Archive for the ‘Sex’ Category

People bristle at the suggestion that they think critically about their sexual preferences, clinging tightly to the old “the heart wants what it wants” narrative, hoping to be allowed to discriminate with impunity. If it were up to me, those people would fall victim to a lifelong fuck drought as the rest of us resolve to avoid their hegemonic genitals.


. . .No matter what position I am in, I follow this cardinal rule: If someone needs to be in control, it should be the person getting fucked.

As they say, read the whole thing.


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According to the findings, some 48 per cent of females prefer not to bare all in bed, wearing at least one garment. The reason – for 54 per cent of them – is to improve body confidence.

Assuming this study is accurate (it seems they interviewed a bunch of Carrie Bradshaws?), this is not at all what I would have predicted.

And when it came to their garment of choice, negligees came out on top. But the survey revealed most women would go for a bra. The results showed 61 per cent of women claimed to prefer sex with the lights off, compared with just 37 per cent of men.

How sad. But wait!

Andy Barr, marketing director at MyCelebrityFashion.co.uk, said: ”This research has really unveiled [oh, I see what you did there] how large a part clothes play when it comes to female body confidence. ”The fact that such a large proportion of women claim to feel sexier with an item kept on suggests that, whilst body confidence might be low, clothes can really improve a woman’s self-image.”

Clothes: saving you and your partner from your disgusting body since the Pleistocene.

Tangentially, the subject of clothes, sex, and whether they should be combined always reminds me of this:

Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu te moques;
De tes bijoux l’Horreur n’est pas le moins charmant,
Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chères breloques,
Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement.

which, once upon a time, I translated as:

“You trample the dead, Beauty, whom you mock

Of your jewels, Horror is not the least charming

And Death, among your dearest trinkets,

Dances amorously on your proud belly.”


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I just read this LA times article about one of downtown Seattle’s strip clubs preparing to close in June.  Weirdly, the club’s owners blame the internet:

The Internet has been the main culprit in driving down business, the establishment’s owners have said, along with the loss of a nearby parking garage and the collapse of Washington Mutual, the bank once headquartered across the street, whose expensive suits and wingtips were often seen slinking into the Lusty over lunch hour.

It seems more likely that The Lusty Lady is going out of business because a) it is in Seattle, and thus cannot serve alcohol, and b) as one of the dancers points out, it’s really more of a peep show:

But, she conceded, peep shows aren’t to most people’s taste anymore.

“It’s just an outdated notion,” she said. “This is not what people want. They want a strip club where you can get a lap dance, or places where you hang out with your buddies and drink. Or you go on the Internet.”

While I think she’s right about peep shows v. strip clubs, I’d still be very surprised if more traditional strip clubs were less lucrative because of internet porn.  They aren’t the same thing at all!  Strip clubs have real live women who can like, look into your eyes and stuff.  Maybe there’s a subset of men who think  of porn as equivalent or even preferable to being in the same room with a real live naked woman, but I still think it’s an odd comparison.  Also, I hope never to have the misfortune of dating a guy who thinks porn >= live naked ladies.

I do think it’s likely that the clientèle of strip clubs (or peep shows, burlesque, or whatever other antecedents there were) has changed in the same way the clientèle for prostitution has probably changed.  Since men were traditionally permitted to be sexually experienced prior to marrying virginal, respectable women, and since they obviously couldn’t have sex with the good women they planned to marry, they had sex with the bad women, the prostitutes.

Now that women have more sexual freedom, and the sexual double standard isn’t quite as exacting, having sex with prostitutes falls further outside the realm of an average guy’s sexual experiences.  Why have sex with a prostitute when it’s easier* (and more rewarding) to have sex with your girlfriend?  And so the men who still have sex with prostitutes might be considered a niche market.  They aren’t just really desperate for sex; they have other options, but they get off on the illicit nature of prostitution itself, and maybe they want the opportunity to control and dominate women.

Of course, I am not a man, or a prostitute, so I can’t verify any of this.  But it is pretty plausible.

*By “easier” I mean that it’s easier for the average twenty-first century guy to have sex with his girlfriend than it was for our hypothetical middle-class nineteenth century guy to have sex with his lady love.  Not that it’s always easier to get a girlfriend or a hook-up than it is to, say, pay for an escort service.

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You lost me at “clothed”

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Someday soon, when I’m not engulfed by other responsibilities, I want to write something thoughtful and interesting about porn.  For now, all I can do is seethe at this comment on Jezebel from one of the Fleshbot editors:

So basically, I’m going to issue the challenge I issue everyone: if you want to see better porn, make it yourself–and then send me links so I can write about it.
(Seriously, if you’re not willing to do that, then I can’t take your complaints seriously. When I had problems with porn, you can better believe I pulled up my bootstraps and used my brains and body to create my very own altporn site that featured the kind of porn I wanted to see in the world.)

In other words: if you have problems with the misogyny and banality endemic in mainstream porn, your options are a) become a super sexy cool alt porn star like me! or, b) shut the fuck up.

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Curiouser and curiouser

The other day I was in a downtown Seattle coffee shop, waiting to meet up with a friend.  I went to put a lid on my drink, and I noticed a long legged couple with matching long black hair, skinny black jeans and leather jackets.  Then  I did a double take and realized that the woman was actually a mannequin precariously strapped to a wheeled carry-on, so it looked as though it was standing.  I suppressed my urge to gawk–oh, how I wanted to– and hurried back to my seat at the other end of the store.

Then!  The male half of the couple came over to me, leaned in, and asked, “do you mind if my WIFE and I sit next to you?”  He really emphasized “wife.”  And I said, no of course not, and then, wickedly, I began to move over to make room for his WIFE because he was standing behind the only seat on my left.  And he was like, “no, no! You don’t need to move over.  My wife sits here”–and he gestured to the empty space next to the stool–“and I sit here.  Just RELAX.”  So I did, and he brought the mannequin over and situated her on her carry-on, and then my friend came and I left.

Later, I told my dad, who said this guy is a regular fixture downtown and has been wheeling his wife around with him for years.

I don’t know anything about this man or his relation to the mannequin, except that he took great pains to make it look like him (while still being obviously female)  and that he was very intent on letting me know that he considered it his wife.  It reminded me a little bit of the Real Doll phenomenon, and also of Objectum Sexuals, both of which I find bizarrely fascinating.  Perhaps the mannequin is an amalgam of the two?

*Full disclosure:  I anthropomorphized the shit out of things when I was a very small child; I remember playing with lotion bottles and shoes and imagining them as people with families and genders.  But I was three.

**It’s interesting to me that one of the women in the objectum sexuals story said she always got a sense of an object’s gender.  I have mild synesthesia, both grapheme-color and number form, and I guess sensing the gender of an object doesn’t seem markedly different from knowing the color or personality of a number or a letter.

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