Month: January 2016

Menstrual Cup 2…

Guys, go grab some tissues and hit up Pornhub. This one is for the ladies. Have fun!

So, the menstrual cup is a win. It hasn’t spilled so much as a drop, as yet. You’ll want to wear a pantyliner as there may be a minor amount of collateral leakage during the ‘freshening up’ process. It’s weird to know what to call that. You aren’t changing it, like you change a pad or a tampon, so I guess freshening up is a nice, lady-like term that doesn’t allude to the sheer gruesomeness of it.

I’ll go into detail. It kind of vacuum seals up in there and you have to reach in and wiggle it a bit to break the seal and get it out. There is a little pouk sound as it pops free and you tilt it up and, admit it, you’re going to examine the contents. No need, I’ll describe!

The blood settles at the bottom, and the clear vaginal fluid floats on the top. So it basically looks like one of those fancy layered shots they serve at the bar, but you really don’t want to drink this, and if you do, um, that’s really none of my business.

Moving right along, you dump it out in the toilet, carefully, you don’t want to drop your cup in there, and it will be a bit slippery with vaginal fluid. I fully wash the cup with soap & water, rinse well, I like to dry mine with tissue, then blow off any tissue fibres, then re-insert. I’m lucky because I have a small bathroom and can reach the sink without moving too much. If you have a bigger bathroom than me, which is everybody, then I suppose you would stuff a bit of tissue between your thighs and waddle on over to the sink. Or I suppose you could squat in front of the sink, but make sure there’s no carpet underneath you, floors cleanup easier, if there’s a problem.

Now, this is something you are not really going to want to do in a public bathroom, especially the communal type with stalls, and probably especially the co-ed bathrooms that are… yeah, I hate those. Just because we’re equal doesn’t mean we want to share a bathroom with dudes. Gross.

If you have a bathroom of the type where it’s one at a time and you can lock the door, think Starbucks, then you might be able to go for it, but still, I’d try to wait, if I could. You never know how sanitary anything is in a public bathroom. For all you know they keep their bathroom tissue loose and stacked on a dirty floor with mouse turds, and a disgruntled employee might’ve jizzed in the soap. No thanks. But in a pinch, I guess I’d trust the water.

Thankfully, you can leave it in for up to twelve hours. So hopefully that works for you.

I’d recommend changing it sooner than twelve hours. While I was awake, I changed mine every four hours, and then it was about ten hours between the time I changed it for bed, actually fell asleep, then woke up and changed it in the morning. I was a bit panicked when I woke up and I was sure I felt moisture between my legs and that the thing had sprung at least a minor leak, but my panty liner was as white as a fresh paper napkin when I checked so it must’ve been a psychosomatic sensation induced by the PTSD associated with my previous menstrual-cup-trauma.

In summation, I have to say that I’m glad I tried this and I’m going to stick with it. It works well. It’s as sanitary as you choose to make it, oh, and it can be sterilized by boiling for extra cleanliness! It’s economical and eco-friendly, which is a big sell for some, but for me, I really love that I don’t feel like I’m on my period when I’m wearing it. PMS sucks, and the whole dirtiness of the pad thing just makes me extra crabby. I hate being dirty, I hate sitting in my blood, I hate the bulky, diaper feel of it, the Always infinity memory foam ones are okay, but still. When I can’t take it anymore, I usually put in a tampon, but they leak for me a lot of the time, plus they seem to slow my flow and make the whole thing just take longer to be over with. I’m not sure if there’s some science behind that, or if it’s just me, but I’d rather just get it all out, quickly and unobstructed. Oh, and the price was good for me as well. Under $40, and it may last up to a year, longer if you choose, but I’ll go with the suggested expiry date of a year. I can definitely get my money’s worth in that timeframe. It actually works out to less than three dollars a month. Woohoo!

So my period, and experiment, is over for this month. Next month I will use it from start to finish, but I did cut out of using it a day early. When I woke up to only a few little rust-coloured drops in the bottom of the cup, I switched it out and finished up with a pad, just to let the last icky bit flow out naturally. Up to each to decide if that’s the call for them.

My only contention, if I can call it that, is that my size two seems a little big. I’m over thirty and have had a child, but he was only six pounds and I’m not really into massively hung dudes, seriously, the spot I’m looking to hit with them isn’t ten inches inside of me so I don’t need all that and it kinda hurts me. So getting the size two in there caused me some minor discomfort. Once it’s in I don’t feel it, but if I’m not moist or aroused, which, yeah, shoving a menstrual cup in there didn’t really do it for me, so maybe I should have tried the size one first. But I don’t have the size one to compare so I can’t say for sure that it would have worked for me. Maybe I just need some lube, or to think sexy thoughts.

I had this crazy dream that I got arrested and strip-searched by a cop. I won’t go into detail but that’s a good one. There were… handcuffs involved… and he spanked me. Meow!

In closing, I solemnly swear that this will be the last blog post about my menstrual cup… unless something goes horribly wrong. Or if something interesting happens and the menstrual cup is involved somehow. Stay tuned!

Menstrual Cup

So, I’m sitting here wearing a menstrual cup.

Guys, you might want to grab some nachos and go watch the game or whatever it is you do, this one isn’t for you.

I only tried a menstrual cup once in my life and it was not a good experience. In fact, it was downright traumatizing. I got the disposable kind, now, this was a long time ago so I’m hoping I get all the details straight, I think I saw the bastards that burned me in the drugstore beside the Diva Cup I wound up choosing. Ooh, I just coughed… nothing. The cup didn’t move or try to shoot out or anything. We’re good.

Anyways, I followed the directions for the cup, this is the one I tried many moons ago, and then carried on living my life, as one usually does when one is menstruating. There was a lot I loved about it, or rather, the idea of it. Not spending days on end sitting in a blood-soaked pad was the most exciting prospect of the experience. I mean, honestly, they can put a man on the moon, but us womenfolk have to spend a week out of every month, stewing in our own blood! Not that stewing in somebody else’s would make it any better, but still. It just seems so archaic. Aren’t we beyond this? We have satellites for pity sake! Google maps! 3D Printing!

Things went well for a few hours with what I will dub, the disposable cup of horror, and then I did something. I don’t remember exactly what I did because it was so prosaic. I changed positions. It might have been from sitting to standing, or standing to laying down, something like that. What I do remember is the aftermath. The entire contents of the cup dumped out in one fell swoosh, not a typo, it was a monstrous swoosh. I’ve blocked out much of the memory, and thank God this was during the infancy of camera phones, but I can recall my mortified dash for the bathroom, the resulting mess everywhere, and me, angrily hurling the rest of the cups in the trash.

I had followed the directions. Everyone who knows me knows I always follow the directions. Whether I’ve just bought a new car or a toaster my first priority is always to read the directions, cover to cover, then examine my purchase, instructions in hand, to ensure I’m familiar with the operation of my new acquisition. It might legitimately be some form of OCD I have, but that never changes. Besides, if that’s the learning curve or the price you pay for failure, then count me out. I’m usually a pretty quick-study, but I sure left my share of blood on the floor that day.

For a long time I forgot about that bloody awful experience (Pun intended, with prejudice). But I’ve been hearing more and more about these cups, more women are trying them, and many are swearing by them. I, for the reasons described above, have been wary. Every time I hear about the cup, I am reminded of my traumatic experience on that fateful day, and I cringe, ever so slightly. Yet, here I am, with my cup. So far, so good.

I got the Diva Cup, size two since I’m over thirty and have a child, and it was on sale for three dollars off. If you are under thirty and you have no kids, then you go with size one. Getting it in was a little weird – I will spare the gory details of that, but afterwards I did clean myself up around the outer area and I’m wearing a pantyliner, which of course will be useless in the face of a tsunami like the one I suffered the last time, but will suffice in the event that this works out.

I unbox the Cup, and before I even remove it, I take out, of course, my directions, and examine the little cotton storage pouch that is included. It is patterned in pink flowers with red centres. Yes, I’m on my period. I get it. Cute. Back to the directions. The Diva Cup is sold beside it’s own special wash, which is also a face and body wash? Something like that. I didn’t buy it because it seemed like a gimmicky add-on, but the directions say it’s best to wash it with unscented, non oil-based soap. Hmm, I make soap. Isn’t all soap oil-based? The very term ‘soap’ denotes the process by which oils, in conjunction with sodium hydroxide, are saponified in order to form the sudsy substance. But I digress. Long story short, maybe I should have gotten the special wash. Next time I’m in the drugstore I will take a closer look at it. But for now, I’m stuck with my regular hand wash, which happens to be antibacterial, which is instructed against. Oh well. If using the wrong kind of soap causes the elevator scene in The Shining to happen between my legs, then just damn it all to hell.

I need to wash my hands before I wash the cup so where does the cup go while I’m doing this? Not on the counter, smeared with my son’s toothpaste stains and lord knows what else he does to the surfaces when he locks himself in there, I mean, he’s four, not fourteen, but still. Boys are boys at any age. Messy. So I hold the cup gently between my lips. The ones on my face, you sicko! Already this is kind of awkward, but I manage to wash my hands and then the cup and next time I go to remove it, my hands will be washed while the cup is still safely tucked away, yes, between my other lips, enjoy the visual. Savour it. I don’t mind.

It’s too soon to tell whether I am going to come to sorely regret this decision. What I can say is that it feels a little different this time. This cup is sturdy, built to last, replace annually, the directions suggest, and it’s shaped differently. The other one was shaped like a flimsy diaphragm, and only slightly thicker than a condom, it was meant to be used for a day, I think, then tossed out. This one can be worn for twelve hours and holds half the contents of an entire average period. That sounds promising. I don’t intend to keep it in for twelve hours unless I’m sleeping, but it’s good to know. The other ‘cup’ needed to be fished out and dumped as often as you would change an ordinary tampon, if I remember correctly. I only had it in for a few hours before my ‘accident’ so I never got to really give it a fair go. Maybe it does work for others. I just don’t think it’s worth the humiliation of finding out the hard way that it doesn’t.

It’s the weekend and I’ll be home for the rest of today and most of tommorrow. Not sure if I’m going to risk wearing this thing out of the house yet, but if all is going well and I don’t wake up in the morning looking like I went on a killing spree in my sleep, then maybe I will take the chance. Wish me luck!

Two Old Men…

They leaned against a cold brick wall, years of hard living written in the lines on both their faces. Inside was the off-track wagering den where they’d place their bets and take their losses. Right now they smoked cheap cigarettes in the biting cold, closer to the entrance than they should be but who the hell cared? Long ago, or not long ago, depending on who you ask, there was an actual racetrack where these two men stood. Now they were surrounded by boutique storefronts, condos, and townhouses. Starter homes for young yuppie families.

These two derelict men used to visit that racetrack. There was a time when they belonged in this neighbourhood, when times were good, before layoffs happened, before wives left, before they sold their spot in the housing bubble but moments too soon, before they found solace in the bottom of a bottle, or pinned all their hopes on A Fleeting Chance, who came in dead last, by the way. Nowadays they were being given the bum’s rush. The Greenwood Teletheatre had become the Greenwood hole in the wall and not in a charming way. Seedy-looking hobos scared away most would-be customers, and many of the new and old homeowners in the area considered it a blight. The land had been bought out from under these unfortunates, and many others, and this was the last backyard where they were being politely tolerated until something could be done. Something that wouldn’t shine too much light on that glittering Liberal facade that many put on with their morning makeup or their shaving cologne.

Sal watched a sparse smattering of people passing him by. Toby studied his racing forms until Sal nudged him.

“You see that?” He said. Toby followed his gaze to a young mother. Her child, who looked to be a boy of about four years old, had been unsteadily hitching up his warm winter coat so he could adjust his clothing. When Toby looked up the mother had stopped and knelt down. She was reaching under the child’s coat to make adjustments to his clothing. His whole body jerked as she brusquely tugged and jerked around under the coat.

“Huh,” was all Toby said then tried to return to his forms, but Sal had a point to make.

“A woman can do that,” he said. “But if I tried to do that people would look at me funny.”

“That’s because that’s not your kid,” said Toby. “You trying to get yourself arrested?” Sal only glared at him. Toby looked back down at his racing forms and for a brief, glorious moment thought that Sal was actually going to let this go. No such luck.

“Don’t be a smartass,” said Sal, “you know I’m not talking about diddling someone else’s kid. I’m not a pervert. I’m talking about how women can get away with everything while us men have to live under a microscope. Every little move we make just gets blown all out of proportion.”

Toby knew better than to engage when Sal got into one of his tirades. Sal was already half in the bottle and Toby was headed in the same direction but, tipsy or not, he was still well aware that the ice had grown precariously thin and best to watch his step.

The woman straightened up and carried on with her son, oblivious that she was the topic of their conversation.

“I hear ya,” Toby replied.

“Yeah, but unless you’ve been married, you just don’t get it. Women are evil creatures, all of them.” Toby tried hard not to roll his eyes, and mostly succeeded. Luckily, Sal missed the slight gesture.

The men tossed their cigarettes and went back inside.

Sal’s wife had left him and took the children when Sal got laid off in the early nineties. It wasn’t because he got laid off that she left, it was actually about eight months later when he cracked two of her ribs and about three months after he graduated, with honours, to the level of full-blown alcoholic.

Toby had been a drifter for the last twenty years. He drank everyday and, yeah, sometimes things got out of hand, but he was functional, for the most part. He held jobs when he could, he relied on assistance when he couldn’t, and as long as he had a roof over his head and food in his tummy, with a few knocks of whiskey to warm it up, he was a happy camper. Of course he aspired to bigger and better things – what gambler doesn’t? – But for the most part he was content to just float along with the wind happily, drunkenly, accepting whatever lot life handed him.

Inside the parlour Toby followed Sal to their usual corner. A grape shaped waitress with curly hair was making her rounds.

“You boys need anything?” She asked.

“Coffee, tea, or you!” quipped Sal, offering a salacious wink.

“Okay, well let me know when you’re ready.” She said, unperturbed.

“Wait!” Called Toby. “Two Bud’s please.”

“You got it.” The waitress called back over her shoulder as she rolled on over to the bar.

“That fucking bitch,” Sal muttered.

“Did you really expect that to work?”

“Nothing works on these uptight bitches.” Sal snapped. “They act like they got pussies made of solid gold. Like we’re supposed to beg for it like dogs!”

“I hear ya,” lamented Toby.

“No, I don’t think you do. You think I’m crazy, or maybe just foolish, but you haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Julie was the reason why I drank so much. She didn’t do anything clear, like, that I could put a finger on, but it’s just the way she was. It was all the little things and sometimes just the stupid look on her face. She would practically force me to lay into her, then act like it was me who was the bad guy. I’m telling you, these cunts like to act like they’re angels but they’re really all the devils in disguise.”

The waitress was approaching and was well within earshot when Sal made this last remark.

“That’ll be seven dollars,” she said, dryly, still quite unfazed. Toby handed her a ten.

“Keep eight.”

“Thank you, sir.” She handed him his change.

Toby tried to remember why he hung out with Sal in the first place. He was actually an okay guy when he wasn’t ruminating on his ex-wife, or life in general, or a myriad of other things, but once his tongue got flapping, his fists usually weren’t far behind. Toby could sense that this was going to be a bad night for Sal. A lot of nights were bad nights for Sal.

Toby had no idea how they’d met, probably because they were both fall-down drunk, but he knew that if he went to the Greenwood off-track and Sal was there, they were going to hang out together. They knew each other, somehow, and they were in the same bar – one of the only off-tracks that Toby was still welcome at in the city, so it was just par for the course.

Both men slugged their beers.

“She used to say little things to me, on purpose, just to get under my skin.” Sal said after he’d clunked his beer back down on the table.

“Like what?” Toby said.

“Just stupid stuff,” Sal replied. “Like, she’d bring up bills at the worst possible time, and she’d play with her hair in a way, like, trying to be cute about it. One time she even said she wouldn’t be interested in sex until I got interested in looking for a job. That’s exactly what the bitch said! Like, how was I supposed to take that?”

“Do you think maybe she was just stressed out?”

She was stressed out?! I’m the one that lost my goddamn job! During a recession! Then she was gonna try to use the only thing I had left to try and motivate me? You can’t motivate me with what’s already mine, bitch.”

She’s not yours anymore, thought Toby. They slugged their beers in silence.

“Another time she woke up early, brought me breakfast in bed, two eggs, bacon, toast, all the trimmings. I should have known it was a setup. She watches me eat, then takes the tray and says to me, smiling, ‘I wanted you to have a nice full tummy so maybe you can go look for a job today?’ Something like that. I forget how she worded it, but it was the constant nagging that did me in. Always pestering me about the job thing. Money. It’s like that’s all women want these days. Greedy fucking cows, they are.” Sal took a quick nip and set in again with a mimicry of Julie. His mouth turned into a caricature of a duckface and out chirped a psuedo-lady voice. “The kids need shoes… We have no food… Get a job… We’re going to lose the house… It was like I never heard the fucking end of it.”

Toby finally lost it. Sal’s rendition of his ex-wife’s nagging sent Toby into a maniacal eruption of laughter. The more he tried to stop, the more he just kept right on laughing, keenly aware of Sal’s growing rage. Toby imagined Sal with steam shooting out of the top of his head and his ears and laughed even harder. He laughed right up until he felt Sal’s fist explode into his belly. He was still hitching with giggles but, with all the oxygen forced out of his lungs, the only sound was wheezy huffing.

As he caught his breath his laughter melted away exposing a furious rage hidden beneath the surface. A few guys were still watching the screens and their racing forms, but most we’re nervously surveying the fighting couple. Management whispered among themselves, probably hoping that the fight would peter out without any intervention on their part, and a few of the scruffy-looking men in the parlour yelled, some egging them on, some telling them to take their shite elsewhere.

Toby struggled to his feet, squaring with the raging Sal, who looked about ready to go on for a round.

“You know what, fuck you.”

“Oh, fuck me, right? Look at you, pussy, siding with the women. I bet you never had a pussy in your life because you are one, that’s why.”

“I wouldn’t tell you about it because you’re a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve to know what I had!” Toby’s voice had grown to a thunderous roar by the last part of his sentence. Sal was momentarily dumbfounded. He’d heard Toby yell a few times, but not like this. Toby lowered his voice and continued. “But I’ll tell you. I had a mother, used to lock me in a cage and beat me and my brother with an extension cord for no good reason. My brother died, and she said it was an accident, but I know it wasn’t because I was there. I had a woman, not a bitch, and not a pussy or a cunt or whatever you call them, but a beautiful woman, she was beautiful to me. The only woman in the world who ever really loved me, and who ever really knew me, and man, I just loved her with all my life.” Toby paused. Most of the eyes in the establishment were on him and he wished he’d just walked away, but it was too late now. “She died,” his voice cracked and he glanced down at the racing form, which he was wringing ragged in his hands. “She died and I-“ He didn’t know how to go on.

“Hey, look man, I’m sorry. Maybe your lady was… maybe she was-“

Different is what Sal was going to say, but Toby wasn’t finished yet.

“You’re an idiot, Sal. I’m done hanging around with you because you’re an idiot and I just can’t take it anymore. Neither could your wife and that’s why she’s gone. It’s not because of the devil, or because of money, or because all women are bad, it’s because you’re bad. You drove her away. You had it all, and you fucking blew it, and you blame everybody else because you just can’t accept that it’s all your own fucking fault!

Sal’s fists balled up, but something in Toby’s face deflated him like a slashed tire. He plumped down into his chair, looking quite slapped.

“Fuck you,” he said, weakly.

“No, fuck you,” Toby shot back, “You had a wife, who’s still alive, you fucking broke her ribs, and her heart, instead of being a man and here you are, drinking with the sots like you got problems! You asshole! The only problem you got is you! You’re going to either fix that problem, or you’re going to live with it till the day you die, asshole, because all the people you are blaming for your shit are too busy moving on with their own lives to toss you even a hint of a thought.”

The next moment Toby was flinging open the glass door and stepping out into the frosty air. Then he was running.

He finally dropped, panting, on a park bench near the Martin Goodman Trail at the beach. He searched his pockets for his little mickey of whiskey that he’d snuck into the off-track, but he couldn’t find it.

Must have lost it in the scuffle, he thought.

Then he put his face into his hands and cried.

It was a long walk to the nearest liquor store that wasn’t right across the street from the off-track. Toby made the walk because he didn’t want to run into Sal, but also because he needed to think.

His mother, left alone to raise two boys and a girl by herself had become a lot like Sal. She hated men, and she hated the world. She hurt people.

His own Sophia, gone forever. How unfair life could be and how cruel. His long-awaited chance at happiness, snuffed out in the blink of an eye because someone just happened to have a brain aneurysm while behind the wheel and the chain-reaction created a short list of casualties and a long list of ripples in a tragic pond.

Why build a castle when the tide can turn at any time and just wash it all out?

He thought that maybe he needed to take his own advice. What angers us in others is what we often sense but fail to see in ourselves.

He saw the glowing lights of the LCBO in the distance.

I’m going to give AA another go, he thought, as a flutter of anticipation whispered through his belly. His pace quickened, although not to his knowledge.

Tomorrow.

The End

Author’s Note:

This story was inspired by true events – one true event, I should say. I was walking my son home through the brisk cold and I did stop to adjust his clothing close to the off-track wagering place. There are always men smoking outside, and I imagined the beginning of the dialogue as something two of these men might say to each other.

Then I wondered what would happen next and the rest is history, but that really makes it seem so simple, doesn’t it? No, it really wasn’t that simple. I’ve started a lot of these stories, but I’ve finished very few. Usually I get stuck on some point and, being unable to think through it, I decide to give it a rest and maybe it’ll come to me, or maybe I don’t have time to think through it because life is happening and I have stuff I need to do, and a lot of the times nothing comes to me, or I forget about it, or I get another idea and decide to start working on that instead. There’s always an excuse not to finish things, but with the short-story section of my blog still sitting empty two weeks after its inception, I was determined to finish something.

I was actually in bed knitting when I thought back to that particular moment of the day and I realized that idea would be perfect and simple enough to sculpt into a tidy little story for my blog. I tossed my knitting aside and spent a few hours on it before I reached that inevitable point. I’m stuck. I don’t know where to go next and there are too many options. I really needed to go to bed. I have to get my son ready and get him to school in the morning.

So it’s the next day, and my son is at school, and I head straight to my story. I read through it with a fresh head and the direction seemed to be pretty clear. I’ll keep my own personal experiences to myself, but I used my knowledge to build my imaginary characters and then it was just a matter of how they would behave, being who they are. I wanted them to be authentic and natural and I hope I achieved that. As it unfolded Toby emerged as my favourite, Sal as my not-so favourite, but Sal’s story doesn’t really get told. We are left to wonder what shaped Sal’s personality, and whether or not he can overcome it. I say ‘we’ because I wonder and I hope you do too.

I didn’t write this story to condemn anyone, or to glorify anyone. I suppose my beliefs can’t help but bleed through into my writing, but when I read over this story I sense the recurring theme that there is more depth to people than what’s on the surface. For my part, I simply tried to be authentic. Everyone is free to form their own take on it, though. It’s art, after all.

Thank you for taking the time to read my little story. If you are reading this now, know that it means a lot to me and that I’m grateful for you. It’s a lot more motivating to write knowing that someone, other than me, will be enjoying my work. Feel free to share, by linking directly to my site, if you think that others would enjoy also!

Female Sexuality…

What is the sex-life of someone who shames females for their sexuality like? It really must be so dull and boring. I once had a guy tell me that he wouldn’t respect a woman who wanted to have a threesome. Seriously, what in the actual fuck?! Little did he know he’d just talked himself out of an invite to my next threesome. What a tool.

I can just imagine him, married, ten years down the line:

“Honey, I was thinking maybe we could try something a little different tonight.”

“Me too, princess, I’m in the mood to live dangerously. Tell you what, instead of mild, lets have our wings with hot sauce!”

“Last time we did that you started crying like a little girl.”

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I. Okay, maybe we’ll ease our way in with some medium, it’s still pretty spicy.”

“Actually, I was thinking about doing something a little different… sexually.”

“Oh God, not the thing with the lights again! What kind of WHORE does it with the lights on?! Honestly, it’s like you’re not even the woman that I married anymore. You’ve become some raging slut that wants to try all these new things! Doggystyle??? Lights on??? Who ARE you?!”

“Honey, we’ve been married a long time. I just wanted-”

“Look, I let you get on top that one time? REMEMBER!? What, did that mean NOTHING to you?!”

“I’m sorry I-”

“Well you can forget about doing that again anytime soon. I thought it meant something to you but since nothing satisfies you, maybe we should just stop doing it altogether!”

“I’m really sorry, honey, let’s just enjoy our spicy wings.”

“Forget it. I’m not in the mood anymore. We are having mild.”

Yup, tool. Guys like that don’t even realize that sex is actually supposed to be fun… and maybe even a little weird. That same girl who settles for missionary with the lights off time and time again for all eternity probably isn’t doing it because she’s a prude who hates sex. She’s settling for crappy sex because she loves Mr. Mildwings and sex isn’t everything. But it is something. And it can be a very nice something too!

Maybe Mr. Mildwings worries that a girl who is sexually adventurous won’t be easily satisfied and maybe he’s right, but when she is, it’ll be so worth it to know that you earned it by stepping out of your little box and abandoning your comfort zone for the great vast beyonds of sexual bliss. And, honestly, a woman who is in tune with her sexuality can get off using just about anything. I once got myself off using two refrigerator magnets and some dental floss. I was like the MacGyver of sex! (Ladies, don’t try that one at home… unless you have no qualms about explaining yourself to a paramedic.)

Sex is so much more than just missionary with the lights off. It’s missionary with the lights on. It’s doggy-style in the kitchen, it’s threesomes, it’s leather, it’s ropes and spankings, it’s getting buck-naked in the great outdoors during the crisp refreshing month of October and ravaging each other like rabid wolves amid a cascade of falling autumn leaves, panting, moaning, and howling under the full moon in the conservation area just five miles north of- sorry, I got carried away for a minute.

What was I saying? Oh, right…

My point is that sex is about so much more than just fitting certain pieces together and monotonously grinding away till you get gravy.  For some it’s about having that spiritual connection that transcends space and time and commits two people together for life, come what may. Meh, that’s not really my thing, but to each their own. As for me, I will quote my all-time favourite author, Mr. Stephen King:

“There’s something to be said for a shorter, more intense experience.”

He wasn’t talking about sex, mind you, he was referring to his collection of short stories, but still. Tomato, tomato.

Just because a woman comes into your life only for fun, with no intention of becoming a permanent fixture, doesn’t mean she isn’t worthy of any respect. To me, a woman who knows what she wants and makes no apologies for who she is, is better off than miserable old Mrs. Mildwings. Now, obviously if you hurt someone, you should apologize, but a woman who is honest with herself, will generally be pretty honest with others so there shouldn’t be any hurt feelings.

Let me paraphrase: if you are leaving a trail of broken hearts in your wake, then you are doing something very wrong.

So, I’m certainly not the one you want to take relationship advice from, but what I can tell you, is how to have great sex. It’s actually really simple and there are only three tips you need to follow in order to have the best sex of your life. Listen up, men, because this part is for dudes too.

  1. Listen
    1. Not just with your ears, listen with your whole body. Be open to the vibes and sensations your partner (or partners) is putting out.
    2. Be more focused on listening and picking up your partner’s cues, than you are about your own pleasure, for as long as you can before things get carried away and it’s every ‘participant’ for themselves.
  2. Let Go
    1. Forget about your hair, or the cellulite on your butt, don’t think about how tiny your penis is, or how disappointed she will be when it inevitably ends in two seconds. Just enjoy the moment… or seconds. Whatever you have (in yourself and your partner), make the most of it and focus only on the beauty of it and the pleasurable sensations that you are both giving and receiving. Lose yourself in these sensations and all self-consciousness will melt away, leaving only ecstasy and fulfillment.
    2. Let go of any rigidness or set ideas about how this will go down. Be open and willing to be flexible with your partner – anal should usually be discussed and agreed on beforehand, don’t expect a lady to be that flexible.
  3. Don’t be a judgemental prick
    1. Nothing kills the mood faster than knowing you are being judged. Don’t be a dick. Lose yourself in the moment and remember, nobody is perfect, but everybody is beautiful.
    2. It can be hard to let go when you feel you are being judged. Sometimes these feelings can come from a partner, or sometimes they can be all in your head. If it’s the partner, ditch them and find someone new… unless you married them in which case there will need to be long, boring (and possibly awkward) talks about it and even enduring those might not help. Good luck. If it’s all in your head, then just remember, they might be feeling the same way and by taking the lead and focusing more on them, asking them what they want to do, doing more of what they respond to, they might be encouraged to do the same, leading to good times for you both. All you can do is your best and if that’s not good enough, then just worry about getting yourself off and then ditching them for someone who makes you feel more comfortable and at ease.

So, I hope some of you found my thoughts insightful and maybe even helpful. Don’t forget to be safe, clean, and use birth control!

 

xoxox

Miss WILDwings (Oh yeah, I totally did that.)