update to “okay, fine, I give up”

As an update to my rant on the extremists against gay marriage earlier this month…

I am so glad I am not the only one who feels the need, at last, to point out the sheer and utter ridiculousness of the extremists who fear that bestiality may, indeed, come along next if we allow gay marriage.

Richard Goldstein of The Village Voice (admittedly, a leftie imprint) has a wonderful piece on Petaphilia, full of lovely bon-mots such as:

To those who struggle against the longing to marry their animal companions, let me say, I feel your pain. The heart is a lonely pointer; I know that all too well. But there are ways to keep this passion on a leash. You can stay away from dog runs, avoid pet-store windows, and relieve your tension with erotica like the Westminster Dog Show. But first you’ve got to stand up and admit, “I am a petaphile!”

Every time I come across a story on this, I find myself asking: “Are these people actually serious about the whole bestiality thing, or is it just shock factor?”

Your thoughts?

oh and one more for the blogroll

I also keep forgetting to blogroll Ken over at Suburban Sex Blog, shame on me, spankings owed. ๐Ÿ™‚

His site just makes me laugh. I realize that’s not why he’s writing it, but oh, how I wish I could have found that forceful, pissed off voice during the dark years with the Ex (i.e. He Who Has No Sex Drive). It sounds so healthy. Well, healthier, anyway, than my own experience, my own voice. Mine was more of a quiet desperation, a very lonely voice, with a good pinch of “sticking my head in the sand”. While I did eventually find that angry voice, by then it was too late, I was too bitter, and the marriage was doomed.

I should introduce my ex to his wife. They’d make great friends. ๐Ÿ˜‰

what a mess

I have been known (from time to time) to be a bit, shall we say, picky when it comes to how clean my place is. Which is not to say it’s ever truly immaculate. I have dog, which means the minute I clean every bit of dog hair out of the house, she stands in the living room and shimmies her little heart out and oops, look, dog hair again. Plus, I have far too many books for my lowly 690 square feet, which means there are small piles of books just about everywhere in my house except for the kitchen. I straighten them up but really, I need more bookcases.

Anyways. Hence the pickiness.

I had to laugh, though, when reading Philip’s Dirty Laundry post over at Hot Action (which I’ve been meaning to add to my blogroll, and kept forgetting until today):

Take heart, lady slobs. I really don’t mind walking into a place that is strewn with books, CDs and women’s underwear. That’s what Paradise will be like!

*laughs* Bless him.

But honestly, I don’t understand the girl who inspired this post. I mean, sure, there have been times when the place is just too icky for me to handle bringing someone over. You know what I do in those situations? Clean it, or go to his place, or do him in his car… lots of options, really. Making someone wait outside was so ridiculous I laughed out loud.

While you’re there, check out some of his archives. Great stuff. You gotta love how many Canadian sex bloggers there are out there!

so I thought, what the hell

My girlfriend has been telling me all about the cool quizzes and tests at Match.com. (She knows I’m a personality quiz whore.) And yes, yes, I kept meaning to get to it.

So thanks to the lady formerly known as the Dirty Whore for reminding me about the free physical attraction report. ๐Ÿ™‚

My results were interesting:

There’s something about “Outdoorsmen” that obviously appeals to you. These guys have a tanned, weathered look, along with ruggedly handsome features. You don’t need them to be “pretty” or even “very handsome,” but you are drawn by the masculinity and free-spirit they convey. These are not your “button down,” “don’t get your hands dirty” sort of men. About 1 in 4 women (24%) are drawn to these qualities as well.

Yup, yup, yup.

I have little patience for the soft, Brooks Brothers look. Give me a man with stubble, with a few rough edges, any day. Chest hair. Mmmm.

What can I say? Guess I’m an old fashioned girl at heart. I like manly men.


There’s a lot more to the results, but I haven’t got time to look at it right now. I’ll update this post later if I find anything interesting.

a word about this playground

You know, the perception is that the Internet is about free speech. And to some extent, that’s absolutely true. Anyone can set up a web site and say anything they like, really.

But when it comes to personal play spaces – like this blog – well, the only speech that’s well and truly free here is mine. This is not a democracy. It’s like my living room – my own little world, that I’ve invited all of you to join. And for the most part, you’ve been very gracious guests, taking a drink, mingling with the other guests, complimenting me from time to time on the decor or the books in my library.

Every so often, however, someone comes to this living room who has had a few too many drinks, and becomes an obnoxious house guest. Worse, in fact – I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that these people wouldn’t dare to step into my actual home and accuse my boyfriend of having a small penis, or other small jabs and digs along these lines. Because people are governed by rules of (one would hope) polite society. But online, they seem to think it’s open season.

So I do exactly what I’d do if someone got that obnoxious in my own home. I kick them out.

What that translates to, via this blog, is I remove their comments. If they get particularly vile, I ban them from posting comments altogether.

Does this mean I need everyone to agree with me? Of course not. Just go ahead and look at the responses to some of these posts, and you’ll see not everyone agrees with me.

But neither is this site about protecting your speech. It’s about protecting mine. And I get to dictate every damn thing about this site, including whether or not I want people to read your vile comments.

You want to post something objectionable? Go ahead. On your own damn blog.

And that’s just the way it is.

Don’t like it? Millions of other blogs out there to read. Nobody’s asking you to read mine.

chicks with boys still love their toys

Yes, despite the unerring abilities of the boy to find my pleasure points and keep me on the edge of orgasm for-freaking-ever (more on that in a later post – grin), Vikki is still a woman who enjoys her toys.

Which is all a preamble, really, to break the news that I finally bought an Eroscillator a month or so ago, and I am agog.

First of all, after my experience with the thumper-to-end-all-thumpers, the crashing Titanic of vibrators otherwise known as the Hitachi Magic Wand, it was a relief and a pleasant surprise to find an electric vibrator that doesn’t require a pillow between my legs to shield me from the blows. Though I will admit that the Hitachi kicks ass when I’m either drunk or suffering severe menstrual cramps.

But really, this little baby is quite wonderful. The attachments are very soft rubber and feel like a fingertip. Okay, sometimes a rather nubby fingertip. Doesn’t matter. It’s all good.

And ohhhhh, does it do the job. The website states that it provides a different sensation from most vibes because rather than thumping, it oscillates. I don’t know what it does, really, and I don’t care. I just know that every other toy I own has ended up in my drawer, and this vibe sits proudly out where I can reach it any time I want.

It’s also got a lovely, detachable, long long electrical cord so it reaches well from the wall to – well, anywhere you want, really. ๐Ÿ˜‰

Three speeds. From oh-oh-oh to Oh-My-GOD.

Sadly, I went the cheapo route and only bought the package with two attachments, missing out on the delicious Pearls of The Orient attachment, which would have been SO much fun to use on the boy. Must order. Soonest.

But really, it’s just a terrific vibe. I can’t say enough good things about it. I have already recommended it to some of my friends.

Ladies, you really really want to give it a try. Trust me.

In my next post: a review of some lovely cuffs sent to me my the wonderful people at Eros Boutique. You gotta love schwag. ๐Ÿ˜‰

okay, fine, I give up

You know, I’ve tried really hard to stay out of the whole fracas to do with gay marriage. First, because I try so very hard to not be political on this blog. Second, because everybody and their freaking brother in blogland is talking about it. Who wants to read more about it?

(Is it just me, or are the overwhelming majority of bloggers liberals? Maybe it’s just the bloggers I read, and who they link to, and who they link to, and so on.)

However, I’m sick-and-tired of hearing the argument from the hardcore right that if gay marriage is allowed, what next? I’ve heard polygamy, pedophilia, necrophilia and bestiality mentioned as all viable concerns for why gay marriage should not be allowed. And yes, I’ve heard this in more than one place. I even heard it discussed on Larry King between the mayor of SF and some right-wingers.

Putting my revulsion at the gross stupidity of these arguments aside for a moment to devolve into utter ridiculousness…

Why should we stop there? I mean, I know a hell of a lot of ladies who might consider marrying a RealDoll or their favourite vibe.

Certainly these substitute lovers can give reliable orgasms – which is not always the case in our human lovers!

Or let’s look at even stranger things. Why shouldn’t we be allowed to marry our home appliances? Say, the dishwasher. Can you think of a life partner who’d so willingly do dishes any time we ask? Or cars. Hey, people love and name their cars already. Why not marriage?

Honestly, people’s stupidity never ceases to amaze me.

A lot of my distaste with this is I’m a child of the AIDS generation. I remember when “the reason gays were bad” was because they “slept around and had promiscuous lifestyles”. Now they want to settle down, and they’re still bad. Apparently the arguments will always change depending on what best suits the arguers.

Okay, rant over.

oh my nose

Now, I know what you’re thinking when you read that title. You’re thinking that Vikki must have been getting herself all kinds of wild, over the top, major-home-appliances-involved kind of kinky sex to have hurt her nose.

And it’s an amusing thought, really. I’m almost inclined to play along.

But no.

So how did I hurt my nose?

It’s simple, really. Was making the daily rounds of my blogroll and stopped in to visit the lovely folks at Fleshbot. And they, in turn, had this to share with me…

John Kerry is Hung Like A Horse

At which point I began to laugh so hard the apple juice I was drinking went not down my throat but out my nose.


Oh, you gotta love Fleshbot. They find the best stuff.