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Touch Football

Most men, I’ve noticed, watch football with a surge of testosterone. The thrill of a large screen TV with surround sound. The grunts and smack of metal during a tackle. The roar of the crowd and the pop of the umteenth beer being opened and guzzled down cold.

Me, I watch football with a surge of estrogen. Because it will forever be connected to the memory of attending my first live game and my first brush with sexuality…

My brother went to the University of Michigan (Go Blue!) and even lived his freshman year in South Quad where the younger football players were housed. I visited him then when I was only thirteen, and I can’t tell you the thrill it was to get in the elevator with a big bunch of those guys towering over me. They were giants. Male. Important.

With a father and a brother, of course I had seen my share of football games on TV, but they mostly consisted of me bringing my dad a big bowl of popcorn then watching as my dog pushed the bowl with his paw until my dad gave him some. So when Pete invited me to go to a game I was kind of sort of excited but also a bit ho hum about the whole thing. After all, wasn’t it going to be outside? Since it was November wouldn’t it mean that I’d be cold? Isn’t it true we were going to be on a bench i.e. without cushioning? My butt hurt at the very thought.

I remember filing into the stadium with Pete and his new fraternity brothers. I was wearing a maize and blue Michigan sweatshirt with a matching maize turtleneck that Pete had bought me. He even got me wool socks with little M’s on them. Too cute. As we traveled down the big tunnel I remember seeing the field off in the distance. I turned to Pete and said in my best bored thirteen-year-old voice, “It’s not that bi—.” I never finished because at that very moment the tunnel opened up to the whole that is Michigan stadium. My breath caught in my throat. It was HUGE. Holding something like 112,000 screaming fans. Exhilarating. My cheeks flushed. I felt utterly alive.

We went down and got to our seats which were in about the 20th row on the fifteen yard line. Michigan was playing Minnesota’s Golden Gophers (hello?! who takes the blame for that lousy moniker?) for The Brown Jug, a trophy that had been around for like a century. The game itself was kind of a washout, since Michigan so dominated the Gophers in every way. But there was something magical about the whole experience. My brother’s friends drank beer out of wineskins. People passed around thermoses of hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps. I took a few sips when my brother wasn’t looking. I remember the scald of the chocolate and the rush of the sugar. A small part of the band made their way around to our section and led us in singing the fight song. A red-headed cheerleader that could have been an older version of myself got tossed into the air screaming.

Around the end of the third quarter I began to hear my brother’s fraternity brothers whispering among themselves and guffawing. Pete kept turning around and telling them no. “What’s going on?” I said, but he wouldn’t answer. Then suddenly a tall cute senior with a maize and gold scarf was by my side. Ted. I noticed him before. He wanted me and actually everyone to notice him. A loud guy, the cut-up, the rogue, but also the one who correctly understoond that he was just cute enough to get away with it. “Hi Alexa. How you doing?”

“Good…”

“No,” said Pete.

“Your brother thinks you don’t want to go for a ride. But I don’t think that’s true. What do you say?”

I tried to look grown-up. “What kind of a ride exactly?”

“The best kind in the world. A flying ride.”

“She’s thirteen,” said Pete.

“I am not,” I said. “I’m thirteen and a half!”

Ted laughed and rumpled my hair. “Alright then. It’s settled. Hold on Alexa. One, two, three!”

And with that I suddenly found myself hoisted four feet in the air. Hands reached up on all sides of me. I screamed but it was too late. Inch by inch, row by row, I was being passed up through the crowd of Michigan Stadium. Hand after hand pushed and grabbed and supported my head, my neck, my back, my bottom, my thighs and my feet. Occassionally I would feel the sensation of falling, but someone would reach up and push me back up. Boys grazed my rib cage and the sides of my emerging chest. Girls held my hips and grabbed my inner thighs. I felt a rush of sensation like my body was taking in all of the crowd’s collective energy. And all the while the big wide scene of the Stadium spread out in front of me, getting smaller and bigger at the same time. The blood rushed to my ears. I heard myself laughing and screaming, “Pete Pete look at me! Ted! I’m flyyyyyyy-ing!”.

I just made out the back of the stadium and the sheer drop of several stories before I was abruptly brought down in the last row. A grown man smiled at me and offered me a sip of his beer. I smiled back but didn’t take it. I was still flushed by the touch of hundreds of unknown people, people delighting me with their caresses, their pushes, their laughter and their glee. I breathed in to steady myself, but the pulse of their touch still vibrated within me. I felt a twitchy sensation down below. So this is what it feels like to be a woman, I thought.

I stood up on the seat and looked back for Pete. Then I made my way back down.

Gettin’ Stiffed by the Stiffy

The Cunting Linguist says…

Here’s a conversation I had with a reader on my own site.

How do I get over the “5-minute” rule when it comes to doing it with someone for the first time?

Whatcha mean by the 5-minute rule?

5-minute rule: All the dates before “the” date have been foreplay. I’m turned on beyond belief, so when we get to “the” moment, I can only last for 5 minutes. I can “reload” and “reset” fairly quickly and go back to my usual 30 minutes or so of long-lasting action… But it’s always very fast that first time!

Well, have you done the jack-off-before-date routine when you know you’ll be getting some? Is a cock ring out of the question?

That’s just it!!! I never know if I’ll be getting some… So should I just, ahem, service myself regardless? Just in case? Always be prepared? What am I? A boyscout?

A cock ring? Somehow I think this doesn’t have to do with rooster fighting in downtown Guadalajara…

I sometimes wonder if guys are given the short end of the shaft thanks to the fact that they reach their sexual peak in their late teens, but chicks don’t reach theirs for a decade or more after their first sexual experiences.

Most younger women live under the delusion that there’s “something wrong” with them, so they do everything they can to try and maximize their sexual experiences. For instance, women almost always know about the wonders of Kegel exercises.

What are Kegels? They’re an exercise through which the pelvic floor is strengthened and empowered. What does that have to do with sex? Better orgasms, kids. You have better control over that region of your body, and thus can prolong your experience before orgasming.

The problem is, a lot of guys don’t realize they can — and should — do these exercises, too. Like one resource on the web says, if you’re a guy with an erect penis, and you can’t squeeze your pelvic muscles and cause your dick to jump substantially, then you need to do these exercises — more than you know.

Guys often snicker and laugh at the notion of some men “lasting for hours” in bed. The rockstar Sting is known for his passion for Tantric sex and his claims that he can have sex “all night long.” Why guys snicker and laugh at this is beyond me, but I suspect it’s largely insecurity along the “that’ll never be me” kind of lines.

No, not without work, it won’t be. If guys were to do Kegel exercises regularly, the odds are good that their newly healthy, strong penis could have a towel hung over it when erect and still be able to little lifts and lowering at will.

So, Reader, first of all, do your exercises. Every single day. Second of all, learn that your “regular 30 minutes” isn’t really much to write home about either, but it’s unfortunately become the almost-accepted norm for men.

You can do better, and when you do, you’ll wonder how you ever managed to be complacent with the sex life you once had.

I was speaking with a man I know and he told me how yoga was “the best thing” he ever did for his sex life. I asked him if it was because of the stronger abdomen helping his erection, and he said yeah, that, but also because it taught him how to breathe right, and that did wonders for him.

In his late 30s, the man’s experiencing the best sex he’s ever had, all because he’s lost his inhibitions and learned how to control his body like he’s never done before. Through yoga he has learned to focus on his abdomenal muscles and their role in his ability to withhold his orgasm for hours. The breathing techniques he has learned have allowed him — with his partner — to slow down his breathing and thus find greater control over his bodily sensations.

And if all this sounds like too much, then I suggest taking the easy way out and jacking off before your dates. Even if you don’t get laid, at least you’ll be relaxed and more willing to let the evening happen naturally, rather than being concerned about getting yours.

Finally, there’s always the option of a cock ring. There are important considerations when choosing a cock ring for yourself, particularly in regards to size. Too small and it could really cause you problems, and may get stuck on your cock. Not good. Too large and it’ll do nothing. The safest way to go is a strap-on cock ring, since you can adjust the tension in case you’re unsure how tight to go, and sensation is your best guiding force. You can even get cock rings that have a vibe attached to really give your partner her bang for your buck, too. But if you’re a man on a budget and you still want to have that upscale ride, then visit your local hardware store and buy a few little rubber seals/gaskets and see which works best for you, at a fraction of the cost.

But what does a cock ring do, you ask? It traps blood in your cock and makes your erection both larger and last longer. When you finally do come, it’s a more explosive orgasm, so to speak, since the blood has made the orgasm more difficult and lengthy to achieve, thus heightening your end experience.

The “first time” you do it with a chick will probably always leave a little to be desired compared to your regular endurance ability, but maybe it’s time to up the ante all the way around. A little extra dedication to your dick will help you become the man of your dreams — and hers.

Tattoo You

Would this qualify as a white wedding?

Here’s a cool service. Losing your marbles because you can’t remember the name of a song? Help is a call away.

Reporters on the Dutch television show Shoot Up and Swallow will take heroin and engage in sex acts in the name of investigating today’s youth culture. Even Fox News hasn’t gone this far—yet.

Oh no. I think I’m one of Ariel Levy’s Female Chauvinist Pigs. Should we punish me or applaud me?

Hmmm. I write about politics. Do you think The Economist will contact me for a free subscription too?

Talk Dirty to Me

“I come up in the elevator and walk into the lobby. I’m wearing a very proper pinstripe suit only it’s small and tight. You can see the outline of each of my breasts under the jacket and notice that I’m wearing a sheer silk blouse. You can just make out the lacy outline of my bra.”

“Yeah”

“You wonder if the bra is sheer too, if you were to lightly pull down the jacket if you’d see the dark of my nipple poking through.”

“It is.”

“That’s right it is. But you can’t do that can you, because we’re in the lobby. And your receptionist is watching.”

R loves it when I talk dirty to him while he touches me. I am a spinner of tales as soon as I feel my flesh slipping against his.

“She says, ‘Mr. Rosenbaum your temp is here.’ I smile demurely and stand, you think, to shake your hand. Instead I discretely pass you a hankerchief. You grasp it and realize…there’s a cock ring tucked inside.”

“Oh…naughty girl”

He begins touching himself.

“You say, nice to meet you miss. I’m sure you have excellent credentials.”

“And do you?”

“Of course I do,” I say as I slip my hand over his. We are now both rubbing him slowly up and down. I feel a bit of moisture gathering at the tip of his cock. I run my finger lightly over him and bring it to my lips before I continue. He moans and buries his face between my breasts.

“Then you say, ‘After you.’ I walk in front of you and it is then that you notice my fine-knit mauve fishnet stockings with the lines running up the back. You follow them up to my skirt and think you see a flash of my panties when I move. Only there are no panties, are there? And what you’re seeing is me. Me in crotchless fishnets slowly walking into your office.”

“Mmmmm crotchless” He slips a finger inside of me. Two. Then three.

“You pull out a chair for me and I sit down. Your arm gently grazes my breast as you turn and sit across from me at your massive oak desk. You open your mouth to tell me my assignment, that there is lots of work to be done today, but before you can I cross and uncross my legs.”

“Uhhhh”

“Slowly I lower myself to the ground and begin to crawl under your desk. ‘But the door is unlock—’ you start to say but it’s too late because I’ve already run one of my hands up your pant leg all the way to the top of your inner thigh. I unzip you slowly, painfully with my other hand. And then I take my hard cock—your hard cock—your cock is the one that’s hard—I mean you’re the one with the cock. I mean—”

R silently deflates underneath me.

Oops.

I Don’t Wanna Be Your Dog

The Cunting Linguist says…

I’m sorry, Iggy, but it’s true.

This one goes out to the porn school boys. Yeah. You know who you are. The guys who watch porn and think women actually want to fuck like that.

The majority of women don’t have “getting titty-fucked” at the top of their weekend to-do lists, all right? We don’t necessarily globally relish having our asses smacked while we’re being ridden doggy-style by some dude who thinks he’s one lap away from the Kentucky Derby. (Almost every woman likes to take one of those laps from time to time, though.)

The majority of chicks aren’t going to gush and coo like a girl on Christmas morning as you cum on their face. Most will be pissed that you’ve even attempted it, really, especially since there’s that very small matter of possibly contracting AIDS when the spunk hits an eye.

Face it, boys. Porn movies are movies that are made by men, for men. They are entertainment. They’re the sexual equivalent of the DC Comics’ League of Justice: highly improbable, hugely exaggerrated, and excessively stylized.

If you’re taking your sex tips from porn, you might just want to think twice before you invite Debbie over for a little diddling.

Fact is, porn’s for the uninteresting. Most North American porn is so laughably cliche, so utterly uninspired, that it’s a wonder Europeans ever sleep with any of us. Thank god they know better than to believe everything they see on television. Pity the same can’t be said of everyone on this big ol’ continent, though.

All right, you need allusions to really get the message? Let’s say that sex is like sanding wood. Sure, you can get all aggressive and just sand the shit out of it with 200-grain paper, but you know it’s going to look like crap until you slow it down and do nice, even mid-pressure circular strokes with a 50-grain.

It’s the same with sex. You might — might — be able to get the job done in a fevered frenzy of action, but you’re gonna miss out on so much of the good shit you only find when you really get into the detailing.

If you’re content to underperform, then porn away, boys. If you really want to get fucked, and you really want to know what an orgasm has the potential to feel like, then explore the full dimensions of sex.

The problem with the Porn Boys is they just don’t fucking understand that orgasms are like concert seats. Just because you’re at the concert doesn’t mean you’re getting the best show. In fact, sitting in the nosebleeds might get you into the gig, but with all that frenzied distortion and being so far away visually, you’re barely scratching the surface of the experience.

Upgrading and getting in close seems to sometimes slow it all down and make the experience bigger than life. The bass rocks you, the sweat slowly builds as the tension gets better and better throughout the headliner’s act before they finally blow their wad on the show-stopping encore that leaves them and the audience gasping for more.

Stop being content to just show up and get rocked. Put yourself in the show and really make it an event.

What have you really got to lose, besides your breath?

What the Dick-ens?!

You are getting wet, very very wet…

Journalist Pamela Paul argues in her book Pornified that sites like yours truly’s is transforming lives, relationships, and families.

Sick of playing with a regular old Barbie? Meet Fulla (Koran not included).

It looks like in the greater NYC area parking lots are the new gay bars.

Apparently a blow job on The Continent is not the same as a blow job across The Pond.

Me, Myself and I

I got home late last night to find a care package from Mom waiting for me. Yippee! Hot dog.

My family is big on care packages. That’s right—they aren’t just for summer camp anymore. My brother, who went to the University of Michigan for his undergrad degree is all about Zingerman’s and I could just kiss him everytime he sends me a choco-holic gift box. Once upon a time Mom lived in Philly and she likes to surprise me with my favorite creme fraiche pound cake at the Metropolitan Bakery. As for me, I’m a Zabar’s (Irish soda bread!) Columbus Avenue Bakery (blackout cookies!) kinda gal. Although sending a sour cream apple walnut pie from the Little Pie company is also a great choice. Or the Aztec chocolate collection from Vosges yum yum.

But I degress…

Anyway you could imagine my excitement as I prepared to open said package. It was 1:30 AM, the perfect time for a late nite nip. I didn’t recognize the name on the box. Maybe she had found a new fabulous bakery near her new digs in Virginia? My mouth watered at the very possibility.

The next thing I knew I was rammed up against the far wall of the living room clutching a knife. What the hell had just happened?! What was that…horrible…thing in that box?!

Slowly I crawled my way back to my s(care) package trying to protect myself against any sudden movements. When I got there I took a little itty bitty peek inside—

Dear God. It was even worse than I thought.

Mom had sent me…well me. Me in doll form. Me in scary doll form. Fabric me in a green furry onesie with a stuffed photograph of my baby head for the head. Demon baby head me. Ew! Ew! Ew! Where was my Bible? Where was my crucifix? What the hell was I supposed to do with such a ghoulish presence!

I just managed to shield my eyes and reach under the…body (gasp!) to grab the card:

God in heaven.

I tried putting—gulp—‘Little Alexa’ safe back in her box. I immediately felt claustraphobic. I tried putting her on a high shelf in the living room. It was like the Mona Lisa tracking me from every angle. I tried putting her on a back shelf in the closet but suddenly felt a primal fear when I closed the door. I ended up propping her against the toaster in the kitchen with a little dish towel as a blanket. I debated about leaving a glass of milk out next to her.

In the morning I called Mom and tried to gracefully convince her that Little Alexa would be oh-so-much-happier back in Virginia with her. “Oh Alexa,” Mom cooed, “Don’t you think I got one for myself too?”

Eeek! What do you think I should do? I can’t keep her here. Throw her away?! Donate her to Goodwill and hope against hope that some little kid doesn’t stick pins in her? Help!

The Tailor (Part II)

He was tall and slim, lanky you’d say, like he’d not yet fully grown into his frame. Dark soft eyes with wavy hair that fell over one of them. He smelled of cigarettes and looked, well, new. His smile was lopsided. Endearing.

“Stan no here,” he said shyly.

“Oh. When will he be back?”

“Yes. Stan no here.”

Clearly this conversation wasn’t going to get that far. Clearly this was one of Stan’s cousins from Croatia.

“What’s your name?” Nothing. Okay. “I, Alexa”

“Alexa”

“Yes. You?” I pointed to him.

“Oh. Yes. I Maro.”

He Maro. Me Jane. Was he even over eighteen? I had to expunge my evil thoughts.

“I tailor too.”

“Oh good. Maro. I’m going to pick up my dress that Stan fixed okay? Um… I pick up dress, yes?”

“Dress. Okay.”

We began to go through the clothes hanging on Stan’s rack. Ocassionally our hands would brush and I found myself shivering involuntarily. Finally we found it.

“I go try on, okay?”

Well, he sure seemed to know what that meant.

I went into the dressing room, pulled back the drape and stripped down to my baby blue lace thong. I stood there for a second, willing him to burst in and find me like that. I could hear his breath outside and imagined that he could see the curve of my breasts through the curtain. The air was electric, pregnant. When nothing happened after a minute, I began to put on the dress. Correction — tried to put on the dress. First, I stepped in and tried to pull it up over my hips. It wouldn’t go. Then, I tried to put it over my head, but couldn’t get it past my shoulders. Damn. Shoot. What was wrong?!

I poked my head out of the stall. “Um, Maro? I put on over my head or up from the floor?”

He stared at my naked shoulder. And stared. It was enticing, but after all this was The Dress. And something was wrong. Very very wrong.

Had Stan cut away fabric to make it fit again? Could it actually be — gulp — ruined? No way. wasn’t going to happen on my watch.

I went back into the stall and pulled the dress with all my might over my shoulders. Nobody was going to get between me and the perfect dress. Nobody. I pulled and swiveled until the bust line was perched mid-nipple. My breasts heaved like I was in some kind of over-heated Victorian romance novel. One more shove and I’d be home.

Unfortunately I was one shove too short. The dress simply wouldn’t budge a milimeter more. I tried to pull in the other direction but it was stuck that way too. Shoot!

“Alexa okay, yes?”

Okay? No okay! The perfect dress was now a perfect straight-jacket!

And then I remembered. Maro was a tailor…

I came out of the stall with my arm draped over my exposed breasts. “Too small,” I said. “Stuck. See?”

He stood there forever looking at me. Our eyes met. Slowly I dropped my arm. I could feel my chest moving up and down with my breaths. They were getting quicker and quicker.

“… I fix”

Slowly he moved to the sewing box and got out a razor. I drew in my breath. “Oh no! You’re not going to—”

“I no hurt”

He came over towering above me. His breath moved the hairs on my arm.

“Only here, yes?”

He lifted my arm up above my head and ran his fingers tentatively along the seam.

“How it called?”

“Seam,” I said.

“Yes, seam.”

Slowly he began to run the razor where his fingers had been before. As he worked his way down his hand grazed the top of my breast. He quickly withdrew his hand. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe and kept my eyes on him. After a moment he put his hand lightly back where it had been. I could feel him getting hard against my rib cage. He continued moving the razor down then moved his hand inside the dress to my nipple and rubbed it between his fingers. The fabric began to relax. He held it in place then moved across me to get to the other side, sweeping his chest over mine. I breathed him in, closed my eyes. The only sound was our breaths and the delicate rip rip of the razor. The dress dropped to the floor. Maro held the razor and stared. He began to walk towards me. Slowly he grasped the top of my thong and pulled up ever so slightly on it. I gasped. Then he took the razor to my panties and worked his way down. Rip Rip. I could feel myself being exposed, feel his breath as he kneeled down to work. The thong rolled down my thighs. I could feel the cool metal of the razor against my pubic hair. Then wet. Oh dear God. His young mouth against my lips. I grasped his shoulders and pulled myself into him. Dear God! Dear God — wait a second. Was he underage? Where the hell was his wallet?

“Maro. Do you… oh… I need… oh oh… driver’s licens —”

Oh God. Who even cared if he might be jailbate? He felt too good.

I climaxed hard and fell into him. He wrapped his arms around my legs and grabbed my backside. Before I could even exhale, we heard the outside door open.

“Maro!”

I ducked into the dressing room just as Stan burst through the door. Maro immediately began talking to him in Croatian, in what I could only guess was a story of distraction. All I caught was Maro saying he had to go to his other job bartending somewhere. Thank God he wasn’t underage! I got dressed as quickly as possible not knowing if my shirt was even on right side out and high-tailed it out of there.

A week later I willed myself to go back to Stan’s to pick up the dress. Who knew the walk of shame would involve going to the tailor? When I arrived, sweet Maro was nowhere to be seen, and Stan, as always, was at his machine. He greeted me as usual with a kiss on each cheek and told me he was sorry that the dress had been too small. He promised that this time it would fit perfectly.

And it did. And my repatched thong didn’t look too bad either.

And for the bargain basement consumer: DIY sex doll

A little bit snarky and a little bit silly: the Gag Report publishes pics of The King of Pop’s penis

Meet Jim West — upstanding Republican mayor of Spokane, WA and outspoken proponent of family values… who just happens to screw under-age men he meets in gay chatrooms. Really.

In the spirit of Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby,” Tara Vanflower brings us I Lost The Moon. Give it a listen.

The Tailor (Part I)

This is the tale of the perfect dress and the perfect way out of it…

Many of you will find this hard to believe, but I’m actually a yard sale/tag sale/stoop sale junkie. There is nothing better than rifling though someone else’s stuff early on a Saturday morning in the country when you’re out of town visiting friends. Who knew that the reason they call them squirrel-cage fans was because back in the Victorian age there were real squirrels running on a wheel to create a breeze? Who knew there was actually a board game from the 60’s called The Kennedy’s? Who knew you could find a cowboy lamp made out of an actual cowboy boot — and more importantly, who knew someone would buy it?

Well one day last year I was visiting some of my brother’s friends in New Paltz. Rob and Cate are so nice — they’ve offered their extra bedroom to me whenever I want a little break from all that is this fabulous city we call home. And their house is so cool, full of funky antiques, old quilts, architectural salvage and the like.

So Cate and I got up that Saturday and hit the pavement. The first two were nothing special — a lot of used kids toys and bad fashion from Kmart, but the third… We took one look and knew we’d hit pay dirt. Someone had an incredible eye for vintage fashion. There were fur stoles, garter belts, 70’s leopard pants. And then I saw it. The perfect dress.

It was an off-white sundress with a fine pattern of gold, olive and red. You could tell it was old because the colors were so different, so of another era. It was fitted in the bust and flowed out to just below the knee. Sweet but sexy, understated but bold. I just had to try it on.

And when I did, the world stopped. It fit me purrrrr-fectly. I looked at the mirror propped up against the white picket fence and suddenly a breeze picked up and blew the skirt up ever so slightly. Holy cow! I was Marilyn Monroe standing over the vent in that famous movie scene. Sure I had red hair and glasses and — okay why didn’t I at least put on a little cover up — but I was a goddess. I turned to the woman of the house and asked her how much she wanted for it. She in turn asked me how much I wanted to pay for it. Was this a trick question? “Um, ” I said. “$2?” “Okay” she said.

I handed over my two bucks just before I came.

Three days later I was walking down Elizabeth Street in Soho with my new va-va-voom dress and an even newer pair of Moschino floral slides (well, after all, I did get a bargain with the dress…) when I was stopped not once, not twice, not three times, not four times, but FIVE times by gorgeous fashinistas who had to know where I got it. Nothing makes you feel more powerful as a girl than a little fashion envy thrown in every now and then.

The dress proved to be a big hit with men too — though it never seemed to actually stay on very long in their presence. That became a problem during one unfortunate splooge accident. So now I had to wash it.

I know I should have taken it to the dry cleaner. I know it was vintage and therefore probably delicate. But I was in a hurry and a conveniently-located washing machine was after all just down the stairs. So I threw it in, dried it on the fluff cycle, put it on, and began to rush out the door. On the way out I gave myself a cursory look in the mirror.

Wait a second. Wait just one second. Why was my left breast suddenly three inches higher than the right? Why did the back of the dress suddenly have a plunging line down to the very top of my thong?! Oh no! Oh no! Oh nooooo!

“Waaaaaaaa!”

“Okay Alexa it is okay.”

That was Stan my tailor trying to console me.

“Favorite-waaa-waaa-$2-New Paltz-waaa-Soho-Moschino-hurry-waaaaaa!!!!!!”

“It is only the elastic. You see? We fix! We fix and it is good as new, yes? Alexa I promise. Let me see this beautiful smile of yours, yes? Come on. Come now for Stan.”

I managed to stop blubbering for a full minute. “Really”, I said between sniffs. “You can fix it really? You’re not making it up?”

“For fifteen thousand, yes.”

Fifteen thousand in Stan parlance meant $15. He’d been making the same joke for five years. I giggled despite myself.

“Very good. Okay. No more of this crying while I pin it.”

One week later with a skip in my step I went to retrieve the perfect — now hopefully perfectly resuscitated — dress. I entered Stan’s studio, but it seemed to be empty. Hmmm. That was weird. I’d often imagined that Stan was always at work since he could pretty reliably be found in the exact position I left him in the visit before. “Stan? Stan? It’s Alexa. Are you there?”

It was then that I first laid my eyes on Maro…

Photographer and stripper Charise Isis puts a positive spin on her stripper coworkers

Who says equal access only means good parking places? Looks like the Danish government has come up with a plan to provide prostitutes for the disabled

Everyone and their mother is running this story: a recent sex survey says more and more American women are experimenting with bisexuality. Duh.

Just what every jet-setting girl needs in her carry-on — a portable bidet.

This Ain’t Your Mama’s Yoga

Okay… can anyone actually do this?

Moon Dance

Brandi Chastain, eat your heart out.

Katrina, Who’s Your Daddy?

I can’t even resort to my standard Bush-bashing. It feels too too small for the great tragedy that has befallen such a lovely, lovely city. New Orleans our hearts and minds and wallets are with you…

With all the heart-wrenching news in the papers and on TV all of us yearn for a sliver of hope. Who knew that a little article about Big Daddy’s Strip Club could offer it?

Big Daddy’s owner Saint Johns is determined to keep his place open, even though the big attraction at his club is giving the girl of one’s choice a shower. Hard to do when the National Guard is telling you there won’t be running water in that part of New Orleans for three months. But Big Daddy is undaunted. After all the very troops who are out there rescuing people and collecting bodies keep asking him when the strippers are going to be back.

I remember when 9/11 happened I was working at the fashion rag under the painful watch of Cruella. In the November issue of that year our editor wrote a “heartfelt” article about the meaning of fashion in the midst of tragedy. She suggested that clothing was a celebration of life. Gee I thought. That’s opportunistic. Sure let’s sell a few more ads in the name of national mourning.

But you know what? She was right in a way. Clothing is a celebration of life. Because frankly the dead don’t wear Prada. We put on our favorite pair of worn jeans and a T-shirt or a go-for-broke evening dress from Zac Posen because we have a body and we strip them all off in a celebration of the same. Of course the troops want strippers. Of course they want to party and get drunk and have a lap dance or two and shower a pretty girl. It is the opposite of gathering all that is empty in the remains of the dead.

Big Daddy my panties are off to you. May your club pulse with life and the hope that the New Orleans we all know and love will come back ‘round to meet you.

For all those who ever wanted to fuck with a George W. Bush doll, this site’s for you. And by George make sure you listen to the audio. It’s the clincher.

It swells! It cums! It … sings?

I thought 40-year-old virgins were some kind of urban myth — like alligators in the sewers or something. Not so! Listen to NPR interviews of the real-life versions of Steve Carrell’s movie character.

‘Cum’ too common for you? Use one of these twelve substitutes.

Sick

Good-time girl my sweet little ass. This is a good-bye girl. Ick. Someone actually wanted to sleep with her?!

Hi Guys,

I’m Alexa’s pervy friend who’s been posting galleries for her blog. Apparently, many boys asked to see shots of Alexa’s boobs. Since she’s a bit shy, I’ll be posting boobs and pics of other girls instead. On the regular. Alexa’s one super sexy cool chick! So without further ado.

Boy you can’t get too far on the web without finding something sexy from Japan. Check out these sexodisiac candies (what a great new word, huh?!)

Does Pat Robertson ever shut up? Now he’s blaming Katrina on the fact that Ellen DeGeneres is hosting the Emmys. Dear God in heaven.

Hey guys! You too can train yourself to be multi-orgasmic. Yum. Seconds anyone?

Pretty interesting stuff here on how artists are responding to the Patriot Act. Anyone want to put together a composite of W in the straight jacket? I’ll post if you merge!

Lamb bam thank you ma’am

Hmmmm. I guess this is for all the baaaaa-d farmboys lonely in the big city…

Do-nut Ask. Do-nut Tell.

Today I set my sights on finding a donut. No not that kind of donut. (Although now that we’re on the subject, any of you have a good recommendation for donuts in the city? I suddenly have a hankering. I can tell you there’s a booth at the Sunday 77th St. flea market on Columbus that has THE BEST cider doughnuts in the fall — powdered sugar and all. But since it’s not Sunday — anyone, anyone, anyone? And don’t say Krispy Kreme. I’m looking for the good stuff)

By donut, I’m referring to a donut pillow which looks like exactly what it sounds like — imagine a big oversized lifesaver to plant your butt on. Apparently this is what they recommend for women who have just given birth. Or have taken a ride on a souped-up juicer. Ow. Don’t make me laugh.

The question was, though, where exactly does one go to find a donut pillow? Barneys doesn’t have one (okay that was a stretch, but the new fall collections are out!), Laytner’s Linens didn’t have them. I passed a surgical supply store, but somehow the thought of buying something among the wheelchairs, catheters, and IVs seemed even more pathetic than I felt. And then, at W 71st Street I stopped. There was a sign for, I kid you not, The Upper Breast Side.

Now here we are in New York, one of the world’s most book smart cities. Don’t you think there should be some kind of literary police protecting us against bad puns like these? I mean really, that’s just awful! But, I was kind of intrigued. So I entered.

Turns out The UBS is a store for pregnant and post-partum women to get all their boob supplies. Breast pumps and nipple ointment and Bust Buddies?! Oh my! But it was the plain ole’ nursing bras that really stopped me cold. They were BIG. Really really big. Just out of curiosity I asked. Their sizes go up to — gulp — 42K! And we are talking about pregnancy-induced natural knockers here! Saline free.

Does that turn any of you on? Milk-engorged real breast flesh? Does it make you want to line up and squeeze for a glassful?

Me, I left in a cold sweat. I like my perky B cups just fine thank you. 42K! That’s a couple of months on the job not a bra size.

And as for the donut pillow… Well, it looks like one of my bed pillows is going under the knife…

Out for the Week

It’s that time for my monthly vacation again. Extra bonus: I’m going to Virginia to help Mom move and settle into her new home. So I won’t be able to post anything until I get back…

Tall and tawdry tales: A Russian writer claims the original version of Gulliver’s Travels … was a porn novel. English class just got a whole lot more fun.

An even taller tale: Repent America believes Katrina was sent to destroy the second Sodom and Gomorrah.

For twenty years photographer Barbara Nitke has been taking pictures of extreme sex. Read up on her experience of being on a porn set in 1983.

Is everything cutesy in Japan? Check out these adorable … condom packages.

The Young Woman’s Guide to Getting Over Herself

Hi, I’m Steff, and I’ll be your cruise director tonight.

I’m a Canadian girl, born & raised in Vancouver, and I run a site called “The Cunting Linguist”. One of Alexa’s friends said that being featured on NY Hotties was like being the featured slut in a bukkake-fest because so many people came. So after you shoot your tender lovin’ comments all over this post here, cum over to my site, fill me up and spray me down with even more hot comments. I’m a comment whore!

My specialty is sex advice, which is why I’m hijacking Alexa’s hot little site here per her request. She recently received an email from a young reader that went a little something like this…

Alexa decided she’d ask me to weigh in on the topic, so I’ve put my little thinking cap on. Being brought up in a pretty repressed household with Catholic morality running rampant means that I have tremendous sympathy for this young woman, ‘cos god knows I had some overcoming to do before coming came ‘round for me.

First off, honey, you ain’t alone. One in five young sexually-active women has never had an orgasm, and I suspect that isn’t even high enough.

You need to realize that it doesn’t make you a freak, there’s nothing wrong with you, and it’s something you can overcome, if you’re willing to get past your inhibitions and try different approaches to resolving your issue. You’re already ahead of the game by admitting this and by wanting more information, because info’s most of what’s going to help you get past this.

First question is, do you masturbate yourself to orgasm?

That split moment before a woman experiences orgasm is often an uncomfortable, almost painful experience, but that’s what makes it all so heavenly when it’s finally broached. You need to let yourself go.

Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done — especially if you never masturbate!

Just so you know, when I first began masturbating in my mid-teens — which is exaggerating the truth since I never got comfortable with touching myself till I was around your present age and had already had sex — I was under the delusion, everytime I approached orgasm, that I had to pee. I can’t TELL you how much toilet paper I went through those first days of dry-humping pillows while lusting after George Michael posters on my wall. I kept running down the hall and trying to pee every time I felt myself getting excited, and then I’d get pissed off, thinking “I haven’t drank anything in two hours! What the hell?”

Know what? That’s how it’s supposed to feel. As for getting a UTI, no. Not the case. After you’ve had sex, go pee and clean up, and that’ll do a lot towards preventing a UTI. The threat isn’t as great as you perceive it to be, not even close, or why would chicks want to have sex as much as some of us do?

Now, for privacy reasons, I don’t have your email address as Alexa has kept that to herself, and rightly so. But as a result, I can’t ask you some of the important questions:

As I already asked, do you masturbate to orgasm? Do you really care about and trust him? Are you scared of the experience or do you have any apprehensions? Are you beating yourself up about your supposed inability to come? Have you ever been assaulted? Were you taught that sex was bad, that to enjoy it made you a whore? Were you raised is a religious household? Are you insecure about your body? Have you ever taken the time to read up on sex yourself? Do you like to touch yourself?

These are far-reaching questions and may even strike you as a little too psychologically-bent to apply to the very “simple” process of getting off when you’re getting hot.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Our mindsets are incredibly linked to our ability to orgasm. Particularly as females, we’re so bogged down with societal demands on our morality, with our parental teachings and social stigmas, that we have a lot of baggage we have to overcome before we can bloody well come, that’s more true than it has been in awhile, in this frickin’ uptight Religious Right-dominated political landscape we presently find ourselves under. Shame is the order of the day, and it’s on special two-for-one with a hefty side of guilt. You need to get past all that crap, too, and it’s hard.

Education is the best way to go about it, though, and it’s easier than it’s ever been, thanks to the internet. Honestly, the more you read about sexual dysfunction, the more you’ll learn just how common it really is. For example, I just did a very helpful websearch on Google using the following keywords: orgasm difficulties “young women” about resolutions. Read some of the results and that’ll give you a great headstart.

But you asked for help, so I would suggest a few ways to approach this problem of yours.

First, cut yourself slack, baby. Like I said, you’re in quite a number, what, with one out of five women claiming this problem, too, but that number’s probably higher in reality, considering the shame that surrounds admitting things like this. Hell, I can even tell you about women I’ve talked to who’ve never come alive sexually until they’re in their 40s.

Second, you’re on a completely different page from guys in your age category. They’re at their sexual peak right now — meaning they’re horny as hell and easy to please — and you, honey, you’ve got 10-15 years before you even reach that neck of the woods, which is the standard for all women. And you may think he’s a pro, but he’s probably a very clumsy lover and has as much to learn as you, since the female organs are far more complex than the male organ. By the time you hit your peak, around 30ish, with your being open about this already and wanting to learn more, I guarantee you’re gonna be a sexual goddess. Right now, for you, it’s all about discovering yourself, and that brings me to the next point.

Third, stop thinking that sex has to be all about the orgasm. It is, but it’s also not. Especially not at 18. It’s about learning all about a lover’s body and letting them learn about yours. Great sexual relationships start off slow and build as each partner learns more and more about what to do and what not to do. It’s not a race. For now, stop pursuing orgasms in the traditional sense of the word. This brings me to number four, a homework assignment.

Fourth, download the Divinyls’ masturbation classic, “When I Think About You, I Touch Myself,” and lighten up, considering how much of orgasms come from thought — which is FAR MORE TRUE FOR WOMEN than for men, and moreso today than ever, in this confused redrawing of the gender-lines that’s bringing us into a whole new ball of sexual confusion.

In case you’ve never really explored masturbation, let me give you a few tips. Vibrators are great, but for most women will not result in orgasm, and definitely not at your age — unless you’re using it on your clit. But fingers will do just fine, and are better for you at your age, since it’s about overcoming hesitancy. The happy-button is your clit, and you should be giving yourself a little cliteral massage. Trim your nails nice and short, and introduce yourself to your clit. The clit’s where it all happens, since maybe 10% of women can cum through just intercourse alone.

Massage your clit slowly and gently until you start to get thoroughly aroused, and try to bring yourself to orgasm. Don’t be ashamed of touching yourself or masturbating. Don’t balk when it starts to feel intense — that’s normal. It’s all normal. Hell, masturbating is a part of a nice Sunday in for me. Women who are truly comfortable with themselves sexually always get to know their vagina first-hand. At the same time, squeeze your tits, play with your nipples — this doesn’t make you weird, it makes you comfortable with your inner sex goddess — and believe me, she’s in there.

Make love to yourself. Because if you can’t do this, how can anyone else do it for you? Like Oscar Wilde once said, “To love yourself is the beginning of a life-long romance.” At 18, you’ve got a long road of romance ahead of you. Enjoy the ride.

Fifth, talk to your doctor and tell him/her what’s wrong. Maybe visit a free clinic and pose these questions and have an exam to make sure everything’s working fine or you don’t have any unusual developments. If you’re uncomfortable talking about it, write it out like you did for Alexa, seal it in an envelope, and give it to the doctor’s receptionist a day in advance of your appointment, and explain to the receptionist that you’re too shy to ask the enclosed question, and that you want your medical professional to read it well in advance of when they enter the exam room, so your pride can be spared.

The doc’ll appreciate it too, since their time is money and they’ll be happy you cut through the bullshit and brought up the real issue before the appointment. You should request that they gather helpful resources for you, which is doable if you give them leadtime before the appointment. (Important: Include the appointment time within the letter so the doc knows how much time they have to prepare for you. They’re as scattered as anyone, so don’t be intimidated about simplifying things for them.)

Sixth, tell your man it ain’t him. Tell him you’re working on the issues, that you need him to give you time and space. Learn how to deliver a great blow job. I’ve got a very helpful guide on both BJs and cunnilingus on my website. Read my “Good Girl’s Guide to Giving Great Head.” Explore. Bring him pleasure so he knows you’re breaking boundaries for yourself, but it’s all for him. Let him know that you’re learning to love yourself in every sense of the word. And let him know, that when you’re ready to, you will masturbate in front of him so he can see how you’ve learned to make yourself cum, and he can start things slowly by doing what you’re comfortable with. This is SO helpful for young couples. Have him masturbate himself as he watches you, and you should take notes on that, too. It’s a very arousing experience to share and teaches you both how each other likes to be touched.

Again, if words are difficult to say, then writing is the way to go.

Realize this: By coming to the brink so many times with orgasm, and stopping the process, your body’s dying to let go. The first few orgasms may be difficult to endure, but let it happen. You’ll be so happy and pleasantly spent afterwards that you’ll feel like a new woman in so many ways.

Finally, a last word about the society we live in and how screwed up it can make young women like you feel. As females, we’re taught that if we really enjoy sex and know what we’re doing, we’re whores. We’re taught that “good girls” get married and find nice men and never worry about orgasms, and the “sexual girls” only bond with Energizer batteries, not decent men.

And it’s bullshit. Own your sexuality, baby, because a life of pleasure and strength and power awaits you if you can please your man while loving yourself. There’s no shame in it. Men respect it and appreciate it — and you will, too.

This might well be a new start for you. But it might take a while. Most young women aren’t comfortable masturbating until their 20s, so bear that in mind, since it speaks volumes.

Good luck on your journey to sexual awakening. And enjoy the ride. It’s a long, but fun one.

Visit my site for more guides to great sex.

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about me

So why am I writing this blog? I have an inner exhibitionist that just needs to be let out. I've always wanted to bare myself completely in front of strangers but have always been held back by fear.

As strange as it may sound, I've never really truly bared myself in front of any of my clients. For all that they've seen, they've never seen me be me. And for all that I've seen, I simply need to share it with you!

So why should you come? To be tantalized and teased. To get release by knowing the true me.

I promise that I won't bite, and if I do bite, I'll make sure you like it!

my favorite posts

• Caveat Vendor - Part II
• Selling Out (Part III)
• Poops!... I Did It Again!
• My First Escorting Experience
• My First Lesbian Experience
• Daddy's Little Girl (Part II)
• Selling Out (Part III)
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