books: mother’s guide to sex Anne Semans and Cathy Winks

I have a terrible secret to tell. I’m not a mother. So what, exactly, am I doing reviewing a book on motherhood and sex? Learning a lot, let me tell you.

I have a terrible secret to tell. I’m not a mother. So what, exactly, am I doing reviewing a book on motherhood and sex?
Learning a lot, let me tell you.
Many of my girlfriends have had babies, and have carried around those What to Expect… books like bibles. But those books only tell you about the baby. This book gives you the goods on the real stuff – love, emotions, sex, and your body. Before, during and after. No placing of “mom” on a Madonna-like platter here; it’s for real women, who have real relationships, and also have kids.

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new musing about dessert

At long last, I’ve managed to put together something longer than a diary entry. Alas, it’s not fiction (which I really should get to) or reviews (three or four of which I really MUST get to, perhaps tomorrow) but some writing nonetheless.
A new musing called deep fried ice cream, to be exact.
Those of you looking for salacious and horny tidbits might as well pass on this. It’s got little to do with sex. Just some thinking I’ve been doing.
If you do read it, please be gentle. The teddy bear in the story is very fragile.
🙂

why are breasts indecent?

Several years ago, there was a big hubbub here in Ontario about women’s right to go topless in public. Big debates raged. Lots of press coverage. I believe that the law was eventually passed to make it legal to do so. Not that you’d notice; I’ve yet to see a topless woman go walking about. Good thing we went to all that trouble, debate and discussion, hm?
The problem, as I see it, goes much further than the law, whether in places where it’s still illegal or here in Ontario where the girls can swing free legally if we so desire.
It’s that breasts are sexual according to our culture.
Let me qualify this. Breasts are sexual all the time. Listening to the media and cultural influences around us, those two little (or big, as they case may be) bumps are just walking sex toys. Doesn’t matter if they’re attached to a sleeping woman, an exhausted woman, a woman who is in hard-nosed workaholic-mode or someone just sitting around with friends talking and relaxing. They’re sexual anyway. Who cares if the body they’re attached to is not being sexual in any way, shape or form? Once they’re out there (and sometimes, they don’t even need that – they just need to catch the attention of someone feeling sexual) that woman is being overtly sexual.
Which is, of course, seven different kinds of bullshit.I remember a conversation I had with a neighbour of mine when all the hubbub was at its highest. She was talking about (bemoaning) the fact that now, going to the beach would not be an activity she could share with her children. I asked why not. She said, “I don’t want my children to have to see that!”
Umm, hello? Odds are, your children not only saw “that” but were nourished by “that” for a good portion of their young lives. Why wouldn’t you want to teach your children that sexuality and bare skin don’t have to go hand in hand? That bare skin, our bodies, are natural? The greatest part about this type of lesson is it doesn’t have to be overt. Just letting them see this regularly will help to teach them that bare breasts does not equal sex, since I’m basically sure that a woman going topless on a beach won’t be performing outrageous sexual acts in front of your children. Perhaps if more children grew up knowing and believing that skin does not equal sex, we’d have a more tolerant culture in twenty or thirty years.
It was funny, when all this was going down, to watch the different gender reactions. Many men loved the idea. They wanted a chance to gawk and think about sex. And many women were equally horrified, for the same reason.
Why do my breasts have to mean sex, and therefore be indecent? To me, they’re no different than the backs of my knees, my ears, the inside of my elbows. All these things are exposed to the air and shown in public. All three can be very erotic and pleasure-giving when touched by a lover who knows. But these areas haven’t been exposed to hundreds of years of sexualization, so I can bare them and not be obscene, not invite gawking males or disapproving women. They can just be body parts when I’m not being sexual.
Would that my breasts could be the same.

first kisses

Ingrid Bergman once said, “A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous”. There’s some truth to that. There are many times in my life when a kiss said more than words could ever say.

Ingrid Bergman once said, “”A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.” There’s some truth to that. There are many times in my life when a kiss said more than words could ever say.

when I was fifteen
I had my very first real adult kiss. I was three months shy of my sweet sixteen birthday, still painfully unaware of what really went on between a man and a woman. Book knowledge, I had. It was the practical experience I was a little in the dark about.

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patchwork quilt

If sex was a colour, what colour would it be?
There have been times in my life when it was white. White for love, white for purity, that wonderful music-swelling-in-the-background, proper camera lighting, young-lovers-well-met, joyous, this-is-the-love-of-my-life kind of sex. Just like in the movies. Don’t let anyone tell you it doesn’t happen. It can. I was lucky enough to find out for myself. The kind of sex that can bring tears to your eyes.
There have been times in my life when it was yellow. Sunny yellow, all warm and wonderful. Morning sex, more than any other (in my life, anyway) tends to be yellow. Might be the sun streaming into the room. Don’t know. But yellow can be a warm and comfortable and altogether delightful colour of sex. The kind that once your body is sated you both pull yourselves out of bed and go have a nice, unhealthy, altogether greasy breakfast. Bad for the arteries, good for the soul.
There have been times in my life when it was red. Forget the flowers, forget the candy, red-hot, almost-more-stimulation-than-a-body-can-take, explosive sex. When so many sensations and visuals come at you from so many directions that you’re nearly on overload. The kind that leaves you shuddering in the aftermath.
There have been times in my life when it was purple. Fun purple, with laughter equal to the moans. Where the grappling-grasping struggle is at once exciting and hilarious. Finding lovers who like to laugh during sex isn’t always easy, but rewarding when it happens. More so than I’d ever dreamed. Taking a bit of a time out from the intensity to laugh and roll around can make things much more intense when the urgency suddenly returns.There have been times in my life when it was black. A bit of an edge, a bit of danger, something a little dark. It’s like putting a magnifying glass over your emotions and sensations. Everything comes into sharp focus. That heart-pounding endorphin-rushing feeling makes the ride feel not unlike a dark, scary roller coaster. You know you’ll be safe, ultimately, but what a journey you’ll take to get back on the ground…
There have been times in my life when it was neon orange. Oh, I wanted it. Wanted it so badly my teeth hurt. But I was so nervous. The neon orange intensity of nerves can be distracting. It’s hard to relax with it flashing in your face. Time was an issue, too, in my neon-orange moments; I had so little of it. With one lover, the best I managed was a slightly faded-out neon orange. Funny that it happened that way. Funny in a sad isn’t-it-ironic sort of way.
There have been times in my life when it was grey. Grey for sadness, or meaning lost in the ether. Goodbye sex is most often grey. Where movements are reduced to biological terms, and it’s just bodies moving together. Everything that would have been or could have been or should-have-been-dammit is so obvious, it smacks you in the face. Sex can be sad. And that’s not always a bad thing. But I try to have grey sex just as little as possible, all the same.
White, yellow, red, purple, black, neon orange, and grey. To name a few.
I am making a patchwork quilt for my life. I cuddle up under its memories.

josey vogels for president?

Well, okay, perhaps we shouldn’t go quite that far. Still, I’ve enjoyed her My Messy Bedroom site for the last little while, and her latest article, Feeling Fine, is hilarious. I think most women would get a hoot out of it. Guys might learn a little something they didn’t know, too.
She’s talking about orgasm. Not the back-bending, ear-splitting, easy-to-get-as-a-cold kind they have in porn. Real orgasms, for real women, need a little bit more to get the rocket to the moon. And sometimes flights get cancelled. Mission control has a lot of working parts and if one – just one – of those parts looks iffy, then it’s sayonara. The whole mission is grounded.
It’s as frustrating as hell. (Is hell frustrating?) Well, you know what I mean.
One of her funniest moments (in the article) is when she talks about how much more complicated it can be having an orgasm with a partner. “The reasons for this are obvious.”, she notes. “I’m better at feeding myself and wiping my own bum too.”
Sad, but true.
I envy men. Most men can seem to come without even trying – in fact, most of ’em spend a lot of that naked-and-together time trying really hard not to “come too soon”. For me, it’s more likely to feel like “oh-mm-so-close-right-ah-there-but-shoot-dammit-time-to-start-all-over-again”. Not always, of course. But often enough to make me envy those of you with a penis and a seemingly endless stream (pardon the pun) of orgasms.
Women talk a LOT about sex. But I’ll let you in on a little secret, guys: we rarely talk about our ability/inability to orgasm. So it was with equal parts relief and laughter that I read Josey’s little article and realized that I’m not alone. Heh. She, too, gets performance anxiety (“am I taking too long? He must be getting so frustrated with this”).
I mean honestly, ladies, have you ever found yourself in a position (of your choice, of course… grin) where you think “If he keeps that up for another thirty minutes I’ll definitely have an orgasm.” Of course, by that time, the poor man’s fingers/tongue/cock will be ready to fall off from sheer overuse. But it’s a nice fantasy.
She’s right on the ball, pardon the misnomer, about the clitoris as well. She pegs the number of women who need direct clitoral stimulation to have an orgasm at 40%. I’d say based on the women I know, at least, that the number’s much higher than that. And not all men know this. Some think that vaginal stimulation alone – with fingers, or a cock – is enough. Don’t get me wrong, guys, it feels great. Kind of like I imagine it feels for guys when they have their balls licked. But (and this question is aimed at the men here) could you come from having your balls licked? Some of you will say yes, but I’m betting that most of you would need some direct penile stimulation – fingers, mouth, pussy, to name a few – to bring on the main event. Am I wrong here?
Orgasms, in and of themselves, can be elusive to women. Took me nearly twenty years of playing with myself (okay, I started young) to be able to reliably bring myself to not just orgasms but those “ooh-ahh-oh-ohhhh-big silent pause-OHohohoh” kind where you can still feel everything shimmying and shaking down there for the next ten minutes. And I generally have battery-or-electrically powered help. If you get my drift.
And if it took me nearly twenty years, no small surprise that I feel like my personal Orgasm Angel (now wouldn’t that make the world a better place?) has peeped over my shoulder if I manage to have any flavour of orgasm at all with a new partner? It’s a damn miracle if Mission Control gives a “go” for launch at all, so to speak.
Which is why I find sex improves the longer you know your partner. This is the case for most women I know, anyway. If you’re going to get out that manned mission to Mars, you need to send a few probes (har-har-har), get the lay of the land. Then send out some little robot-type guys to do some reconnaissance (and oh, how I wish more men would be willing to use those little robot guys… grin). Manned missions will always do better once the foundation is laid.
The foundation is laid.
Damn, I’ve got to stop these bad puns! I’ll work on it tomorrow.
Today, I think I’ll just work on another orgasm. 🙂

on my own again

It’s been a year since I asked my husband to leave. Within a few weeks, I’ll be putting our divorce into motion.
The past year has been a dazzling whirlwind of changes and experiences. And after the drought that was my marriage, many of those experiences had to do with men. I’ve dated nearly constantly for the past year, meeting and spending time with some really wonderful men.
From a life as a sexual neuter to an active, exciting social life is quite a change in one year. I have loved and lost and licked and stroked and much more. More importantly, I have learned a great deal about myself and my sexuality, which was (after all) part of the reason I was doing all this in the first place.
But I’ve been feeling a little overloaded lately. It’s a strange feeling. Certainly never a feeling I thought I’d experience! But there it is.
When you’re dating or married to someone who isn’t treating you the way you want to be treated, it’s relatively easy to leave. The justification is there, and easy to find. You deserve better, yadda yadda yadda, and off you walk into the sunset alone.
But what if you just want to be alone?
This has been the dilemma facing me lately. I know a perfectly wonderful man who treats me with great respect, and is an intuitive lover. But nothing he does, nothing he says, helps me to shake the feeling that I just need some time alone. Time to think and figure out what I really want, because I don’t even know what I’m looking for.
And I can’t shake the feeling that this makes me a shit.
But shit or no, this is the feeling. I can’t get past it. I want time. Time to hold my own hand. To live and laugh on my own. Sexual odyssey not over, just put on hold for a little while.
I’ve walked away feeling as though I wasn’t really being fair to him.
But I had to be fair to me.

as the world turns

Picked up a great little book last week called the Sex Lover’s Book of Lists. Just a whole bunch of trivia, really. Hundreds of lists about everything and anything sexual. I just finished the first chapter – History of Sex – and though I already knew a fair amount of it, I came to a realization.
In the 19th century particularly, masturbation was bad, wrong, and believed to be the cause of hundreds of ills up to and including death. You wouldn’t believe the steps these people took to prevent masturbation. However. I think a lot of those closed-minded, ignorant souls from the 19th century actually helped along the BDSM movement, by helping to link certain items and activities inextricably with sex.
Here are some examples of methods used to prevent masturbation:

    full-body wrapping (like mummification)spreadeagled bondagecorsets made out of leather and steelpenis bondagearmourchastity belts

Now I’m trying to imagine myself lying there, wanting to masturbate, but restrained through one or a combination of these methods. I’m betting at least some of the people subjected to this treatment would begin to link arousal with bondage. Strangely, what in the 19th century was done for medical health and punishment is now considered pleasurable to so many people. At least, pleasurable in the short term – today, we actually do get to have an orgasm, eventually. 🙂
Another interesting items was about the Comstock Act – a federal law passed in 1873 (not sure if it’s still a law) making it illegal to send “articles of obscenity” through postal mail. In the first six months after this law was passed (keep in mind, this is in 1873, when getting your hands on pornographic material was a LOT harder), they seized over 100,000 books, 200,000 pictures, and over 60,000 “rubber items” bring sent through the mail.
Both of these little facts fascinated me and made me laugh for one main reason – because even with restraint, people still masturbated. And even with federal laws, people still shared pornography. Sex is too big to be able to regulate or control effectively. The only real control that works is the control switch in our own brains. We do what we want to do, and (hopefully) only what we want to do. What others – the government, doctors, religious leaders – want, is immaterial.
Gives me great hope for the human race. 🙂