Category Archives: Self-Love & Self-Esteem

I Done Sprung, Baby

I’m a sexually peaking 32-year-old woman who’s just been hit with her first full dose of spring fever. I need sex, and I want it now.
Tonight I hung out with my first sex blogger for some cool conversation, some Guinness, a stroll, and a bus ride. A nice night. I noticed then as we wandered to the waterfront that it was warmer than I’d have expected. Seasonal. Nice. A little damp, a little chilly, but there it was. Warmer than it oughta be, fresher than dawn on a mountain. A spring night. The first real one.
We hit the bus, he got off at his stop for the hotel, and I carried on my merry way. Two folks quickly sat down opposite me, in a portion of the bus where the aisle expanse is at its narrowest. They were inches from my knees and the sexual energy was just incredible. Wow. You could tell they were on the verge, and they’ve been lodged on that precipice for some time. They’ve clearly known each other for a little, and they’ve connected on a different level. Now, it’s averted gazes, bashful smiles, and too much self-touching.
(You know what I mean, you smooth out your jeans, adjust a pocket, straighten your sleeve – but it’s really just nervous tension, and you know it. These two were popping.)
She was this geeky-chic alt-edge white girlie with these naughty librarian specs, a beret, tapered velvet pants that snaked down her mile-high legs. She used to be a redhead, partially dyed black. In her lap, a wood-mounted freshly sculpted clay statuette (yet to be baked) of a nubile goddess. Her smile was that of a sexy affected intellectual.
Hell, I wanted her.
He was this sexy alternative Middle Eastern guy with chiseled features, smoky eyes, this birthmark on his forehead that looked like a smudge of ash, and this oh-so-perfect little soulpatch (mm) under his tender full lips. His jeans were loose in all the right places, but snug in the better ones. He had a nervous twitch in his left leg and kept bouncing his knee an inch or two up in a fidgety manner that said he really didn’t want to be looking at the floor as she spoke about whatever it was that was moving her then, but would rather be on the floor on top of her.
Hell, I wanted him.
Yet there was this great connection on the level of friends. These shy recognitions exchanged in glances, furtive moments of silence and awkward chuckles. So fucking sexy, so hot.
They each went home alone, to my surprise. He disembarked at my stop, and I hung back to watch those sweet half-moon cheeks swaggering up the drag. “Hate to see you leave, love to watch you go.”
And then I realized it. I’m just full of lust, morning, noon, and night these days. I find when I’m able to shut it off for a few hours for work or platonic socializing or whatever, whammo. Girl’s back to raging. God damned peaking.

The sexual peak is the age at which your frequency of sexual arousal reaches an all-time high. It has nothing to do with skill or frequency of being laid. It’s hormones ripening. Men, 16-18, women, 32-35. I’m 32. Wham. I’m on, 24-7. Bulges in jeans on the street are targeted in my sights from a two-block distance. I watch them approach. The shifting side-to-side. I watch asses, always. Shoulders, nice broad and strong ones. I feel dysfunctional. I’m a voyeur every waking moment. Raging. Sigh.

But it was also at that moment that it hit me: It’s spring.
I began to pass nearly sprung apple blossoms, exposed fluffy cherry blossoms. I smelled honeysuckle. I walked my 10 blocks home with my suede jacket dangling open and only my embroidered cotton shirt protecting me. Blissful. Stars glimmering overhead. That freshness that tells you winter’s on the outs. I breathed deeply. Stopped to stare at the stars, smell the air. Shuffled my feet in a lazy amble on home, savouring the walk as long as I could. I even paused to hang in the school playground. Leaning back on the swing, checking the stars.
God, I love the laziness of spring. The easy pace, the affable air. Mm. A very, very happy Steff.
And now, I want sex even more. Actually, no, you know what I want tonight? Intimacy.
The casual heat of just knowing someone well enough to toy endlessly with their bits and pieces as you lie stretched out, soaking in a classic movie or an intelligent foreign flick, sipping wine, candles flickering, naked, skin-on-skin, a blanket draped loosely over you both, a breast hanging out, toes protruding, legs interlocked, occasionally emitting single lines of commentary to each other, getting only a nibble or a bite in response. Just an easy night in.
That’s what I want. That says spring to me. Spring is seasonal foreplay. It’s suggestive of the heat to come. A delicate tease meant to stoke you and ready you for all to come. It’s so fitting, doing prolonged tease and toy sessions, just getting intimate with all they have to offer. Yep. Spring.
Then there’s outdoor sex, the sport of the season… fucking on the grass near the beach, but that’s another story for another time. Yes, do remind me to tackle the subject of public sex sometime. Ahh, how do I love it. Let me count the ways. Oh, my. Yes, that is also what this season says to me. “Get out and play.” Just dew it, baby.
So, my wish to you all: A fine and fair spring, with plenty of fun fucking and frolicking of all kinds. God knows I’ve got one on order. Let’s hope the season delivers.

Can't Orgasm?




A word of advice?

If you’re a woman, and you’re unable to orgasm,
and you have photos of your family
anywhere near
a place you regularly like to have sex?

Move them. Seriously.



Why? Because psychology is important in sex, and so is shame. If you feel shame, you won’t orgasm. If your mommy or daddy or little nephew Joey have eyes on you with your legs spread and a guy controlling you?
Yeah, good luck with finding your happy spot.

Who I Am and Why I Bother

Hi, there. I’m Steff, and I’ll be your pilot.
I seem to be getting new readers every day, and I wonder what their reactions are when they get here. I’d like to say a little about myself and what my little mission is. So. Without ado.
Who am I? Well, I ain’t your standard-issue sex writer. I’m cute, but I’m more comfortable in jeans and a funky shirt than anything else. I ride a scooter. I listen to indie rock and know what the inside of a mosh pit looks like. I work with kids sometimes. I’m smart, I’m independent, I live alone, and I’d rather be single than in a less-than-filling relationship. I went to Catholic school as a kid, was elected to the student body in college, always had good grades, used to volunteer a lot, always have done well professionally, can work a room and schmooze with the best of ‘em, have never worked in a sex trade, haven’t had a lot of partners due to old-school ethics… Et cetera.
In short, I really am the good girl next door who likes to play a little bad from time to time. Any parent in the world would be thrilled to have me in the family, but god forbid they ever find the home videos.
As a result, being a do-gooder goodie-two-shoes for most of my life, coming to terms with my sexuality has been a long and hard path. I went through hellacious battles with self-esteem, with judgment, and with self-scrutiny. I wondered if giving head meant I was a whore. I was scared that being a hard-core lover girl in the bedroom would mean I’d find a $100 bill by the bed when I was through. I didn’t want to be this thing I had inside of me, this chick who wanted to tear into a guy’s flesh and devour him whole. It was dirty, wrong, and in God’s eyes, not something I should do. Sex was for procreation, not for entertainment, was the memo I’d gotten.
I was passionately religious in my youth, and it’s the case with anything I ever come to believe: I get behind it with a vengeance. Catholicism was no different. The Sound of Music was my favourite film (and I have the special edition on DVD now, heh — “the hills are alive with the sound…”). I wanted to be a nun. (It’s why there’s a really sexy nun in the banner of this site. Hell, she gets me hot. I like to imagine sometimes that I really did it, I became a nun, and some man some where gets me so goddamned riled that I throw down my Bible and my rosary and take ‘im down then and there. Well, there’s always role-playing.)
I kid you not, man, but every time they spoke of Jesus getting spikes driven through his wrists, I had to sit on my hand ‘cos I could imagine the pain of stigmata. I remember the funny look my mother gave me when I told her that at the age of eight. She said, slowly, “Well, that’s very… pious of you.”
It was fucked. I was intense. I drank the Kool-aid, and then I learned about the world at large in my teens. I began reading about cults, about the myth of religion, about the world religions, and I learned all the similarities and all the fear tools. I began asking why a god who was supposed to be love personnified would make us bodies that could know such incredible pleasure, and then sit back and laughingly tell us it was a sin to know it. Not the god I had in mind, I thought. I started walking away from organized faith while swearing to keep the ethic (and I have). Then began the slow process of learning to get past guilt.
Then that was followed by this process of really owning my self and my body on my own terms, learning about sexuality. I began seeing what the lack of sexual expression seemed to do to all the old housewives and husbands I knew. I knew I never wanted to get old that way. And I wanted to be alive now.
I then explored my sexuality in the confines of my relationships, and was doing really well at learning about my more confident self inside.
But then, life. Life threw me a curveball, tossed me some death and depression, heartache and loss, and I gained weight, lost my sex drive, and with it, a lot of my will to live life as it deserves to be lived. Whew, I fell apart for about three or four years, into this horrible cavernous place of blackness, despair, and shame.
Then, whammo. Got into an accident, should’ve died, didn’t, realized I was the luckiest bitch ever, and a stupid one for wasting my life, got my shit in gear, began losing weight, got back into writing, and started having some serious experiences in the circle of life once again.
Rediscovering my sexuality* for a second time, after literally learning that whatever didn’t kill me made me better, stronger, faster, has been a fucking miraculous experience. Every week I’m a better, cooler, sexier chick who’s more in touch with who she was than seven days previous.
So this place is as much a record of my journey – but with certain details kept for my enjoyment only – as it is a reflection of my anger for having to have fought this hard this long to get where I am now. Women, when it comes to sexuality, are the victims of a system that has idealized the notion of sex without ever really talking about what the real components of it should be. Men, therefore, are victimized by a system of their own making. Funny how that works. We live in a society that fucking worships sex and hasn’t got a goddamned clue how to have it. This, my friends, is the Age of Irony.
And some of us out here on our sexual soapboxes hope to turn the attention where it needs to be – on the fact that this is an act shared between consenting adults using only what “God” gave them, their bodies. How sex ever became perceived as being so amoral is beyond me. It can be wildly fun, tragically passionate, incredibly tender… sex can be anything you want it to be.
If you only know what you want.
And I guess that’s what my goal is. To play a small part in helping people learn what they want. By writing positively in an everyday gal kind of way about sexuality and about sex acts that are normally written by people who are, well, a little more enthusiastic and lifestyle-ish about it, I try to take what some might consider exceptional sex back into the realm of the ordinary.
I’m just an ordinary gal with an extraordinary appreciation of sex. And I like to share. So, welcome to my world. I hope you stick around awhile.

*The interesting thing is, the more I learn about my own sexuality, the more I realize I need to know about others’. Every human body is unique, but there are commonalities of experience, and the more we learn about others’ loves and needs, the more we’re able to adapt to our own. It’s when I stopped looking at just me for my growth that I finally began to grow. We need others. And sexuality, well, it’s about others.

the all-sex diet

mm. this is what i needed, a friday night in, relaxing.
it’d be better only one way, if i had a little quality male companionship, maybe some massages, getting intimate on the floor. that’d be nice. a bottle of red, naked, too many blankets, a small world of candles scattered… mm.
to confess, i’m a little tired and i’d probably fail to be myself. being alone’s really not too bad a thing this evening. i have a beer, a little vancouver herbology, and soon, a long oily soak in the tub. lots and lots of oil. sigh. my own private valdez.
had a nice night earlier this week, but i didn’t realize how much he’d worn me out (and vice versa, i’m sure) until today. i have that sore-all-over kinda stiffness from full-body overexertion, but as much as it’s a little annoying, it’s also nice to know it really was as much work as it felt like. fun work, but still. now that’s my kinda fatigue, baby.
you know what i want? i want to take off the weight i have in mind to lose by way of sex. i don’t really overeat anymore (i sure as shit don’t undereat) but i certainly need more exercise. i need sex. that’s all. all i need is a little aerobics and a lil’ strengthening and toning. i know precisely how to obtain it. a plan of conquest. especially in light of all these well-placed aches. (the inner thighs, the lower belly, the arms, hell, the boobs. oi.)
fuck the l.a. diet. damn the jenny craigs. to hell with grapefruit. watch this, weight watchers. give me orgasms and breathlessness. i know. i’ll call it the all-sex diet.
yeah, that’s the ticket.
“and thursday, we recommend two hours foreplay (staggered for endurance purposes) followed by a rigorous 15-minute doggy style, as well as two sets of wall-aided laterals, and to conclude, water sports, including…”
“friday, rest.”
“saturday, turn off the phone. close the blinds. it’s time for a six-hour session of territorial pursuit. you will need: tethers, non-slip surfaces…”
sigh. if i could sign up for that diet, i absolutely promise to take my vitamins every day and even eat my veggies.
i didn’t even have sex with the guy, it was all foreplay, and it was still that strenuous. keep in mind, i cycle, i have freeweights. i may be a bonus lover, but girl’s got endurance, a’ight? the last guy i slept with didn’t even get me close to that overextended. (not that i didn’t try to cause it. some things are mysteries.) it was nice for a change.
(wistful sigh, low groan) yeah. that’s the lifestyle.
but, i ask you, some days, is there just nothing else better than kissing? there’s nothing like the duel of two smooth, soft, energetic tongues. feathery caresses, grip’n’grab gropes. pushin’ up ‘gainst each other, angling for a better, closer position. that slow escalation of breath.
every kiss is an aphrodisiac for another. i can never have just one.
it’s so hot. a guy who can kiss, well, forget his bad points, he’s graded on a curve. kissing, what is it? what is it that makes kissing so damned sublime? it’s almost like necking’s the reminder of all things good. it’s innocence, yet it’s heat.
as much as i love having sex and thus tend to not wait too long for it, i have to admit that it often feels disappointing in a jaded way if necking sessions always result in sex. there’s something really hot about working yourself into that slobbery frenzy brought on by a heated make-out session on the sofa/then bed — and having to let it ride.
do you ever just sit back and enjoy that somewhat sexually frustrated expression on your partner’s face when you just know it can’t go further? not that you’re thrilled to be paining them, but it’s just great to always know you’re the one who’s bringing that heightened sensation into their world, and it’s nice to know they feel that it’s such a loss it ain’t goin’ further.
i guess, for me, i like the anticipation, knowing what’s going to happen next time as a result. i suppose that’s what makes it easier for me, as a chick, is i can honestly say, “yep, gettin’ laid next time” since, well, if I want it, i’m pretty liable to get it, right? how often does a chick want to get laid and the guy say, “well, not right now.” it happens, sure, but the odds are in my favour.
and my powers of persuasion make me suspect i’ve missed my calling as a jedi knight. just saying.
so, i’m on the hunt for the man who can calm my savage beast. when located, the all-sex diet goes full boil. i’m always so gung-ho when i start new things.
what, beginner’s enthusiasm? luckily it takes me awhile to tire of things. 😉 and i’m very, very goal-oriented. love that pursuit.
the all-sex diet program is now accepting applicants.

Unleashing Your Vixen: Moves From the Bottom

Woman on Bottom bravely asked a few of those questions most women don’t ask because they’re too embarrassed. How does a woman, under her lover, get involved and change the pace of things when he’s thrusting away? And also, does a Vixen’s role change when it’s lovemaking as opposed to fucking, and vice versa?
Let’s tackle part two first. The difference between “lovemaking” and “fucking” is a mood, an edge. Fucking’s when animalism comes out to play. It’s when the emotions hit a fever pitch. Lovemaking’s true intimacy and tends to be more about exploring your lover (if you’re doing it right, that is) and expressing how you feel. Now, this is very much in theory. I don’t know about your lovelife, but those distinctions apply well to mine.
So, then, here’s the thing. You do the same stuff. It’s not that complicated. It’s just about the edge and how hard you go for it — so to speak.
For fucking, you bite a little more, a little harder. You dig your heels deeper, your fingernails scratch harder. You thrust or squeeze or whatever you do, faster, harder, and more greedily. It’s a mood thing. The actions are essentially all the same.
It’s kind of the difference between pedalling a bike along a nice, flat seashore, and taking in all the scenery, working consistently and over a long period, versus getting that bike up a monster hill with the sweating, teeth-gritting, and panting that comes with it. You go with the mood.
I really don’t think you need to worry too much about changing things up. Learn to just go with the moment. And if you apply the wrong amount of intensity, who cares? So you’ve gotten a little overeager in lovemaking and it switches gears a little to some down’n’dirty fucking. Is that really so wrong? Stop overthinking it. Go with it. Feel the moment and see where it takes you.
Odds are, accidentally switching to fucking from lovemaking will leave you both spent and laughing and thrilled. Hardly an unfortunate accident.
All right. Back to the beginning.

He’s over you, in you, on you. Thrusting. His eyes are closed, he’s concentrating, keeping his rhythm, and he’s used to you doing this – very, very little – so he’s not really too worried about you. Occasionally he plants a kiss on your neck, a token reminder that in other galaxies, in alter-existences, this tango would be danced by two. He continues thrusting, biting on his bottom lip now, clenching his eyes shut, maybe imagining what it would be like if you suddenly couldn’t get enough of him, and you start to think, “Geez. It’d be nice if I felt a little more involved. What should I do first?”

The easiest thing to do is always to start nibbling on his neck, biting, sucking, and nibbling on his neck. Keep it light and simple – hickeys are fun for folks who can get away with it, but are a real pain in the ass when we can’t, and I’m speaking from experience, when a hickey caused a world of grief for me at work. After all, that’s why we wear shirts: Put the fucking hickey on the shoulder, on the chest, on the ass, anywhere you want, but think twice about the neck.
Don’t spend too long on the neck, if shifting the mood’s what you want to do. Begin sinking your teeth into his shoulder, biting a bit.
While you’re dining on Grade-A shoulder, you can reach around him. Press your palms flat on his shoulderblades and drive your hands firmly, with an awful lot of friction, all down his back, over his ass. Squeeze his cheeks, dig your nails in if you want to, and maybe even use a finger to tease him in the crack of his anus. If you’ve been seldom involved, then THAT will should show him that something turned your lightbulb on. “I’ve been reading,” you can tell him.
During all this, you really, really become absolutely in the moment.
Focus on how things feel – know what’s happening to your body. Focus on his rigid girth sliding in and out of you, how warm and good that cock feels, how it feels when it’s moving from shallow into deeper passes and back again. Focus on the slapping sounds, really try to follow what’s happening with your lover’s body.
Feel the moment, like I said, and let it take you where you should go. Be the moment, Grasshopper.
Let the moment lead you, don’t worry about “But Steff said shoulder-back-palms…” NO, I suggested it. Mostly, just let the moment and what you really wanna do deep down in that dirty place you usually ignore.
As you grow to study your lover’s moves more and more, you’ll be able to start anticipating things,&  you’ll know what it takes to really heighten the moment, via thrusting, biting, whatever, but that knowledge comes from studying – how does he move, what feels best for you?
If you shift yourself slightly, does his penis hit somewhere else inside you, a better place? Know these feelings.
It’s different for every single one of us, so you need to be the documentarian who’s keeping notes on how to vamp up her own sex life. Capische?
So, as you’re nibbling/biting/sucking/putting those god-given lips to good use — and those hands, they should always be working the moment one way or another, even if you’re rubbing your own clit as he thrusts (they like that, too) — you find his rhythm and you respond.
I don’t care if he’s 280 pounds – you should be strong enough to start doing some thrusting in sync with his. Every time his pelvis lifts, yours sinks back into the mattress. When he lowers to thrust into you, you raise your pelvis up into his. You thrust as hard as you can, on beat, every time.
It’s easier to thrust on the bottom if you have your knees bent and your feet planted — or with legs wrapped around him — but as you exercise those lumbar muscles and lower ab muscles, you’ll start getting stronger and better at thrusting in nearly any position you find yourself in. If you learn how to move from the hips themselves instead of using your whole groin area to thrust, you’ll find the movements to be sharper, more intense, and with more payback at his end (and thus at yours).
And it’s important to get your muscles stronger so you can thrust in any position, because there’s not a lot of men who don’t love the feeling of having a woman’s legs wrapped right around their waist during sex.
What’s really great about wrapping your legs around a guy, when things are heating up and you’re really into the moment, you can use your legs to pull him as tight and hard and deep into you as possible. Your legs will be wrapped around the small of his back at this point. After he’s thrust down into you, squeeze and hold him there, tight. For men, I’m told most of their sensation’s both at the head of the penis or the base of the shaft, so when you’re pulling him in hard, he’ll be really, really enjoying the moment. Keep your legs there but release some pressure, and let him resume thrusting, but if you want to be playful, you can cutely instruct him, “Mine. Stay!” Or something along those lines. Get dirtier if you want to, since I find that fun. Be careful, though, because this could feel TOO good for him and you might prematurely end your fun.
The thing about talking during sex, though, and I’ve been guilty of stupidity on this front like almost everywoman in the world, is that it’s important to try and steer away from routine things. Keep the sentiments short and to the point, and keep the focus on action, not conversation so much.
Say things, but don’t expound, unless it’s about something happening then and there that can be improved or changed.
The more you say, the more you run the risk of saying the wrong thing and wrecking the mood. Let’s face it, during sex, our brains aren’t getting nearly the blood nor oxygen it desires, so let’s not overwork the thing, shall we? Keep the blood where it belongs. Flowing in your loins.
Back to using your legs. It’s funny that so many women think there’s nothing they can do being under a guy. It’s just a silly thought.
Using your legs defines how everything feels. Using your legs to change your body angles even slightly affects the way his cock feels (to both him and you) as he slides in and out. Some positions allow you to feel him even deeper, harder.
The thing is, you need to get into those positions, you need to explore them.
Wrapping legs around the hips, a great start.
So’s intertwining your legs lengthwise with his and locking them into place via scooping your foot under his shins or something can allow you to use your muscles then to clench everything in your abdominal and vaginal and anal region. This can really make it a nice, tight, arousing fit for your man of choice. It tightens all the muscles so he’s getting more of a vice grip on his shaft, something most men’ll tell you is a good thing – but, AGAIN, too much of a good thing can result in him blowing his load early, especially if having you involved is a shock to his system.
Therefore, don’t let the moment become a marathon, hey?
One of my all-time favourite moves, and I’m not sure quite what I like about it so much, but it’s probably along the lines that it has an awful lot of deep sensation and is closest to some of the classic moves like doggy style, is the one in this photo. All you need to do is either push him back a little or ask him to kneel for a second, then pull your legs up in front of his chest and put your ankles over his shoulder. This position feels so goddamned good but you need to be a little flexible to pull it off. (I’m not some size 6 with yoga classes under her belt, but yeah, I can bend. You might surprise yourself, too. Try it. If it hurts, you can always stop. Bet it feels purty good, though.)
Personally, I find it excellent for low-back problems, but that’s not going to apply universally. If you can handle it, do it, because men have a lot to love about this position, too. Guys are visual and they absolutely love watching their penis slide in and out of a woman, and this position not only gives them the vantage point from which to see that, but unlike doggy and a few other positions, it allows them to see your face as they take you to the edge – and your breasts as they bounce side to side and up and down with every thrust the men make. Seeing the face, though, there’s something undeniably amazing about knowing it’s you who’s caused that look of agonized ecstasy to spill across a person’s face, and I suppose it’s one of the factors I enjoy about this position. I love watching him watching me.
Finally, the easiest, and still one of my faves, and allows for some of the sensation of the above position without you having to ask him to move, is while he’s thrusting, simply use your hands to pull your knees up to your chest (by his shoulders) in a classic knee-to-chest leg-stretch. A lot of feeling, allows for a really deep thrust, and he’s guaranteed to love it. You can alter the sensation here, too, by moving back and forth between allowing your back round out (sort of like the cat pose in yoga) and then arch away from him. It’ll drastically affect how it feels, but definitely be careful if it’s your first time trying those, since it could be a bit challenging on a virgin back. But, yeah, back and forth — arching, rounding — subs in for thrusting, giving him the same amount of contribution from you, but in a sensationally different manner. Give it a go.
As your legs tire a bit, you can take breaks by letting your legs wrap around him again. I advise going back and forth between these positions during a single session, if you’re looking to change things up a bit. A moment or two in this position, a moment or two in that.
But, hey, there’s a lot to be said for seeing one thing through, too. Every time is different. And should be.
Just GO with it. Stop thinking! Start feeling! Ignore society’s advice to act on logic, not emotion. Feel the moment and let it take you where you should go. That’s all it takes.
And don’t worry — “feeling the moment” will take you to newer, bolder, more different places as time passes, because the lover you are within will change and grow as you lighten up and think less. Being the best lover we can be doesn’t happen over night, it takes years, decades, because it’s not just about skill — it’s about being truly open and comfortable with yourself, and that’s the journey we’re all after for the whole of our lives.
And here’s where it really starts to take hold.
There’s more on this topic to come.
(The photo is from SexyFX.com, an awesome site.)

Unleashing Your Vixen: Some Serious Thoughts

Do you ever have those moments when clarity comes up behind you with a baseball bat and beats the hell out of you?
You get up, groggy, woozy, disoriented, but shit, you know better now, man.
I’ve been avoiding getting into this Vixen thing. The problem with procrastination is that you avoid things so much that you fail to even become aware of why the avoidance is there in the first place.
But then clarity comes along with that fucking bat and, sooner or later, you clue the hell in. Like I did about 30 minutes ago. For some reason, today I feel like I’m Frodo walking across that marshland with all the corpses under the surface of the pondwater. I feel like I’m about to go under, like there’s some kinda tether wrapped around my heart and strung to the reeds below the surface, tugging me down and trying to seduce me into the dark.
It sounds really intense, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Sure, it feels like that, but it’s a really surreal feeling, like there’s a bubble around me, like there’s all these dead little faces floating around me of people who think they’re alive, but really just aren’t. That I’m sitting around in utter silence on a freezing day in February might be adding to those Dali-esque proportions, so maybe I’ll just browse my iTunes here and stoke up a change of pace. When in doubt, go with the Butthole Surfers, that’s my policy.
This week, the week that follows Valentine’s Day, is the least favourite of my year. In a span of six days falls the anniversary of when the docs found a grapefruit-sized tumour in my mother’s belly and her birthday. Yes, that’s been on my mind. She has been on my mind an awful lot, particularly in relation to this topic. I, more than anything else in her life, am my mother’s legacy, and that’s not arrogance, that’s the admiration of a daughter who had a mother deserving of it. I am my mother’s daughter – in most ways.
If you met me in real life, you’d see a lot of similarities to the person on these pages. I’m boisterous, brazen, demure, open, scathing — whatever you want to call me, I’m an awful lot of those things. But my mother blazed that trail, baby. She was a model in her youth, she was hot when she died, didn’t look over 50. She had red hair, green eyes, and she was a risk-taker and a daredevil. She sold real estate, raced yachts, and wasn’t afraid of a fucking thing (most of the time).
She was never open about sex. I doubt she ever became a vixen. I bet she never trusted a man enough. I don’t think she ever got past the shame of what sex symbolized in her demented little worldview on the subject. My father and I were recently talking, musing about whether she had been sexually assaulted at age 12. My father grew up in her neighbourhood, they were friends all their lives, and he remembered when she changed, as if she just broke. He said something was never the same after she was 12, that day they came home to find her scantily clad, rocking barefoot under the farm’s kitchen table, shaking and sobbing.
This Vixen thing… it’s a personal mission for me, really. I’ve been the legacy of dysfunctional views on sex. I’ve seen what a loveless marriage does not only to the participants but the children involved. I’ve seen what happens to men (including my father) who get neglected and taken for granted, what happens to women forgotten by their lovers, and it all breaks my heart. It’s a really sad thing to behold, the loss of someone’s sexual side.
When I was young, I fell for that fascist Ayn Rand, and one quote stands out after all these years, that “avoiding death does not equal living life.” We’ve somehow fallen into this trap of “surviving” life. Yeah, you go right ahead. Survive. I’m gonna live, thanks.
And that’s the problem, most of us are content to merely survive our jobs, survive our relationships, whatever it takes to make it to the other side with the least resistance.
Being a vixen, or in the case of the men out there, an attentive, daring, open lover who’s receptive to his lover’s needs, takes guts. It doesn’t happen from just thinking it’d be nice to go there. It’s about actively pushing your fears and apprehensions. It’s about saying you’re not scared about being judged. But mostly, it’s about trusting this lover of yours you claim you trust. It’s about putting your money where your mouth is, baby.
It’s too late for my mother, and I caught the bus last decade, man, so I’m good, but there are a lot of folks out there who must learn how much more fun life is when they learn that being vulnerable doesn’t necessarily mean becoming hurt*, it means sucking the marrow out of life and taking the chances you’ve been resisting.
Mostly, though, it’s about really having great new experiences. So, you know, like they says, you better get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’, but make your fucking choices and stop just letting life happen to you. Being a dead fish is simply the personification of all those other little fears you have inside. Confront them.
Me, being a vixen underlies EVERYTHING I do in my life. I take chances, I go with the moment, and I may not have the fancy car and the retirement package some of my conservative friends have, but I’ve got experiences. Very cool experiences. So far, dying tomorrow, I’d have few, if any regrets, and knowing that is the greatest thing I can say about who I am.
*And even if you get hurt occasionally by becoming vulnerable, I’ve discovered firsthand that the richness of everyday experiences far outweighs those occasional bumps and bruises along the way. Like mountain biking or something, sometimes you fall, sure, but at least you’re out there having the experience most of the time… and hurts always heal. I take my lumps and go again.

I Blame It All On George Michael

Creativity’s an organic process; I know what I want to write for y’all, but I can’t help it if something flicks the switch and something else comes out. This morning, I was sweeping the kitchen, dancing around, listening to cheesy ’80s music, when this posting occurred to me. Remembering some of this fodder made me laugh out loud, and I’ve still got a grin on my face. So, hopefully you find the diversion fun. I’ll deliver on the Vixen thing.
When I was in Grade 4/5, Wham! took the world by storm. As always, I was a latebloomer, and I fell for them in Grade 7. George Michael made me swoon. Those lips, those eyes, and oh, my god, that ass.
I would dance around my pink bedroom with Freedom playing on full blast. I dreamed of nothing more than somehow encountering my idol and having an affair. Surely he liked 13-year-old girls, I thought. I mean, eight more months and I, too, would be 13. We would kiss. Madly. Sex wasn’t something I’d be considering much for at least another four or five years, but kissing…
A year or two after that, I saw him walking down the street in Vancouver with this Asian woman on his arms. A few months down the road, she’d come to fame as his lover from the video I Want Your Sex, the famed torso upon which the pop star would write, in lipstick, “Explore monogamy.” I clued in pretty fast, guys like exotic chicks, not 13 year olds, and they liked sex, not kissing, and they liked flat little torsos, it seemed.
But that didn’t faze me. I still loved my George. When I discovered masturbation, George was there with me, that sexy bare chest in those little shorts he used to wear. I didn’t even have to imagine George doing anything to me. The fantasy was an album signing. He looked up. Our eyes locked. I creamed my pants. One glance from George, it seemed, was enough to do me in. Oh, George! (gush) Naturally, masturbation then consisted of dry-humping an interesting pile of teddy bears and pillows contoured in, frankly, very strange places, while holding a little teen magazine with the latest male hottie with a perfect smile on the cover. (Oh, GEORGE!)
Honestly, when I was young, I missed the bus to Hipville. It took me a while to grow out of dorkness. My mom was a bit of a hippy, and my clothes were often homemade and things like that, or just badly chosen. It wasn’t until I left private school (Catholic… think kilts and knee-highs, boys… ooh, tartan) and did public school that I finally found a clue.
George kept me company in those dark years. Corey Hart kinda helped, too, and Michael J. Fox. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been a Johnny Depp girl since 1991.
The best thing I ever did for my sex life in my teens, though, was to buy a pair of Doc Martens. My first weekend in them, Josh. Oh, Joshie, Joshie, Joshie. German and Japanese. What a fucking studmuffin. (I always remember my friend having to explain what a studmuffin was to her confused father. “Why, Daddy, it’s a stud you can really sink your teeth into.”) Josh was built for lovin’ – he was 6’4, broad shoulders, and lips that made for smothering, baby.
Yep. One kiss from Josh and I figured, huh, these boots are something. See, he spots me at a party with all our mutual friends, me and my 13-hole docs, and beelines over, commenting that cherry was always the sexiest colour for him. “Oxblood,” I corrected him. Our lips locked shortly after that for the ultimate in gropefests on the back steps. It was the first time a boy ever grabbed my boobs and squeezed and groped, the first time I knew what it felt like for a boy to fumble as to tried to get under the bra and over the breast, and the first time I ever had the distinct feeling of being moist in public.
Naturally, Josh told the world that it had been us who was making the camper a-rockin’, and a classic teen “But I’m not a slut, that was SUZY!” drama unfolded. But I learned something important then. Image was everything, and George wasn’t doing me no favours. I started experimenting with music and quickly found U2 and Front 242, and learned that bad was good, and haven’t looked back since. These days, I’m a punk rock poser-girl some of the time, but usually just a nitty-gritty indie rock kinda gal. No, no Docs these days, but my Skechers are kinda cute.
Funny thing, though. A while back, I had this guy I was sorta wooin’ after dinner. We were interacting, on the cusp of sex, but the nerves were in the way, so instead we were standing too far apart, with that invisible awkwardness barrier repelling us. My iPOD developed a mind of its own and suddenly Wham! spun on.

“Wake me up, before you go-go
Don’t leave me hangin’ on like a yo-yo”

Next thing you know, the boy and I were bouncing around the kitchen, laughing and singing, washing dishes, cleaning up, and naturally, a spot of water on the floor yielded a well-placed slip, and we collided into each other, against the counter, collectively gasped, locked lips, fumbled about, and the rest unfolded exactly as it should, upon my bed.
I guess our liabilities aren’t always what they seem, and the past is never as far away as we’d like to think. But is that so bad? That night, it wasn’t.
PS: Incidentally, of all my teen idols, GM’s the only one I still find sexy. Not my type per se anymore, but still has “it”.

Unleashing Your Inner Vixen: Breakout Moves Pt. 1

I bet Isaac Newton was the bomb in bed. I bet he was sitting under that tree, fantasizing about hiking up Mathilda’s knickers the night before when that apple came toppling down out of that tree.
After all, Newton’s famous Third Law of Physics, “Each action must have an equal and opposite reaction,” should be every lover’s credo.
Recently, I wrote a little piece I playfully called “Fishies: Wake Up and Smell the Pheromones,” about “dead fish” lovers who lie there. Woman On Bottom wrote, asking:

So… the chick is on bottom, the dude is on top and they’re having sex. He’s thrusting like nobody’s business. The age-old question remains: what is she supposed to be doing? Scratching his back? Moaning? Wrapping her legs around him? Rocking against him? Talking dirty to him?
How does she avoid this whole “dead fish” syndrome guys always complain about? What skills should she posess? And, is there a difference in the “woman on bottom”‘s job from fucking to lovemaking?

Well, Bottom, it was funny you should ask. I was kicking this idea around for a few days before you asked, and since then, I’ve just been giving it some thought.
See, the problem with a lot of women in your position (hardy-har) is that you simply fail to realize the potential that being on the bottom offers. What, you can’t move your legs when you’re under there? Sure you can. You ask about scratching – hell, yeah!
The normal, healthy, sexually active male will be in his glory if he thinks he’s inspired you to become this sexually insatiable beast who just can’t get enough of his lovin’. If you’re digging your nails into him, moaning, and locking your legs around his hips, well, he’s gonna think you’re having a good time. More importantly, he’s gonna think he’s The Man, and that’s gonna get him more involved too.
Being on the receiving end of true desire always, always feels incredible. If your man’s never felt that desire, it might explain away a lot of changes in his behaviour, or a reduced focus on his appearance or attention to you.
I’ve encountered what happens to men when their women fail to get involved sexually, and the outcome is always this sad, seemingly fractured man who simply seems to have ‘something missing’ in him. Sure, passion.
It’s really, really, really important women learn how much they can offer sex, even if they’re stuck on the bottom. By changing that up, showing you’re interested, it’s likely you’ll take it to the next level and learn a whole schwack of new positions.
Before any of this goes anywhere, you’ve got to understand Newton’s Law. Every little thing he does to you should provoke a reaction to him. If not, then why’s he bothering? Every little thing you do to him will also provoke a reaction. This is the sexual circle. One reaction gets another gets another gets another gets an orgasm. Something like that, but there’s a few more moves in there, I think.
Your first step in releasing your inner vixen? Kegel exercises. Now, I just don’t care enough to keep looking until I find a site that agrees with my views, so keep in mind, that site thinks men don’t really have to do Kegels, that women offer more by learning them – WTF? YES, MEN HAVE TO DO KEGELS. Shit, man.
Yes, guys, learn to do Kegel exercises because we want you to be able to break the mold and enter into the 15+ minute zone of loving, thanks. We want every one of you to be a rumoured super-lover-man that Sting is, and HE does HIS Kegels. Jesus Christ. Oh, the work I have yet to do!
But I do digress. Every time you squeeze your vaginal muscles, he’s going to feel it. More importantly, every time you squeeze them, you know you’re contributing, you’re impacting things a bit. Most importantly? Great exercise for the abs.
If you want the best reason of all for being a rockstar lover – it’s the exercise. You’re supposed to get 30-minutes of exercise a day, right? Well… what if I told you that you could have better abs, a tighter ass, a stronger lower back, tight inner thighs, and improved endurance, all from 30 minutes of exercise every day, without ever, ever having to leave your bed? You’d call the FCC and try to bust my ass for fraud, I’d bet.
But it’s true. Fuck your way to a better ass, says I. Hell, it might even help your bust if you do enough with your arms. Yep, Tony Little can take his Gazelle and shove it, man.
The next step towards Rockstar-Loverness:
Put on an aural show. Start moaning and gasping a little. It’s interesting, I think there’s enough fodder to do a couple postings on the importance of moaning. You go back and you look at this site, you’ll find the second or third posting I did was about moaning and such. It annoyed me. But then, right after posting that, I was talking with a lady I know and she told me about the bad old days when she was in an sanitarium in the Czech Republic for “sexual dysfunction.” There was a woman there who’d used to be a real tiger in bed. She and her husband moved into the city, and her sexual enjoyment went to nil, and it’d been years since she orgasmed.
What did they discover? She had to scream when having sex. They moved from a quiet countryside farmhouse into a small, thin-walled apartment, and she went from screamer sex to silent sex, and lost the orgasms to go with it.
It got me thinking. I started to wonder if the silent sex I was having was somehow psychically reinforcing any of the old hang-ups I had from my Catholic youth, et al. Since then, during the sex I’ve had (including masturbation, actually), I’ve made myself be much more vocal, and oh, my God, it’s just so much hotter! I was really surprised that I’d feel less self-conscious as a result of it, but that was the case. I started feeling more dominant, confident, and willing to do what it took to make myself really enjoy the moment — moreso than ever before. It was a conscious effort for the first five minutes, but then it became natural, just putting a voice to all those things I’d already been feeling.
So, here I was, always championing the “shut up and fuck me” approach, but I’m a big girl and I can admit my personal discovery that moaning audibly, inserting dramatic gasps that really convey my surprise or delight, muttering a bit to my lover, etc, really allows me to get into the moment and be a player. I think it’s the conscious shunning of all that repression and backwards sexual thinking I’d had foisted on me since my youth.
I think you really need to open your mouth a little and get involved. If you just lie there, silently, every single time, you’re going to find it easier to slip into a rut. But if you groan, moan, or gasp whenever your lover changes a move or something, it’s the early warning system to your pleasure or pain. It clues your lover in: “She wants more of that. Wow, I’m hot.”
Unleashing your inner vixens & rockstars will continue next time around, and I’ll divulge a few specific newby moves for converting the boring old Missionary Position into the start of a whole new thang for you. For now, really focus on the Kegels and the notion of having a voice during sex. They’re small things, but they’re huge, huge foundations for this thing, this new lover, that you’re building here.
NOTE: The photo is of a position some call the Bamboo. It’s a slight deviation from the Missionary Position, and, uh, a real good time, if you know what I’m sayin’. There are a couple other slick positions like this for the starting rockstar to engage in, starting in the Missionary, on bottom. That’s next time.

Figleaf Answers Q's on Male Masturbation

Figleaf was kind enough to look over all the questions posed by women in regards to male masturbation of late, and compiled a hefty response for y’all.
I enjoy Fig’s site a lot since it offers a lot of what I enjoy to read: Intelligent discussion about sex. It’s a nifty thing to have him guesting here. Thanks, Fig.

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READER WRITES: Ok, it doesn’t really turn me on, but it certainly doesn’t turn me off either. I did accidentally walk in on my husband while he was masturbating in the shower. I scared the hell out of him. I apologized and now I don’t peek around the shower curtain unless I know that he knows I’m in the bathroom. After all that’s his time and not really any of my business.
FIGLEAF: So first of all I’d like to say cool, you didn’t jump him when you caught him (neither jumping all over him for doing it, nor jumping his bones.) Real masturbation is a personal act.
J.P. Donaleavy, author of The Unexpurgated Code, a tongue-in-cheek book of etiquette for English social climbers, recommended that upon encountering someone masturbating you should say “I see you’re in good hands” and withdraw. It’s actually the best advice there is. Now I did say that real masturbation is always a personal act. If that were the end of it I probably wouldn’t have started writing this at all. Read on.
You say watching masturbation doesn’t really turn you on or off. That’s actually pretty cool because unless you’re the one masturbating it’s really none of your business. 🙂 There’s also masturbation for two and that’s a whole ‘nother topic.
Watching someone masturbate *for* you can be pretty exciting. Exciting for them because they’re doing it for you. Exciting for you because they’re doing it for you. If they’re shy there’s the excitement of seducing them into doing something you know will give them pleasure. If you’re shy there’s the excitement of safely crossing a few boundaries. If you’re not even a little bit curious there’s still the excitement of learning how *they* touch themselves so you can do it yourself next time.
If they’re reluctant there’s even the possibility of excitement that comes from saying “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.” If you’re adventurous there’s the possibility that it’s just another form of foreplay that can lead to one of you throwing him or herself on the other and fucking their brains out. If you’re into dares, suspense, and delayed gratification there’s the excitement of playing chicken – of seeing if one of you will crack and jump the other’s bones before one of you comes. If you’re polite there’s even the excitement of watching each other get closer and closer and saying “after you…” “no, after you” “oh no, I insist” which of course can prolong the moment till both your eyes are rolling.
Heck, even if you’re just lazy there’s the excitement of knowing they’re doing most of the work! 🙂
The bottom line, though, is that while real masturbation is always a neutral (to a spectator) personal act it can become charged when you invite yourself into it. It’s surprising how that personal act, even one you might find personally distasteful under other circumstances, becomes a mutual act that can be every bit as intimate and erotic and fulfilling as the closest, deepest coupling.
READER: I’ve met a man who doesn’t like to masturbate, and I’m dead curious to hear opinion on that. I’m sure he’s not the first and won’t be the last, but I’m very sorry I may never have the pleasure of watching him do the deed…or giving him a hand…
FIGLEAF: There’s an old joke that 99% of men masturbate and the other 1% are liars. It’s not really true. More of us enjoy masturbating than care to admit it, but just as there are plenty of women who for one reason or another don’t masturbate, there are also plenty of of men who don’t either. (Figures vary but it could be as high as 20%.) If your partner is one of those then you might have your work cut out for you.

Another group of men feel that masturbation is sort of a second choice or a substitute for sex and so they’re going to feel a little reluctant to give up an “opportunity” to play in order to rehearse some more.
Finally, most of us are pretty shy about admitting we masturbate. There’s the usual conditioning against touching yourself, with overtones of “If I admit I do it you’ll imagine I don’t think you’re satisfying me.” Something else to keep in mind is the conditioning we get early on that being seen masturbating is perverted because of the perverts who sit jacking off in their cars near playgrounds and such.
Yes, it’s sort of silly, but so’s imagining you’re not every bit as sexy in dumpy sweatpants as in lingerie.
Two things to try, one theoretical, the other very pragmatic.
Theory: Remind him that no matter what kind of delicious, arousing, eye-popping, or otherwise remarkable sex is depicted in industrial porn, 99.999% of male actors eventually stop doing that, pull out, and masturbate till they ejaculate because… well, I’m not sure why they do, but they all do it. So if porn stars can do it, you might suggest, then so can he.
Pragmatics: Tell him you’re going to masturbate for him. Ask him to watch but not touch. When he’s pretty far along suggest it would really, really turn you on even more if he’d touch himself too.
One of those should work if he’s one of the 80-85% or men who know how to and enjoy masturbating. If he’s one of the others, well, you can ask him to practice, or you can *help* him practice, but I can’t promise it’ll work. Sometimes when we say we don’t like to masturbate we’re actually telling the truth. 🙂
READER WRITES: I’d like to know the kind of things that make it feel good – is it better with lube or spit, or just with the hand? Does the pressure of the hand make much of a difference? For those with foreskins, does tugging that down over the head feel pleasurable in and of itself?
AND…
Does any of it weird you out? Why? I love watching men masturbate – I find it quite delightful seeing how they take care of themselves, and noticing their overall reaction. It’s harder to pay attention when my mouth’s at play!
What’s your reaction to it? Do you find it hot, or not? Why or why not? It turns me on, watching one of my partners masturbate. I find it less impacting watching it in porn, but still interesting.
AND…
Have you had any negative experiences with it? What’s your reaction to finding a lover doing it when he thought you were asleep / not around? Only the one. With a previous partner, I woke up one night to find him standing at the side of the bed and masturbating over me. That disturbed me at the time, and disturbs me now. Interestingly, I have no problem with my current partner jacking off while I’m asleep, and he has no problem with me doing the same. So I think that was a personality issue rather than an action issue.
AND…
Closing opinion: watching men masturbate is a) hot, and b) gives me pointers to add to my own skill-set. I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to move my hand as fast, though!
FIGLEAF: This is really good to hear, you know. Another thing men are raised to believe (and a lot of women for that matter) is that women don’t like to watch. I think it’s more correct to say women don’t like to feel uncomfortably or involuntarily out of control, as you did when you woke to find your partner masturbating over you, or as others do when an aggressive man exposes himself and expects you to be turned on. Nice guys may take that a little too far and not be comfortable showing you anything at all. If you can convince him you’re comfortable with him doing it (it might take some convincing) and if he understands that you want to watch and learn so you can do it to him too, he may eventually grow more comfortable with the idea. (Repeated Hint: ask him if it would turn him on to watch you.)

As for technique, I don’t know what to say. I don’t have direct experience with other men but based on the ways my own partners have confidently but not always successfully taken me in hand I get the impression different men like different strokes in different places. But that’s just another argument for asking your partners to show you. The one other generality I can add is: Men tend to like way, way more pressure than women do. I think this has a lot to do with why women think we touch too hard and men think women touch too gently.

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Back to me! Thanks for the contribution to this series, Fig. Much appreciated.
As for the reader with concerns she might never stroke fast enough, well, I’d focus on the details you can master — firmness of grip, length and placement of stroke, that sort of thing, and master those. A good long stroke, teasing the balls, all these things could probably compensate nicely for the lack of speed (which some guys say can be a really nice change of pace, literally, anyhow). What do you think, Fig, readers?
Oh, and please notice the fabulous specimen touching himself in the photo? He’s playing with his testicles. Don’t forget to make friends with the boys — gently. Just playing with a guy’s balls can do some pretty incredible things to his desire. Just be gentle, that’s all. A little kiss here, a little stroke there…

Mutual Masturbation: Why to Rethink It

I don’t know if it’s the new rage, but there’s something pretty hot about it, you know? Sitting around, toying with yourself as someone repays you in kind. It’s the ultimate in voyeurism. You’re there, front and centre, watching – and satisfying yourself in the process of – someone experiencing the deeply personal act of giving themselves an orgasm.
I had a man recently ask me if – since I didn’t engage in sex-for-sex’s-sake sex – if I might be interested in masturbating for his pleasure.
Now, you have to realize that, before this point, this was one of the sexiest, most intelligent, and thought-provoking conversations I’d had with a man in a while. If there’s an iota of truth to the brain being the largest sex organ of all (and there’s plenty more than an iota to that) then suffice to say that I was about as aroused as I’d been in a while. (Unfortunately, he was married. I don’t go there.)
Some chicks look for big cars, some chicks look for big words. Which am I?
So, he asks me this. And I seriously considered it. I know it can be a really intense experience, if you can get behind the walls of bullshit we all conjure for the world at large, then yes, it’s a pretty intense experience to share with someone.
So, I was giving it due consideration, and then I realized that, for me, it would be as intensely intimate as fucking him would be, something I considered incongruous with my own ethics, as much as I really did want to do it. And I thought, wow, what a gift I’d be giving a guy I didn’t feel like I could afford to be that way with. Just, yeah… a gift, really.
The nature of masturbation, when you get down to the heart of it all, beyond that fleeting sense of ecstasy, that arrogance of knowing you’re always able to make yourself feel like that, the prideful sense of independence… beyond all of that lies the very, very simple truth of being literally absolutely naked with yourself. You think true thoughts, have real fantasies when you masturbate. I think there’s seldom a time in which we’re more brutally true to ourselves than when we masturbate… for good or for ill. It comes down to what it takes you to go there, the imagery you need to form, the thoughts that find their way into you.
To lie there opposite each other, and get there in the manner you would if you were naked and alone, it’s a very eye-opening, fly-on-the-wall kind of moment.
Yes, it can be incredibly hot.
But yes, it can also be incredibly weird. There are those out there who believe there’s no sense in bothering with the mutual masturbation – letting your partner start & finish fully without touching them, this is the definition of mutual masturbation. And they would be wrong. It really is about the ultimate in vulnerability with your partner. Not because you need to submit to their touch, but instead, you must submit to their scrutiny in your moment.
With that experience comes a different kind of bond than one just forged by sex and love alone. Vulnerable is the hardest thing to be in a relationship. I struggle with it. My independence and strength have been towers of power in my life, and to submit to vulnerability is to give up all that’s gotten me through to now. A small little seemingly insignificant act like mutual masturbation is enough to bring all that to the forefront. In sex, it’s easier to hide behind those eyes-closed moments.
Anyhow. I just need to clarify, as much as I believe mutual masturbation is a really important stage in your sexual evolution as a couple, and as much as I think it benefits on an emotional level, too, it can be a really intense emotional experience sometimes, and you sort of need to anticipate that, particularly if trust issues are something you’ve had in the past.
I honestly think, though, that it can do nothing but good for a relationship. And, hey, if you’re single, it’s truly safe sex.
In the meantime, please feel free to comment on experiences you’ve had with it, thoughts you have on it, whether I’m right / wrong, why, and if it applies, why you won’t / will be doing it anytime / sometime soon.