week or go golfing with their buds, some dudes want to share their jerk off hobby with a pal.  Where else  but Craigslist would you go to find such a compadre?   Nowhere.  You guys have to go read this buzzfeed article. It will make your day, I promise.  Just remember these guys are NOT GAY and make sure you bring your favorite barbecue sauce recipe, wear your crystal necklace, and be prepared for a profound spiritual act of hetero awesomeness. That will all make sense to you in a minute.  I’m gonna go back and read it again myself.

So now that my inbox has been thoroughly cleaned of all it’s random bits of lols and roflmaos and pmsls, feel free to send me more OR!  You can share your random awesome sex news in the space provided below.  OR! You can react in shock/horror/excitement to what you have learned today.

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

Random Awesome Stuff In My Inbox

No related posts.

I mean, isn’t it?

Anyway, so, I knew that they’d been spayed and neutered, so the concept of using a condom led me down foul and horrible paths in my mind I never, ever wanted to think about. Finding a stash of porn is one thing. Realizing your parents make the beast with two backs is an entirely different story.

Now that I’m a parent, I know that there will come a point when my own children will realize that I have sex and be equally disgusted. I, of course, know my children will come to realize that I exist and be disgusted by that as well, so I know I can’t win, but at the very least, I’ll have to start my own covert hiding of certain things.

Like, uh, well, SEX TOYS.

Thank Sweet Baby Jesus, I never found any of those, because I think I probably WOULD have died right then and there, but you know, the condom was bad enough. Just. Ew.

So, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what I am supposed to do with my pathetically small (and rapidly dwindling) collection of naughty things. My bedside table isn’t going to be cutting it any longer. In fact, I should probably start leaving things like books called “A Mother’s Love” (is that a book? If it’s not, Hallmark should get their asses on top of that immediately, if not sooner) and perhaps books of pictures of cute fluffy kittens, just to throw my kids off my trail. If they think I’m the most boring person on the planet, they won’t go looking for my collection of delicious narcotics (drugs are bad, kids), cough syrups that require identification (drugs are REALLY bad, kids), oils, lubes, and other assorted naughtiness that I might have stashed around my room.

My biggest problem with trying to find something to stash these things in is that I’m kind of (okay, that’s going to go up for Understatement of the Year) stupid. The medicine I take for my migraines makes me really forgetful and I am always misplacing things. Like my pants. And keys. And wallet. And really, most anything else that you CAN misplace. But if I lost my one lone remaining vibrating boyfriend, I’d probably cry real tears, which might actually make my rarely-used tear ducts burn in agony. No one wants THAT, least of all me.

So I turned to Google, my trusty sidekick, who I like to imagine with red hair, because I firmly believe that all sidekicks should have red hair, to see what HE had to say about it (yes, Google is a boy).

First, Google informed me that Tupperware was an excellent choice. I disagreed, because, HI, it’s see-through, and even if I bought the colored stuff, my kids always assume that anything in Tupperware is for them. I don’t know where they got so damn egocentric. Maybe they read my blog or something. Tupperware to store my sex stuffs is a definite NO.

Then, Google told me that I could hollow out a space behind a painting and put a safe in there and then put my painting back. This would presume I HAD a painting on my wall OR a safe, neither of which I have or want on or INSIDE my bedroom walls. Plus, my sex toys are cheap pieces of crap which is why they’re all broken and I’d feel TOTALLY absurd putting them inside a wall safe BEHIND a painting. But this gets an A+ for cloak-and-daggers, which is always good in my world.

Also scoring points for cloak-and-daggers stuff is the notion that I could take the time (or buy) books and hollow them out and then put each of my sex toys in them. Which would work well until I forgot which book had what toy in them. Or when my kid decided to read War and Peace or something and WHOOPS! out pops Mr. Pink! That would probably scar him more than finding it in my drawer, where he shouldn’t be snooping ANYWAY. But it’s a good idea and highly creative, so the idea gets marks for that, even if it isn’t practical for me.

Some ingenious company made a pillow that hides a sex toy and a bottle of lube. Which means, effectively, that you can hide that bad boy in plain sight until such time as Little Susie gets a cold and wants to snuggle up in Mom’s Bed and lays her head on the WRONG PILLOW. Next thing you know, she’s screaming that the pillow is biting her and you’re trying to explain that “it’s okay, that’s Mommy’s SPECIAL Pillow” and trust me when I tell you that your kid will tell the ENTIRE world that you have a Special Pillow. That vibrates. Uh, count me out.

Probably the best idea I found was a shoebox. I’ll probably use an ancient running shoebox or something gross that my kids would never want to borrow because the shoes are so butt ugly and stash my meager collection in there. Then I’ll hope like hell that they don’t have to make a diorama recreating the Battle of the Bulge or whatever for Social Studies and decide to go snooping. Or maybe they can use what they find inside in their dioramas (do kids still have to make those things?). Who the hell knows.

Either way, the shoe box seems like the best alternative for now. Well, the shoe box and some new sex toys. Because this is just getting pathetic.

So tell me, Toy With Me-ers, where do you stash the goods?

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

I Need A Place To Hide My Sex Toys

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I think that Matt is a true artist and was absolutely fascinated with this video. Enjoy!

Post from: Toy With Me

The Artist Who Makes Sex Dolls

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The actual spot where the deed was done

If you Google “female sex fantasies,” inevitably you come up with role playing, domination, exhibitionism, threesomes, and rape. Check, check, check, and Uh, no thanks, with a side of “can we just go with domination and call it a day”?

I’m more likely to laugh at you than fall to my knees if you show up in my bedroom in a costume asking me to call you Captain Stubing and report to your Poop Deck; role play isn’t for me, but I can see why it would work for somebody else. I’m down with why there’s a “slap” in the slap and tickle, and the thrill of being caught is just that, a thrill…and who doesn’t want that? As for threesomes, if you’re not in a committed relationship, by all means, act this one out whenever you can, because as soon as you are in a committed relationship, it’s too messy and complicated. Godspeed. With my blessing. Wish I had a time machine. Those were the days.

The only persistent fantasy I’ve ever had, though, the only one that’s hung in there with me through the years, is the Sex on the Beach fantasy.

It has turned out to be more difficult to bring this one to life than I’d expected. As it happens, private beachfront time when the sun is shining and the temperature is just right for some naked sexy time is a hot commodity. Just ask the hordes of vacationers crowding our shores every sunny day between Memorial Day and Labor Day each year, or rather, don’t, because they don’t want to hear it, which rather highlights the problem.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way, however, and where there’s a will and a way and some plane tickets and possibly even a passport or two and a boat and some nautical charts and a cheerful husband, there can be the realization of a happy girl’s dream.

Coleridge wrote how a reader might have to engage in a willing suspension of disbelief in order to appreciate the fantastic worlds that literature could open up. Sex on the beach is sort of like that. Sex is, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, and holy hell if not please get in touch because you are doing something wrong wrong wrong, a slippery business. On the beach, the slippery soon becomes the sandy. And sand + friction on certain body parts is just not OK, unless maybe you’ve got some kind of sandpaper fetish, in which case, who am I to judge. If you’re really going at it, and if you’ve gone so far as to bust out passports and travel by plane and boat to get here, you most certainly are not sort of lethargically and methodically knocking one out for the hell of it, sand is going to make its way up into the unmapped depths of your delicate bits. My advice to you on this matter is to pretend you’re re-enacting that scene in From Here to Eternity and roll around in the surf a bit from time to time to rinse the grit away.

We tried to avoid the potential sand in the hoo-ha problem by starting out on a towel under a beach umbrella, but that was just plain silly, because the towel was a crumpled up nuisance almost instantly, plus it sort of defeated the whole “out there in the open on the beach” point of it all. And anyway, the splashing around proved to be more fun and led to the fulfillment of a fantasy my husband didn’t even know he had until about thirty seconds before it was fulfilled. On that subject let me just say this: if you’re on your knees and there are any hints of waves at all, try to make sure that you are facing away from the incoming tide in order to avoid a mouthful of seawater. You’re welcome.

My husband spent a fair amount of time with his back to the noonday sun. For this I am profoundly grateful. For his trouble he was rewarded with not only my gratitude, but also a preposterous sunburn on his previously lily white ass. In my haste to strip him down to nothing as soon as we’d hit this private beach, the judicious application of sunscreen fell by the wayside. Damn it, there was beach sex to be had! So, yeah. His ass peeled a few days later. Whatever. I had an insane orgasm in the middle of a Caribbean beach in broad daylight with nobody around but seagulls and maybe a stray hermit crab. Small price to pay.

Ultimately, whatever the specifics of what you’re into and who does what to whom and where your leg is and where his face is, feeling so free to luxuriate in the sun and on the beach and in the water not only giving and receiving pleasure but doing so knowing that it was something I’d thought about for so long was the best part. And now I get to check that one off the list and move on to the next one! Anybody have a helicopter I can borrow for a few days?

So tell me, do you have an fantasies that you plan on fulfilling or will you just keep them within the confines of your mind?

Post from: Toy With Me

Sex On The Beach – Fantasy Fulfilled

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Tap Shoes carries on like this at every possible opportunity. The part of me who’s a catty bitch sees this and makes eye contact with The Rabbi so we can laugh at her with our minds. But then there’s the other side of me who is actually happy for Tap Shoes because she’s found something that makes her feel sexy and alive, even if she looks ridiculous and sucks a little bit. I mean seriously, I wish you guys could see how she dorks out and she doesn’t even give a shit. I might even be jealous of this.

You go with your wacky self, Crazy Tap Shoe lady!

I, on the other hand, do not feel particularly sexy in class.

I signed up for it because I was hoping it would help me find my mojo, but instead I feel bruised and inadequate. (Here’s where my pig husband would be all “hey, bruised and inadequate–that’s sexy!,” but I disagree. He’s such a hormone.) It’s hard to feel sexy whilst flailing around a metal pole.

Maybe that will change, though.

I’m sort of this permanent quest for things that make me feel sexy because most of the time, I don’t feel pretty or sexy at all. There are, however, a few things I’ve discovered that make me feel sexy deep down inside. Some of them are the predictable, superficial things that are probably pretty common and some are not so obvious.

1. I love to buy lipstick. When I find something that looks pretty, I walk around for days making Angelina Jolie Poutyface at myself in every reflective surface I can find. Plus, it’s cheap and in seemingly unlimited supply, making it an ideal product to hoard. My lips are one part of my body I have absolutely no issues with, so that’s a bonus.

2. I do exactly the same thing with nail polish. In fact, I’ve been feeling like shit lately and have purchased TWO new colors in the past week (if anyone’s found the perfect shade of orange, let me know–it’s elusive!). It, also, is cheap and comes in 10,000 different colors, so there’s always one I don’t have. The best part is when my husband gets in the mood to do a full-on pedicure and makes my toezies look pretty (he’s just a little bit g-a-y but we’ve discussed this already. He’s reading Allure magazine as we speak.).

3. This one is a recent discovery, but wearing high heels is a big one! A few weeks ago I put on a very Maryanne-ish pair of wedgie sandals and felt like a tall, long-legged goddess. I glided through my day and felt like I was in charge. I went back out and bought another pair after that.

I can hear some of you complaining already: “these are all so superficial, Crissy!” And you’re right–they are. But this post isn’t about whether superficiality is right or wrong. What I KNOW is that looking good makes me feel confident, and feeling confident is a prerequisite to feeling sexy.

There are some things that get my juices flowing that aren’t quite so superficial, too.

1. Hearing a really great song–something with energy, bounce and a good beat and that’s not emo.

2. Getting enough sleep. This one is very hard to come by these days, with a 13 month old and a 5 year old. There is no such thing as sleeping past 5:30am, no matter what bedtime is. Without enough sleep I’m a wicked bitch and I’m prone to epic fucktardery. So. Not. Sexy.

3. Having a kick-ass workout to raise my endorphins (ever rubbed one out after doing yoga? I highly recommend it. Nothing can ruin your day after that, I promise). The workout part isn’t sexy per se, but the afterglow is divine. From what I’ve read, working out also releases testosterone and human growth hormone which both bolster libido. I don’t know if that’s what’s happening to me, but I can tell you that I feel strong and and less anxious if I’ve gotten some exercise in the morning and that leaves room for The Sexy.

4. Laughter is a big one! I chalk this one up to effects similar to working out–mostly stress relief and the endorphin rush. A good teary eyed, tinkle in my panties laugh puts me in such an awesome mental and emotional space, I totally understand why so many single ladies are looking for “someone who makes me laugh.” It’s hot!

5. Swimming or anything involving water. I’m a Cancer, which is a water sign. This has to explain why water revives me and makes me feel most alive (I don’t have to tell you about how much I love Sexy Time in the pool, do I?) I even kind of like the feeling of a wet bathing suit after I get out. Showers and baths work too, but swimming is the best. Plus you know that everybody is CLEAN, which is never a bad thing.

Anyway, I’m going to open it up to you Toy with Mes now because–compared to you crazy sexy people–I’m fucking boring. What makes you feel sexy… not horny, but sexy. And for the boy Toy with Mes, is there something you do for yourself that makes you feel attractive, or is this totally a chick thing?

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

What Makes You Feel Sexy?

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2. Aunt Becky Makes A Porno

But knowing that someone was searching for “Aunt Becky Porn” and ended up on another blog was pretty hilarious to me. The searching robot could have been looking for the beloved character from Full House, you remember her, right? Uncle Jesse’s girlfriend? Lori What’s-Her-Name? It’s entirely possible that this person-bot wasn’t searching for YOUR Aunt Becky in a porn because, Pranksters and Toy With Me-ers, Your Aunt Becky has never MADE a porn.

I know, I know, you’re shocked.

That got me thinking about making a porn, though, and how while I have gigantic (fake) balls of diamonds and platinum, I don’t know that I could actually make a porno. I know I’ve confessed previously that I’m afraid of my vagina, causing a number of you to send me links to Labia Necklaces (made, of course, TO ORDER from pictures of YOUR OWN FUCKING LABIA, the horrors of which, I cannot un-see no matter how many pictures of cute, fluffy puppies I look at), and a couple of you to yell at me about it. Which, okay, you can be mad at me for being afraid of my vagina—and all of it’s assorted anatomical parts, the names of which I am intimately familiar with but makes for terrible satire writing–all you want, people. I’m not telling YOU to be afraid of YOUR vagina (from now on I will be using vagina as a blanket term to include the labia minor, labia major, vestibule or urethra), nor should you be.

People give porn stars a bad reputation, but damn, I think they’re gutsy as hell for getting naked under those harsh lights and having The Sex in front of cameras (and then with some careful editing and rockin’ music added in) for all the world to see. I haven’t ever watched myself have The Sex, but I like to imagine it’s sort of like watching a bag of pudding and a canned ham bumping together awkwardly for a couple of minutes. Then again, my imagination doesn’t always do me any favors, so that’s probably a strike in my general direction as far as being filmed while Doing The Deed. So my props to you, you sexy porn stars, for all of the confidence you must possess to have The Sex in front of cameras, harsh lights and a gazillion people roaming around telling you to “move this way” and “moan louder.” Your Aunt Becky couldn’t do it, even if she were plastered in Tijuana and high on methamphetamines. NOT THAT I’VE EVER TRIED OR ANYTHING.

But then, because my imagination wouldn’t stop, I had to find out how people got INTO porn in the first place. I certainly don’t know anyone who stars in porn and I live in the computer which pretty much means I should know someone who does EVERYTHING, but even after trying to beat the three brain cells I have left around my skull, I could think of no one that even remotely resembled a porn star. There went my shot at an actual interview for my Toy With Me column, and I admit that I felt a little sad in the pants for a couple of minutes as I regrouped.

Refusing to be defeated by this setback, I turned to my trusty sidekick, Google. I typed: “How To Get Into Porn” into my search box, and got a little nervous about what would pop up, because dude, it’s The Internet and you never DO know. All my fears, though, were for nothing because immediately popped up some real advice about breaking into the porn industry. Who knew?

Apparently, if Aunt Becky wanted to break into porn, she could, with a few tips and tricks from actual porn stars (or maybe their management companies)! Now that YouPorn and YouTube put up a lot of free content and the rest of the Internet is bursting with other types and places and sites to find all sorts of pornography, the pornography industry is adjusting their business model in order to stay afloat. A lot of porn stars have their own websites, often with useful content about the porn industry itself, among, of course, the videos and pictures.

In skimming the information I found because I am illiterate and have the attention span of a gnat, I’m still pretty sure that I’ll never make it as a porn star. I mean, sure, I could burst into the amateur scene and maybe do some bondage stuff, but really, I don’t think it’s my thing. I think I’ll leave porno making to the pros and stick with mediocre blogging, because that’s really more my speed. Oh, and I should probably add that often the number five most searched for term on my own blog isn’t “Aunt Becky Porn” or “Mommy Wants Vodka” or even “Aunt Becky.” It is “Boring Things.” So, there you have it. Proof that The Internet is really, really smart.

Post from: Toy With Me

Aunt Becky Makes A Porno

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As a “Pole Dancing Expert,” the Toy with Mes asked me if I was interested in using and reviewing an at-home portable pole kit. I was thrilled to pieces to try it because I was going to get to practice my mad skillz and help others at the same time.  It’s a total win/win!  (I think the biggest winner is my husband who is now the envy of all his friends, and even a few people he’s never met. Did I mention the caché being a pole dancer seems to entail? Yeah.)

There are several different kinds of poles to choose from, but the one I got from the awesome people at AdultSexToys.com was Carmen Electra’s Electra-Pole Professional Pole Kit by Peekaboo.  It claims to be the perfect pole for all levels from the total beginner (like me), to the professional pole dancer.

Let’s find out.

The pole shipped out quickly and came very discreetly packaged in a plain brown box.  It’s all folded up inside because the pole itself comes in three pieces for portability, so it’s not as obvious as it would be with a solid, one piece pole–you know, the long, skinny, 20lb one your neighbors would see you dragging off your front porch in your platforms and g-string.

Inside the box is the aforementioned 3-piece collapsible dance pole, the ceiling plate, the base plate, spanner, assembly guide and DVD, and a not-so-discreet storage bag with CARMEN ELECTRA ELECTRA POLE written in huge hot pink letters on it.

Assembly is pretty easy, but if you’re all thumbs with this sort of thing, please, please, please have somebody who knows what they’re doing put it up for you. We like your teeth where they are.  Even I, with my very, super handy builds-shit-from-scratch and uses-his-dick-for-a-hammer husband, managed to pull the thing over the first time I attempted a fast spin.  While doing some research on this particular pole, I read that a lot of people have pulled it over during a spin and have been hurt, so test it out a lot before you try to do tricks on it (something they repeat more than once in the instructions, btw).

In fact, if you’re going to do anything fancy like that, you really do need to screw it into the ceiling. This Carmen Electra pole offers an OPTION to mechanically fasten the top plate with screws, OR it can be pressure mounted. Lots of other poles don’t offer both options.

Before screwing it into the ceiling, however, I was able to do a handstand against it and climb it.  My 170lb neighbor and my 195lb husband were also both able to climb it without a problem.  So, if you’re going to dance around it and maybe climb it a little, you should be okay without screwing it in. If you’re planning on really torquing it, use the screws.

The first thing I noticed is that this pole is a lot thicker than the one used in my class, so it’s taking some time for me to get used to it.  There are some thinner ones on the market that might be easier to wrap your hand around–especially if you’re a beginner and you don’t have a lot of hand/wrist strength yet, like me.  The diameter difference is a double-edged sword: a thicker pole puts less pressure on fulcrum points (and thus reduces some of the bruising) and it’s easier to squeeze between the legs, BUT it’s also harder to get a good grip on, especially if you have smaller hands.

The finish on the pole is also a little hard for me to deal with.  The ones in my class are painted with a somewhat textured/grippier powder coat paint, and even with that paint, they’re still a little slippery.  During class we often have to stop and wipe down the poles with rubbing alcohol to keep the surface clean. The Electra-Pole is chrome and is therefore very slippery, even when completely clean.  I feel much less confident using it for more difficult maneuvers for this reason. Our class has different poles, and our instructors told us that the more advanced poles have slicker surfaces like the chromed Electra–harder to get a solid grip, but also a lot “faster” for spins and slides.

After anchoring it to the ceiling, I was able to do spins, etc.  I weigh 120 lbs, but it says not to use it if you weigh more than 265.  Some reviews I read said that people of only 105 lbs couldn’t do spins on it without it coming apart.  I did not find this to be the case. Plus my husband pulled and tugged and even managed to do a something like a spin, and it didn’t budge. He said if someone a shade over 100 lbs broke it, it wasn’t installed properly to begin with, and I totally believe him. The thing is solid.

In all, I think the Electra-Pole is pretty awesome for a beginner with the following caveats:

• You have someone who knows what they’re doing install it for you. We put ours in the porn basement, which has an exposed joist perfect for mounting. If this is going in your bedroom, you’re going to need a stud sensor or stud finder to locate a ceiling joist strong enough to keep the upper mount stable–whether you screw it in or not.
• You don’t try anything crazy before you know for absolute sure that it’s secure. Even then, take it slowly as you increase your load on the bar.
• The size and texture of the pole is more for an intermediate or advanced level dancer, and is therefore more challenging for a beginner to use.

For me, at least, it’s really fun having it and playing around with it.  Would I buy something different in the future if this pole dancing stuff turns out to be my thing?  Probably, yes.  I’d get a heavier one that’s one solid piece, maybe a little thinner, and meant to stay in place permanently.  But since I’m just testing the pole dancing waters at this point and getting some practice in, it’s just about perfect–it can be relocated in a few minutes, even with the upper mount screwed in, it’s height adjustable, it has a gleaming chrome finish, can be knocked down and put away for when judgy people and relatives come over, and last but not least will get you mega points with the husband.

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Can I ask you something, Toy with Mes?

How common is it to have a one night stand?

I ask because I’ve never actually had one in the traditional sense where you 1) go out to a bar, 2) pick up a guy, 3) fuck him, and then 4) never see him again.

Never.

Of course, I’m speaking about the past here, because I’m an old married lady now, but even in my wild, swingin’ single days before I met my pimp, I just didn’t have what I call “casual sex” because I have never been able to separate sex and love. I’m not the kind of lady who wakes up and says “Damn, I need to get me some. My vagina is HONGRY! I’m hittin’ the bars tonight, honey!”

Oh my god, I would never (clutches her pearls, gasps in horror at the thought)!

You must know it’s not that I’m a big ol’ Prudence McPrude or anything like that–this is Crissy you’re talking to here, don’t forget. I’m not judging all-a-y’all who have no trouble goin’ out and gettin’ some. The fact is, I’ve never been able to do it. I guess I need to feel like there’s some sort of future in the relationship before I give up the punani.

I have had sex on the first date, but that’s because I really liked the boy and I wanted him to love me. That’s how you get boys to love you, right? Give them Sexy Time right away on the first date?

What, and it’s not?

Well that’s what I thought when I was just a young little dating Crissy and of course, it almost always blew up in my face (ha!) when the guy either 1) never called me again, or 2) I’d wind up being a booty call (back in the days before we had a cute name for it) which of course I mistook as a sign that the boy really liked me since he kept calling. I guess I was kinda like a “one night stand” in the first case, but the difference is that I didn’t intend to be. I didn’t set off with that destination in mind, nor did I start off the night single. I thought I had a boyfriend.

I’m embarrassed at how naive I was in my young dating years. If I’d had a clue, it would have saved me a lot of pain and confusion and my Asshole Guy Detector would have been a little better at detecting creeps instead of falsely leading me to believe that I had just met My One True Soul Mate.

Stupid broken useless detector. Now that I’m married, I can spot an Asshole Guy from miles away.

And what’s with booty calls anyway? How can you repeatedly be fucking someone and not have feelings for them? How can you not develop feelings for them? Even if you didn’t start off emotionally attached, it seems to me that it’s human nature to start drifting that way. Is that why these booty calls sometimes end badly? When I was unknowingly a “callee” I sure as hell had feelings for my gentleman friends. They just didn’t give a rat’s ass about me or my poor little tender Crissy heart.

The fuckbuddy, in my mind, is another term for the booty call. Both entail an on-demand, mutually agreed-upon, no strings attached (aka “NSA,” as my research has revealed) physical relationship. No dates, no cuddling, no drama–get in, get out, see you later. Unlike the one night stand, a repeat encounter is likely, at least as long as everyone gets their jollies and is pleased with the performance. (BTW, the term “one night stand” was originally used in the context of a theatrical production that was only to be performed a single time.)

Some of my friends (admittedly all guys) are frequent, unabashed partakers of prostitutes and I gotta tell you: I have trouble wrapping my head around that too.  It’s such an intimate act, and they sort of equate it to a visit to the dentist. Or the plumber, to “clean out the pipes.” From what I pick up, in their worlds, sex is just a physical need and once it’s satisfied, that’s the end of it. All visceral. All bodily. Neither mental nor spiritual nor emotional.

I have nothing against prostitutes; I believe that criminalizing prostitution is a mistake. I mean, it’s just a series of one night stands/booty calls but you end up with a fat roll of twenties. That’s actually pretty cool, and at least your heart doesn’t get broken in the process. The terms are pretty clear up front. I can see how THEY can detach and not develop romantic feelings–they’re pros. This is work. Gotta pay the bills, you know how it is.

But the Johns?

What about if they’ve developed a penchant for a particular prostitute (Hello! Pretty Woman!)? I’m sure that not all Ladies of the Evening are created equal, so what happens if they’re sporting a massive boner and it’s their favorite girl’s night off? Will they be disappointed? Will they pick a different prostitute? Will they fly solo for the night? Are prostitute visitors loyal customers?

Is it like how chicks are with their hairdressers?

Loyalty and jealousy must be factors in the booty call too. Say you’re some kind of player, with the cell phone contact list chock full of potential and willing candidates. You undoubtedly have favorites there, too. Some fucks are ALWAYS gonna be hotter than others, right? If your #1 is busy, perhaps with another fuck buddy, do you feel jealous? So then you end up calling #2 on the list. Is that like cheating on #1? Do you tell #1, in the hopes of making THEM jealous? Do booty callers and callees EVER get jealous, or is that verboten in the rulebook?

Finally there’s the “Friend With Benefits.” Is this person REALLY a friend? Like, you see them and you DON’T have your hands in their pants within 30 seconds, and you chat on the phone, and you know each other? Is it just another term for a booty call/fuckbuddy, or are there subtle differences?

I know you savvy Toy with Mes can help me understand the ins and outs of casual sex. So, go! Educate Crissy in the space provided below.

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That all changed in my twenties, which I am freaking THANKFUL for, because without women, I would be pretty lost. Your Aunt Becky loves of The Ladies. It seems the older I get, the harder it is to have male friendships, but that’s a topic for another column or something someone else with half a brain can explain, because obviously.

I’ll be honest, Toy With Me-ers, I’ve even kissed a few of The Ladies in my day. And while I hate Katy Perry ALMOST as much as I hate Gwen Stefani (nothing, NOTHING could compare to the white hot hate I feel for her, though), she has a point: kissing girls is pretty awesome. But, I should add, I’m not going to be a trendy bisexual blogger because THAT is just too many labels for me.

The Women, though, they’re just hotter than men. Better kissers, too. And like so many of us, I have List of Weird Men I Would Have The Sex With. In fact, I wrote about it here, once, and you guys were all, “they’re not weird” which furthers my point that I love the Internet because I could say ANYTHING and someone would be all, “Me too” and you know that they would be telling the truth.

Anyway, I also have a List Of Women I Would Make Out With. I’d probably not do much more beyond make out with them and then ask them how they got to be so Full Of The Awesome and then maybe see if we could order pizza and stay up all night talking about our dreamy crushes on Justin Timberlake while we traded secrets. But I have A List, and I think it’s a good one, although it’s in no particular order (which will infuriate the Type-A people out there)(Hehe).

1. Zooey Deschanel. So, you can probably guess that I like quirky people because quirky people are far superior to normal people and she’s the poster child for quirky chicks. She’s what I like to call a “pocket pal” because she’s someone I’d like to stuff in my pocket and pull out to entertain me when I’m bored. It sounds creepy when I type it all out, but I assure you that it’s actually MUCH less creepy in my mind. Because I don’t have a box where I keep people under my bed or anything. Anyway, her character in Weeds is the only place I’ve seen her act and she’s random and adorable and pretty much I want to smoosh her face and then be her best friend. After we make out. Plus, she’s my age, which makes me feel like I’m not ancient Uncle Pervy Old Balls for thinking she’s cute.
2. . Okay, so I had to Google her to get the correct spelling of her name because I’m not so smart, and I am apparently TOTALLY not alone in thinking that she’s hot. I have good taste in women. So, THIS should be case and point for all of those girls out there starving themselves to look like gangly fashion models, because Hendricks is curvy and hot. Guys go WILD for her curves because she inhabits them without apology, and we all know there’s nothing sexier than a woman who owns her body. I know she got some flack for having those curves, but damn, I don’t know a single guy that wouldn’t drop whomever and whatever if she came a-knocking. So girls, if you’re out there, just take a look at her and remember: if you’ve got it, love it.
3. Natalie Portman. I like smart people, I make no apologies for this. It’s probably to make up for my own lack of intelligence, but either way, this girl is WICKED smart and I think it would be like osmosis if I could be around her. You know, particles of smart flowing from an area of higher concentration to an area of lower concentration? She’s beautiful and she’s smart as hell and while I’m not normally into ACTORS because I think they’d probably be insufferable bores, I would be willing to bet that she doesn’t take herself as seriously as some of the others do because this is MY fantasy, yo. Plus, did I mention that she’s both intelligent AND sexy? Nothing hotter, my Toy With Me-ers, nothing.
4. Carrie Underwood. I have A Thing for musicians, that I probably shouldn’t announce to the world because I tried to suppress it for many years after dating a string (heh, PUN) of worthless, aimless musicians. But, those are MALE musicians, and despite her recent nuptials, I think that Ms. Underwood and I could make out for a long, long time. Then she could maybe sing me an awesome ballad (like Journey’s “Faithfully,” which I love, and if you mock it, I will cut you) and we could swap party dresses and then attend some red carpet events and look all glamorous and shit. Nothing about this is going to be bad.
5. Megan Fox. Now, I went back and forth, my three brain cells knocking against my skull, trying to decide whether or not I should include her on my list. In the end, I decided that her hotness could overcome anything that came out of her mouth, and to that end, I would totally make out with her. She’s smoking hot and she’d probably entertain me by saying the sort of stupid crap I say on Twitter like, “I can see Alaska from my house!” Only I’m (mostly) kidding and she’s totally not. Her hotness can overcome a lot, though, which is probably why she’s gotten anywhere in life besides a life pumping gas. In fact, that’s why MOST hot people are insufferable, yet we all put up with them anyway.

So, Toy With Me-ers, now you’ve seen The Ladies I’d Make Out With, it’s your turn to tell us who you think is hot.

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