Y.T.O.F.T.

Okay so things with PR fell through.  We don’t have to go through a long drawn out drama about what happened, we just weren’t right for each other (future post to come on his fetish).  Three days later, I found a dude in his 20s to do, so congratulate me, assholes, for I have passed on to cougar-dom. 

I won’t go into too much detail about him or how we met aside from the fact that he asked me for a drink and he’s the best sex I’ve had.  He’s as passionate, if not more, than Lucifer (that Columbian/Brazilian guy I used to do).  His pseudo is TI (for reasons that I have removed as of late).

Although I’m usually into older guys, he’s been a great change of pace.  I’m not sure if he’s actually attracted to the fact that I could be his sugar momma (and/or he has “mommy syndrome”) or if actually thinks I’m that beautiful (close friends know why this is a sticking point).  And at this moment in time, I don’t even fucking care because when you have the best sex you’ve ever had in your bed every night, life is good.

It might just be the drought, or I’m just getting older, but goddamn do younger guys know how to give it.  Is this what I’ve been missing by shrugging off all these baby-faced guys who want a chance at my bedroom?  I surrender to my Higher Power, forgive me.

TI and I have only been “seeing” each other for about 2 weeks or so, so I can’t go into any big analysis of him, but he’s not so bad.  I can give up a few days a week of sleep in order to get mine.  I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve been this satisfied.  I was actually nervous about sleeping with him, because he was about an inch more than I am used to, but we made it work (just like a friend told me over lunch one day, shout out to you, you know who you are). 

So enough elation for one post, let’s talk science.  Evolutionary research supports theories based on age preference since for fairly obvious reasons, a younger female is more viable.  She has a higher chance of genetically viable offspring as well as younger eggs, which have a lower chance of mutations before/during/after gestation. 

That’s the obvious one, but really what is the appeal in a younger male?  For a female, there is a higher risk that he would not be able to provide resources and even if he could, a younger male is more likely to go astray if that genetically viable female happens to walk by. 

The superficial research I came across points to all the blatant reasons why a younger male is sometimes preferred.  The sex is great (I can HIGHLY condone this).  Since they are more likely to go astray, females with commitment issues don’t have to worry about him getting clingy or attached.  And lastly, they’re just fun.  They’re into everything and are less offended if you decide you want to sleep at 2am instead of fuck (I did regret it in the morning, though). 

Age is always such a bullshit excuse to date someone or not date someone or to sex them (or not).  Like who the fuck cares?  I was never one to care.  I’ve dated guys 15+ years older than me, and guys 8+ years younger than me.  I always said that you should try out a wide range in order to determine what you really like.  Truth be told, while I haven’t decided which side of the spectrum I prefer, I’m leaning towards the latter. 

Because I was recently burned with PR, I haven’t opened myself up to TI.  He is in his early 20s, fresh out of college.  Not sure he even understands the difference between “dating” and “doing”, but no time like the present to learn.  I know, it sounds like dangerous territory, and it probably is, but have you ever known me to be concerned about that? 

Sure, I don’t know how I feel about him, it’s only been two weeks, but we are just having sex.  And sure I’m a self-proclaimed sugar momma, but I’m not sure he has proven himself worthy of being my sugar baby (is that the word?  It sounds weird).  So while I’m deciding what I want to do with him, I’ll just enjoy the sex (and dinner, when he cooks for me) and keep you posted on all the freaky shit we do. 

The drought?  Officially over and the rivers are overflowing…. 

You're Divorced? I'm single.

My mom wants to set me up with this guy and qualified it with “he’s divorced”.  So.  I signed up.

When I was younger and I found the need to get married because that is what everyone does, and I was scared to think about the fact that the divorce rate was on the rise.  I think it was near 48% when was a teenager.  I want to say it’s 51% today, but I have a feeling it’s more.  Now that I’m 30 (31 on September 17^th, don’t forget to send me presents!!), and I’ve decided that getting married is not for me, I’ve given up the “terrifying thought” that I’d have a marriage that would end up in divorce.  Lucky for me, I am me.

Well, since I’m 30+, I know several married folks, and consequently, several divorced ones.  And I still can’t, for the life of me, figure out why there is a stigma associated to the divorced ones.  Divorce means you were man enough to figure out that you couldn’t be happy and therefore took the guts to get out of the relationship and not be a pansy ass who wants to make everyone but yourself happy.

Am I projecting?  No, but for most of you, I probably am. 

I mean this furthers into my disdain for seeing “single?, married?, and divorce?” on forms.  Like, why does “divorced” even count?  Doesn’t a divorce just mean you are back to being single again?  And does it really matter?  I’ve been known to judge people who get married and then I stopped because why should I?  Some people can make the commitment that I deem unnatural and others can redact it, which in turn other people judge.

God, I hate being so fucking clichéd, but what I’m saying is that it’s all relative.  But, in any event, back to this guy that my parents want to set me up with.  Without going into too much detail, he’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever had an opportunity to do.  And the fact is, a guy who is divorced, to me, tells me that he won’t do something just because it’s the right thing to do.  It tells me, that if shit hits the fan, he’ll man up and say something is wrong and walk away if he has to. 

Writing it down actually makes it sound worse.  Maybe it is, but if you aren’t happy, my thought is do what makes you happy, and if it’s walking away, then go right ahead.

He’s not local, so you won’t find out if we hit it off, but I have my agents checking him out so we will get some new information stat.  We will find out his story.  You can follow the most up to date information at my twitter or here on the blog. #newguy

In the meantime, what are your thoughts on marriage and divorce?  Do you judge one more so than the other?  If so, why?   

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Lonely in the city....

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The X factor (cliche, I know...)

A ControvershiL Note.

First of all, thanks to everyone for making my blog so popular.  I started this blog as a private journal to document my sexual relationships, dating life, and the like, just to have an outlet.  I went public on a whim and now its a place for advice and funny anecdotes.  After much consideration, I've decided to adapt this blog into a book.  That's right assholes, I'm writing a book.

That being said, my blog posts will become a little more infrequent as I turn my focus to bigger and badder things.  In the meantime, I will still be accepting guest posts (controvershiL@gmail.com), should you have any, regarding your sex life, which I suspect you won't since most of you are too prude to have sex.

Thanks again for the support and I'm always available for bullshit on twitter (@controvershiL). 

Don't Cum In My Eyes...

I’m about two weeks into 30 and it’s been just fine.  No life changing nervous breakdowns or manic episodes (well, manic episodes related to a birthday, that is).  Looking back, I still have no regrets on any decision I’ve made this far into my life.  Maybe ignorance really is bliss, but frankly, I’d rather be happy.

Speaking of happy, lately, many of you have been expressing your appreciation of my honesty.  Thanks, because I appreciate my honesty too.  In fact, I appreciate my openness to do whatever the hell I please because I know I’ll have no regrets.

And I always thought, I am limitless, invincible, I can do whatever I want with no consequence whatsoever.  And I’m lucky that I have friends who bring me down to earth and relay real life problems that I am lucky enough to avoid.  But I realize the late night conversations do take a toll on me as I come to the conclusion that I might actually have boundaries.

I won’t have anal sex.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge supporter of it, but anal play does absolutely nothing for me and thus, I am completely fine with saying no to any dude who even hints and giving it a shot.  Sorry bros, not my style, you can go “on to the next one”.  To be completely honest, I wish it got me off because it’s so huge in the porn world, I really just feel like I’m being left behind. 

This is pretty specific, but I won’t let a dude finish in my eyes.  I hear it’s a big thing in the kink world and dudes love that shit, but I’m really particular when it comes to my eyes.  They used to be green for heaven’s sake.  Tits, face, feet, whatever, but no cum in my eyes (I’m really just nervous about the stinging and my late onset allergy bullshit – I’m 30 after all).

I’d never pursue someone in a relationship.  The fact is, those that are in a relationship pursue me (I really can’t deny my desirability).  But I’m just not that desperate.  If your man wants to be bed by me, then that’s a problem you have to work out with your man.  However, if you ever find me pursuing your man, then by all means, please, take it up with me because I can 100% guarantee, it won’t happen.

And the kicker:  If I like a guy (and this has only happened twice in my 30 year lifespan), I won’t go home with a guy on the first night.  Sure, I’ve gone home with a guy or two who grew on me after the fact, but if I’m aware, I won’t do it.  Again, it rarely happens, but I know what I like and I know how not to get hurt.  I’m a boxer after all, and defenses need to be up at…all…times.

I mean, I’ll write about my sexual experiences.  The good, the bad, the ugly.  But there are certain things you won’t hear from me and these are the reasons why.  And it’s not that I’m 30 and this how I view shit now, no, I’ve always had these limits and just like my sexual experiences, I am in no way ashamed to admit it.

What about you?  What are your boundaries?  I suspect everything else that I do, right?

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Shut it down and move on!

So I've Been Sleeping With This Guy...

So I’ve been sleeping with this guy who has a girlfriend of 9 years.  One afternoon, after we fucked our brains out for five hours (because who doesn’t waste their time fucking for five hours on a Sunday afternoon?), I did the PSYCHO-logical thing and asked him why he didn’t want to spend those five hours fucking his girlfriend instead.  And to my surprise, the poor thing could not give me a reason.  In fact, he simply shrugged, looked away, and said, “I don’t know”. 

Of course, in the meantime, I knew why.  It wasn’t because he didn’t “love” his girlfriend or because he was trying to see if there is something better out there.  No, none of that.  It was because he’s a male who was trying to genetically perpetuate.

I get a lot of letters from females who want to know why their boyfriend/husband/friend cheats and it’s sometimes hard to give an answer.  There are several reasons a male could cheat, and it doesn’t necessarily mean because they’re want something else.  Whatever.  Wish I fucking cared.

In any event, this dude in particular clearly just wanted to get his sperm out there.  He “loved” his girlfriend, and I knew he wanted to marry her.  He just needed to get it out of his system, because that is how we are built.

Just for the record, I’m not totally against marriage or relationships.  I mean, maybe at one point I was, but I’m not anymore.  I just can’t for the life of me believe a genetically superior couple is 100% happy being in a monogamous relationship.  So while my friends are off doing the tired cliché thing and getting married, I offer them the best advice I possibly can and that is to give in to the temptation, should it come along.  Sure, they can stay married, but why not try the open relationship?  At the end of the day, you’d both be coming back to each other anyway, right?

So while some of my friends are married and many are in relationships, I don’t want them to think that I’m totally against them being together (which I know I act like).  I’m actually totally supportive.  I just hope that when problems arise, they realize that it isn’t necessarily one person’s fault or the other, and in fact, its likely that its just a biological need to spread their wings.

Moreover, while most of you are judging me because I’m sleeping with someone who is in a relationship, I know I’m helping this guy get it out of his system and so I never blink twice when I hear about this one or that one having an affair with so and so.  I hate to be glib, but better me than some other female out on her competitive prowl for the perfect mate. 

After I asked him why he was fucking me, he stopped coming around so often.  It is probably better that way in the event that his “holier-than-thou” girlfriend find out that he’s fucking a fucking legend (pun fucking intended). 

Editor’s Note:  I realize I’ve been writing a lot about cheating and cuckoldry etc, but I just find the need to validate the reason why these things continue happening (as I continue getting letters upon letters on the phenomenon that is cheating).  These things aren’t a crime and people shouldn’t treat them as such. 

Yikes! - **Guest Blogger**

**Note from Editor:  Please indulge in the latest post from my colleague, "Ralph", and her adventures in finding "The One"** 

Today I had a date.  I left work on time for a change, took the time to add a touch of lipgloss, a shimmer of blush and a pinch of Chanel No. 5 and off I went.  I was actually optimistic and looking forward to this date – this very blind date.  I barely knew the guy, had met him at a party briefly months ago and we finally reconnected.   I needed to go.  Needed to forget about Guy #1 - the one I thought was the person I was going to live happily ever after with.  And so – there I was, my lips coated in shimmery lip gloss and my broken heart full of high optimistic hope.

We spoke over wine and candlelight and it was fine.  At the moment, fine was better than heartbroken.  Fine filled the proverbial holes in my heart.   And then there it was, that moment when you realize that you are going out with a complete stranger and so obviously there will be things you don’t know about him that will come up in conversations, things that you aren’t accustomed to, things that may actually freak you out.  “You may know my younger sister...she’s 6 years older than you.”  I did the math in my head, and asked with trepidation, “So if she’s 6 years older than me – would you mind my asking how old you are?”  “Um...I’m in my mid-40s.” he said cautiously, while proceeding to analyze my facial expressions for a sense of shock or dismay.  Luckily for the both of us, I’m good at keeping my feelings to myself and I just nodded and said calmly, “Oh cool.”  He continued the conversation with, “You know – you would really dig my friend...well, except he’s divorced with 2 kids.”  My eyebrows raised and I said, “It’s interesting that I’m out with you and you’re trying to set me up with a friend.”  “Oh...no...I didn’t mean it like that.” he stammered.  And then there it was, the first time in my life that my eyes began to tear up on a first date.  I thought about the dozens of men I had rejected based on reasons I thought important at the time, I thought about Guy #1 and how much I missed him and the lower age gap between us, I thought about the decade-plus age difference between me and the reasonably nice (yet semi-clueless) man across from me and I was devastated.  Shallow? Maybe.  Overly Dramatic?  Probably.  But who is anyone to judge the feelings of another?

As I walked home from my reasonably nice evening with a man I would be more comfortable calling “Uncle” than “Boo” – I felt the space around me get dizzy and I bent down and literally began to bawl on the corner of Astor Place and Broadway.  I cried for Guy #1, the sweetest soul I have ever met who everyone told me wasn’t right for me, I cried for all the past males in my life who, for some reason or the other, I deemed not compatible...and I cried because I was a lonely, freshly-minted 30 year old girl who wasn’t getting any younger and may actually, sooner or later, just have to settle for something that isn’t what her 13, 16, 20, or even 27 year-old self had hoped for.

I went to sleep that night with a simple prayer – not one where I asked for true love, or that quintessential giddy feeling known as the “za-za-zu”.  I asked for simply this, “God.  Please help me be practical, help me be happy with whatever I end up getting.”   

And that, my friends, is what turning 30 with way too many past heartaches, has done to your once optimistic guest writer. 

Schooling Todd Akin

It’s hard to keep up with current events when you are as self-involved as I am (so much so that I had to edit this post twice because I didn't have my facts straight).  However, it was pretty difficult not to hear about Todd Akin and the downfall that was his campaign.  If you have been living under a rock, Todd Akin is a member of the House representing the fine state of Missouri for the past 11 years.  He tragically made the following comments during an interview after being asked his views on whether a woman who became pregnant due to rape should have an option of abortion:

“Well you know, people always want to try to make that as one of those things, well how do you, how do you slice this particularly tough sort of ethical question. First of all, from what I understand from doctors, that’s really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. But let’s assume that maybe that didn’t work or something. I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be on the rapist and not attacking the child.”

Before you continue reading, let it marinate for a minute.  Go ahead, it’s fine; I’m not going anywhere.

Should we talk about how the American school system, high education system, and all around societal intellect has failed us?  Can we skip that and move onto the science?  Awesome.

It’s certainly not cute that Akin has no idea what he’s talking about.  I, however, have done a little research and have found some interesting information around the evolution of rape. 

The definition of “rape” varies.  Forced intercourse is the “popular” definition, but it is disputed across all disciples and hasn’t gained a consensus due to its sensitive nature.  The percentage of rape has a higher incidence in young adult communities (aged 19 to 35 which coincidentally is the age of highest reproductive value) as well as within couples who are in relationships.  And given the demographic, rape that occurs within a context of a relationship is often not as commonly reported.

There is a huge controversy in the scientific world on the continuity of rape.  I realize in saying this, I just set off a bomb, but let me explain. The down and dirty is that rape exists in nature.  It is nature’s method of genetic perpetuation.  The problem (thankfully) is that we aren’t dragonflies.  The controversy lies in whether in humans, it’s an evolved psychological adaptation or whether it is a “side effect” of a male’s preconceived sexual strategy to find “low-cost casual sex”.

Studies have shown that rapists, by in large, have low self-esteem, are less attractive, have a low socioeconomic status and thus are largely less genetically viable males.  That all being said could it be possible to profile a rapist?  Theoretically, yes.  Realistically, no.  It’s a huge generalization (and if you know me, I HATE generalizations.)

In any event, rape may have been evolved as a sexual strategy, and if society continues to sexually evolve as it has, we will be unable to profile potential rapists and rapists might (hopefully) become obsolete.

Someone send this piece to Todd Akin (Aiken), courtesy of controvershiL.

My Raging Libido

I’m totally digging these “no frills” sex dates that I’ve been doing.  An afternoon appointment to be pleased by a hot dude whose only reason in coming over is to do just that.  I actually got to know one of these guy’s a little during our brief recharge breaks, and he wasn’t a terrible guy.  That’s not to say that I’m falling in love, because I’m not.  I just feel like this guy might be selling himself a little short.

He’s very good looking and successful.  It made me wonder why he’s still single and not hubbied up by one of those skinny fair girls whose sole purpose for existing is to marry a guy like this.  (For the record:  when I met this guy, I totally pictured him with a pretty skinny girl and would have totally set him up with one of my friends if I didn’t want to bang him). 

Whatever.  I’m just happy to be having a regular sex partner once again, and thank god he showed up when he did, because it was slim pickings what with the idiotic celibacy break I took.  I can’t tell whether it’s because he’s fresh meat or whether he really can just hit me the right way, because I really can’t get enough, which I’m actually pretty happy about considering I was worried about my libido dying (pushing 30 and all). 

There’s a huge disconnect between men and women’s libidos as they get older.  Both men and women have a slowed libido as they get older, however, men’s testosterone production doesn’t stop, whereas women’s estrogen production does.   It is what it is, and when the marvels of science catch up, which in some sense it has with the onset of estrogen injections and the like, libidos will all level out and everyone will have the sex they want/need.

However, before we are all blessed with OTC hormones, my theory is that men’s libido fails with monogamy.  It goes back to my theory about how men are biologically inclined to perpetuate their genes.  That, in combination with The Coolidge Effect *, theoretically results in a man who is unable to be sexually satisfied…ever.

So what about all these men who claim they have healthy sex lives?  That they are satisfied with their “one” sex partner?  I remain skeptical and go back to my several pieces on “cheating” and wonder if they are getting their fix elsewhere.  Okay, I lied, I don’t just wonder, I’m about 75% sure they are.  And those that aren’t?  Well I won’t be the one to say it.   

I don’t think I’ll be losing my libido anytime soon and when I do (in ten years), I plan on being first in line for those estrogen pills that I’ll abuse like I do my Xannys now. 

I want to dedicate this to all my friends who have taken the courage to get out of marriages that weren’t working.  You took a risk and you were smart enough to realize you couldn’t fake it.  Good for you.

*I hate Wikipedia, but Google Scholar didn't have the article I wanted to reference and would you really read a peer-reviewed article anyway?

Life is Short - **Guest Blogger**

"**Note from Editor:  Please indulge in the latest post from my colleague, "Ralph", and her adventures in finding "The One"** 

This past Friday I was late for everything.  I had planned to go out of town and missed the bus.  Then, the next bus was delayed which resulted in my being over 2 hours late.  When the bus finally pulled into the station, I booked it to a cab and impatiently took a long 20 min ride across town.  The cab stopped, I jumped out, it was rainy and dark yet the traffic light was clearly red for pedestrians.  I looked to my right for just a moment and then bolted straight across the road.  One foot into the road, I heard the blaring of a horn.  I looked to my right. Headlights inches away from me blinded my vision as I stood there paralyzed for what felt like hours.  Luckily, my instincts (or fear) kicked in and my one foot forward came back.  I could feel the speed of the car rush past me.  I was shaken.

As I attempted to collect my bearings and shrug off the shocked looks of the other less impatient (and much smarter) pedestrians, I had a thought that hasn’t left me since that fateful Friday just one week ago.  Life.Is.Short.  One day you’re walking to the movies, and the next you’re hit by a car, and with your life go all your dreams and what-ifs and fantasies.  Of course ,because I am a romantic my thoughts went straight to my quest for love and how one small irresponsible step could tragically end the search and potential ‘happily ever after’.  My philosophy since then has been to lay my cards on the table and see what happens because it’s better to know what someone is thinking or what could or could not be, than to sit around agonizing over the ‘what ifs’.

Aside from laying ones cards on the table, the other point here is to have a strong heart and stronger bounceback.  The older we get, the more likely our break-ups are harder to handle emotionally because we really just want to find that quintessential person.  However, life is short.  Moping over one mate for too long may cause you to miss out on another who is standing right in front of you.  Trust me.  I speak from experience.

This ‘life is short’ philosophy is easy to preach as I type from behind a screen.  Putting it in motion though, is considerably more difficult.  Currently, there are a few people I wish to bare my soul to – one in particular.  I haven’t yet and this goes completely against my new philosophy!   Yet, I plan to pursue this idea of saying and doing how you feel – perhaps before my next blog post so I can share my results with all of you.  What about you readers?  Is there anyone you want to profess something to – positive or negative?  What’s stopping you?  If there’s anything we’ve learned from recent tragedies (aside from the need for stronger gun control laws which I won’t get into in this post), it is that life is fickle.  Say how you feel and go with your gut – it’s surprising how often it is the right way.  And for all you anxious readers out there asking the question, ‘what if the end result isn’t what I wanted?”  To this I say, man up and grow a pair!  Anything worth saying sometimes makes us have that queasy nervous feeling and that’s absolutely ok.  If it doesn’t work?  Well, to quote my childhood mentor, G.I. Joe, “Knowing is Half the Battle.”

Good luck and Stay Positive!

Cheaters Always Prosper (continued...)

I am finding the need to bring up the topic of “cheating” again because the logic behind the majority of people’s views on cuckoldry, adultery, and related scenarios is “tragically flawed” (my new phrase of the month).  Sure, the majority of people believe in the sanctity of commitment, marriage, or relationships, but there is a reason people are generally insecure about the topic, and the reason is simple.  Monogamy is not biologically sound and thus impossible to maintain. 

Humans have evolved past chimps and bonobos simply because we have the ability to reason.  Unfortunately this reasoning wasn’t meant to crossover into human mating.  If you have read my drama-free sex positive blog, you know that I blame this on Greek concepts brought over to the states by staunch followers who have no basis for the original theory and just passed it on from generation to generation.

But enough of me knocking something that won’t change, let’s talk about nature.  Have you ever seen a bug decide, “Hey, let’s stay together for the rest of our lives, because that’s natural, and our genes will perpetuate.”  No, you haven’t. 

The fact is, we aren’t programmed to have one partner for the rest of our life.  In fact, we are naturally inclined to mate with as many people as we possibly can in order to maximize the genetic potential of our offspring.  And to further this, I’m not just talking about males or females, it’s both. 

The justification for males comes merely in the fact that they are trying to maximize their genetic superiority in the environment by inseminating as many females as they possibly can.  Females, on the other hand, may find a mate who they decide to sleep with, but then, low and behold, a more genetically superior mate comes along, and bam, they sleep with him to increase her chances that our offspring will be…you guessed it, genetically superior.

The facts don’t lie.  The science and biology doesn’t lie.  Sure, we have evolved to reason, but where does that come in when it comes to perpetuating our genes?  It doesn’t.

So when I hear about this one and that one cheating on someone, it doesn’t surprise me.  In fact, I’m a pretty supportive which I realize is the direct opposite of some (most, if not all) of you, but I can’t deny evolution and biology. 

The bottom line?  Genetic superiority is justification for cheating. 

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Meeting her parents?  Think again....

Loose?

A few of my guy friends invited me out as the token female to validate all of their bullshit.  Of course the majority of the conversation revolved around sex because what else do 30-somethings talk about over bottles of rapper-esque champagne?  In any event, my friend, let’s call him “Carlos”, brought up an incident that occurred with his now ex girlfriend. 

Apparently, Carlos and his then girlfriend were dating for a few months.  All was going well, and while it wasn’t the reason they broke things off, Carlos had a concern about her, physically.  He felt that her “hole” was substantially “looser” than when he first started seeing her.  So of course, after all the childish laughing and idiotic giggling subsided, I railed into him. 

After I left those assholes with their tails between their legs, I came home to research the “Loose Vagina” phenomenon.  The facts are as follows.  Pregnancy and post-pregnancy aside, women’s vaginal canals can’t technically get looser.  Sure, women who have sex on sex on sex have adapted and are able to take a dick better than some hymen-intact virgin, but the science is simple. 

The vaginal canal is a muscle.  It can adapt and change shape (for instance, the way your leg muscles can adapt and change shape), but it cannot just get loose.  Now, just the way your legs and arms can lose their tone, the vagina can also go back to pre-sex shape.  In this sense, yes, the vagina does change shape, however, the proverbial “loose” vagina is a myth. 

This brings us to the subject of kegels.  Females STAY doing kegels like it’s going to keep them “tight”.  Sure, it will build your muscle, but trust me when I say that it won’t ever make you any tighter.  Of course, that’s not to say I don’t do them (I like to workout).

I should remind you that I’m not talking about females who are pregnant or are post-pregnancy, but that actually requires more research than I thought, so stay tuned on future post with respect to that.

So the next time you hear any nonsense about “loose pussy” or anything of the sort, be sure to school your fellow sexers on the vaginal canal as a muscle.  I mean, you don’t see your arms and legs getting all “loose” after you work out, do you? 

Dedicated to Rick Ross. 

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Insecure?  Read this.

When You Don't Get Tested... - **Guest Blogger**

**I reached out to a well known literary artist in NYC for this piece.  It's a little heavier than most, but it gets the message across.  Enjoy.**

 

I rarely get mail anymore. One Thursday night in February, I came home to a letter in a blank envelope that had been carelessly slid under my door. The paper in this envelope was lacking letterhead and looked like it had been typed on an old typewriter; there were markings, rust and scratches between words. The content of the letter was unclear as well, except it was strongly recommended that I go to the “Chelsea Health Center” at the location provided.

Later that night, I went to visit a few friends and took the letter with me. Both agreed that the letter was so vague that perhaps this was some kind of money scheme or worse. We spoke of this with Law and Order SVU playing in the background—the episode where women got letters in the mail saying they won a computer, and when they went to retrieve their prize, they were murdered. This made us think even less of this possibly important letter I had received.

I went online to look up the name and address provided in this letter. “Chelsea Health Center” was listed as “CLOSED” according to Yelp, and the address was now a Department of Health clinic that provided free health services including STD testing. My thoughts were muddied with all these conflicting facts, but one friend convinced me to go the next morning with the promise she would come with me.

Early Friday morning, I paced back and forth with five other strangers with blank faces, anxiously waiting for the doors of the Department of Health clinic to open. I had no cell phone service in this spot and was just realizing how important it was for my friend to be with me.

I followed the strangers through the doors and into this little room without windows, where we each took a golf pencil and a pre-numbered questionnaire that we time-stamped. This room exposed each of our insecurities, exerted through the small jump we all made as the time-stamp punched our cards. Between answering the intrusive and shaming sexually explicit questions (i.e., Have you ever had anal sex? Have you ever used sex toys that aren’t yours?) I took a moment to rest my eyes and look around. The little room was plastered with sex education campaigns and disease awareness messages. I spent the last ten years of my life writing these messages thinking they would help and educate others, but a poster telling me to think before I act when I’m sitting in a room, post-act, tells me that I’m worthless. It was defeating to see all the diseases I could possibly have. My eyes burned as they forced-filled with water, and I took a quick steep breath.

My number was called, and I was brought into a small office. The door shut quickly. The woman behind the old CD ROM asked me my name and why I came, and I mentioned the letter. She looked my name up and wrote down a code on my card without a hint of expression. Her laugh lines and forehead wrinkles showed proof that she was capable of exerting more emotion, and chose not to waste the risk of more visible aging on me.

“So, what is this? Why am I here?” I asked. She kept her eyes on the computer when she answered.

“You’ll find out upstairs.”

“Do you know?”

“No, they don’t tell me anything. Trust me, if I knew, I would tell you. Have a seat, and they will call your number again.”

My friend was waiting when I came out. I gave her a shrug indicating I still knew nothing. One thing I had always admired about this friend is that she never changes tone. She’s always loud, and never holds back her true emotions. Having this constant measure was a good marker for how dim this room was. A poster on the wall caught her attention.

“Hey, did you know that just because we live in NYC, we’re at higher risk for STDs? Scary, right? Whoa.”

Being respectful of the others in the room wasn’t important. I needed her to be her loud, innocuous self. It drowned out the “what-ifs” in my mind.

 My number was called again, and I was brought into yet another small office with a different woman who also lost her ability to show empathy. She asked me the same questions, looked up my name. But this time she asked me to read and sign an agreement to take an HIV test.

“Is it standard that everyone has to take this test?”

“Well, since you had contact with someone who is HIV positive, we recommend it,” she said with a bite of sarcasm. I couldn’t hear or see anymore. All of my senses had turned inward. I could just feel my heart getting faster. My voice now had one volume.

“Wait! What? How do you know that?” I lost control of everything.

“Yeah, you see this code? That’s what it means. The woman in the other room didn’t tell you?”

“Oh my God. What do I do, now?” By this point, I was just focusing on breathing correctly, but I seemed to forget how long one takes to inhale and exhale. 

“Now, you take this clipboard upstairs to the other waiting room. It shouldn’t take long. Your case is serious, so you’ll get through fast.”

I nodded silently and took the backhanded comfort that she offered me. On the way upstairs, I shared the news with my friend with as little emotion as possible and added, “Don’t worry, everything is going to be okay. Look at me. I’m fine.” Anxiety was eating me alive inside, but the one thing that would have made it worse was transferring this oppressing emotion to my closest friend.

“Trust me. I’m okay,” I lied again.

We retreated to the upstairs waiting room, where we texted our mutual friend who had calming words to share, but in a lasting effort to lighten the tone, her last words of advice were “…so stop fucking around.” Again, like the disease awareness posters, telling me not to do something I have already done left me feeling hopeless and unchangeable.

After crafting the most awkward and ambiguous email to my coworkers, explaining that I was out sick on a beautiful summery Friday in February, I was called in by the physician.

“You know why you’re here, right?” Now that the secret was out, I knew I would be reminded of it, constantly.

I stripped down to a hospital gown and was poked and prodded, like at any other standard OBGYN appointment, only it felt more intrusive. I stopped seeing the gloves she wore as sanitary precautions for my benefit, but rather protection for her, in case I was infected. She asked me how many men I had slept with in the past year, and I shrugged.

“I sleep with women, now too. Does that matter?” She continued to ask questions about my sex life with men only, and something in me changed. These last two hours were about WHY this is happening to me, but when the doctor started to narrow down my sex partners, that’s when I started to ask WHO. Who sent me this letter? Who put ME in this position? Fear set in, and I stopped complying. I wanted to contribute however I could to get answers, but every word muttered by the doctor became a potential clue in the case.

“Why is November so important?”  I yelled out as she left the room.

I had just got dressed when she came back into the room with a coy smile.

“I have good news for you. You’re not pregnant.”

Back to the waiting room I went, joining a now bigger crowd of frightened kids, including my panicked friend. Then I was shuffled into another office, this time to meet with a health education counselor, Claudia. When I stepped into her office, I was put at ease by the photos of kids on the wall—the only sign of future hope in this entire building, I thought. She apologized, because it was intended that I saw her before anyone else. Claudia was a licensed social worker and qualified to tell people bad news. Claudia explained to me that the guy that I had contact with didn’t have to give my name, and I should feel thankful that he came forward to give my name at all. Of course, I didn’t hear any of this. Within her well-composed spiel explaining the purpose of confidentiality was another clue, I thought.

“This happened a while ago, so there’s no reason to ask who.”

Gender narrowed down the candidates, and now I had a timeframe. My own health took a backseat. I had someone else to focus on.

After waiting in line in a hallway, I was brought in to get my blood taken for the HIV test. First, they took a few cylinders that they would send out to determine my status in from 2 weeks ago, and then they gave me an instant finger prick test, which determined my HIV status from 3 months ago.

The instant test was negative, but I still had this bout of uneasiness.  The dim clouds should have lifted this weight off of me, and yet it didn’t. I should have been able to go back to the waiting room and retrieve my friend, but I couldn’t. Instead I passed her and had a few seconds to fake a smile and say, “I’m negative. There’s nothing to worry about. I just…have to go.”

Claudia took me in arm and brought me to a darker, dimmer office without any windows.

“It’s not over yet, you know. You’re only negative as of 3 months ago, so anyone that you had contact with since then could have infected you. When you get these results back in two weeks then you will know for sure.”

“But you said that my incident happened a while ago.”

“I said nothing like that, and I can’t say anything to protect that person’s identity.”

Claudia then brought me into a room with this man at a desk with a single sheet of paper and a pen.

“In the case that you are HIV positive, you have the option of writing down everyone that you have had sexual contact with since November [three months ago.]”

The panic came back, and the fact that so far, the tests said I was negative meant nothing, but the anger and inability to cooperate came back too.

“I’m negative, and I don’t have to give you anything.”

The man shrugged and took out a red pen to which he wrote, “REFUSED” on my file. I thought of the guy of my past and how he felt during this whole process—finding out he was HIV positive, having to sit in this room and write down the names of everyone he slept with. I was negative. Why was I feeling so guilty about refusing to list names?

I had one last meeting with Claudia before I was able to leave for good. She told me to call her in two weeks to confirm my negative status, and she suggested that I didn’t have sexual contact with anyone until then.

After this grueling morning of red tape and miscommunication, my friend took me out to eat where I ate both the pancake breakfast and the French toast. There’s something about a gamble with your life that makes you hungry as fuck.

The following weekend, I surrounded myself with friends that I trusted with this scare, but I held back the possibility that I could still be positive. They took every opportunity to make me laugh—even mentioning the sketchy lovers in my past.

“You sure it wasn’t a girl? I had money on the girl from Brooklyn, who you thought had implants.”

Smiles and laughter was really the only thing I thought I needed, but when I was alone Sunday night, the bubble I was in had burst, and I was alone in the dark crying myself to sleep.

Late in the night, I called someone from my church that I trusted, afraid of what she’d think of my promiscuity. Judge-free, she led me through those next two weeks with her prayers and positive messages.

Eventually, the burden had lifted, and two weeks later, I found out I was negative. I thought about my actions in those last three months, and thought to myself, ‘for someone that wants a family and a monogamous relationship, I’m sure as hell not acting like it.’

I’m lucky. I got a warning, and someone I know, whoever he is, wasn’t as lucky. I just have to remember that how I’m living right now is my second chance.

The Religious...Downfall. - **Guest Blogger**

"**Note from Editor:  Please indulge in the latest post from my colleague, "Ralph", and her adventures in finding "The One"**

Putting yourself out there to try to meet someone gets exhausting.   I went thru a few months where I was dating three people at the same time (no physical stuff until monogamous though, I’m not that kind of girl...actually maybe I would be that type of girl but I just wasn’t that into any of these dudes).

Anyways, I dated these guys because they were nice, appropriate and had the same religious background as yours truly.  For the past six years actually, I’ve only seriously dated people that are of the same religion as me because I figure it would work out in the long run.  In fact, I would ignore huge imperfections because, at the end of the day, we had similar cultural and religious upbringings.  Yet, 6 years later, here I am, post-yet another-break-up.  The whimsical visions of walking those 4 circles to holy matrimony are still fresh in my mind as I thought that this time, maybe this time, it would work. 

Years ago, I dated my best friend.  He was Sikh and I am Hindu and yet, our connection was deeper than any I’d ever had with a Hindu male.  I started the relationship out with a caveat, stating firmly, “this can never be long-term because I’m marrying a Hindu guy.”  Looking back on it, our bitter break-up, albeit very much so due to his cheating and lying ways, also had a lot to do with my inability to go all-in because I knew, or thought I knew, the credentials needed of my future “life partner”.  (cue: my wannabe bio-data language)

I think about it now and I wonder, what if the religious contradiction was never an issue?  Would we have then perhaps become that envious cliché found in every Yash Chopra Hindi film?  Best friends who innocently fall in love.  Wow – what a trip that would have been. 

Bringing it back to 2012, I sit here and I think about the small pool of people I have to date and choose from – all for what?  I love my religion and I want to marry within it, but at what cost?  Religion is about God and God is about Love and Love, romantic, weak in the knees, friendship, soul mate, exploding heartbeat love...well, I’m not sure if that’s the same love as "God Love" – but I know that I’m more happy, blissful and AT PEACE with life when I’m in love.  So maybe religion is important, yes – absolutely.  But maybe my faith and how I view my beliefs is more closely linked to all encompassing Love, rather than in the details of my religion.  Or maybe, just maybe, I’m having a crisis of identity as I sit here, alone again, mending my clichéd, exhausted and hackneyed broken heart.

Fuck N Foreplay

Let me set the record straight.  I don’t carry any emotional baggage.  I was never heart broken.  Nothing has happened to me that could substantiate my cynicism.  I find the need to put that out there in the hopes that others are able to identify with what they really want (or don’t want).

I’ve had two major relationships.  Both of which ended pretty mutually.  Both stand up guys who I’m still in touch with to this day.  Looking back, I might not have appreciated either of them as much as I should have, but I learned a lot about myself during my “attached” time and hope (know) they will find someone better.

Looking back, I can’t believe either of them put up with my bullshit, but there was nothing like an emotional explosion that has held me hostage all these years.  My methodology is simply science and it just is what it is.

That being said, I have seen people were just like me end up in lasting relationships.  So obviously that’s not to say that things don’t change.  And end drunken blabbering.

So let’s talk about foreplay.  I, for one, don’t really need it.  I think it’s a waste of time from the real thing that I am out to get (dick).  However, most normal people are inclined to participate in some sort of foreplay prior to getting it in (present company included).

The scientific basis behind foreplay is simple.  Foreplay obviously provides men with a chance to get harder (most guys are at some point of hard on when initiating foreplay) and it provides women with a chance to secrete (lubrication).  This, in theory, is the optimal scenario for copulation.

But what’s interesting is the way foreplay and acts of foreplay have evolved over time.  I can’t imagine our ancestors were able to suck a mean dick.  (which reminds me of a conversation I recently had about dick sucking, see future post on evolutionary basis behind sucking a dick).  I digress.

In any event, the evolution of foreplay has mutated so exponentially, it’s hard to keep track of everyone’s likes and dislikes.  I am not even going to lie when I met a dude who asked me to put a finger in his ass because it got him hard (I didn’t do it, but don’t put it past me either). 

In the end, foreplay is important especially when it comes to building a relationship.  It’s about trust you have with the other half.  I genuinely feel that if you are looking to have mindless sex with someone, foreplay just doesn’t make sense.  It’s more intimate an act than people give it credit. 

In close, I’d be interested in hearing some of the foreplay tactics that you all either have heard of, enjoy yourself, or think I might enjoy. 

Not dedicating this post to anyone, it would be too easy, and I'm not easy, I'm just fast.    

I'll Call You Tomorrow - **Guest Blogger**

**Note from the editor:  So, after all my crazy rants and cynical assumptions (truths), I've decided I need someone to counter all my bullshit.  Enter, Ralph, a pseudonym, and a friend who will be chronicling her search for the perfect mate.  You can generally find her updates on Wednesdays and all comments are welcome.  Enjoy!**

About a month and a half ago, @controvershiL had asked me to be a guest blogger on her site.  As she claims to not believe in love (a point which I argue with her about on many occasion), she felt her readers would relate to me and my quest to find that quintessential long-term male companion (i.e. – a husband, a soul mate, whatever term floats your boat).

The funny thing about this is that a month ago, I wasn’t sure I could write about my trials and tribulations in the crazy anxiety-ridden world of dating because I was actually blissfully involved and infatuated with someone who appeared to be kind, honest, hot and humble.  Add to this the fact that he came from my religious background and was looking for a serious relationship and you can imagine my true sense of joy and quite frankly, relief.  Finally. Finally. Finally.  I had found him!

Days and weeks can pass in a flash when you’re a 29 year old Indian girl in the beginning stages of new love.  You can get involved with someone so profoundly in the span of just 7 weeks that you truly look past all potential pitfalls and keep going.  You keep your rose-colored glasses glued firmly on your face so that you can finally get to that proverbial finish line before it’s too late.  I constantly feel like I am running a race that everyone else in my life has completed.  They are all at the finish line, re-hydrating and carb-loading and I’m still panting away, with the finish line so far away I can’t even see it.  At this point, I’ve fainted and I’m laying on the track, my heart beating fast, my eyes closed.  Everything’s blurry and I’m dizzy.  Someone call an ambulance – I can’t breathe.

Honestly, as I sit here typing away– I still don’t know what happened with the above mentioned male.  Our conversations went from serious discussions of the future, to mystifying texts filled with false promises. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow : )”,  “Sorry today was crazy – call you Sunday : )”.  Ugh. The smiley face text – meant to disengage the reader, but really I just view it as aggravating passive aggressiveness.  Emoticons are cute in your teens.  In your late 20s/early 30s?  Man up and call a girl.

I’m not sharing this story with you all to bore you or gain sympathy points.  I’m sharing this because I’m sure its relatable and because I truly believe that if you really truly want love or babies or whatever it is...then it will come and these relationships that don’t work out are all land mines that you’ve been blessed enough to avoid.  I won’t go into detail about the aforementioned mate – but there were large flaws and compromises I was open to making just to be with him.  And I can’t help but wonder if, 5 years ago, I would even have considered him a viable option.  Are we so scared of being alone that we’ll take whatever we can get?  I’m not sure.  I’m slightly afraid to say, that in my case, up until this point – that answer may just be a resounding yes.  So – in the last few months of my 20s – I plan to change this way of thinking.  I plan to be even more thoughtful with who I decide is appropriate to date, and I plan to be less emotional.  I plan to date multiple people at the same time until one person shows me security over a time period of several months.   I will reopen my biodata online dating accounts that I so gleefully closed when meeting the former object of my affection.  It’s time to move on – no time to grieve over someone who can’t even be bothered to give you a reason for his ambivalence.  Gotta move on.  Gotta stop listening to sad Bollywood love songs.  If you want that big love in your life, there’s no time to grieve over the landmines that you’ve thankfully avoided.  Get to it.  It’s a job.