Okay, today I'm going to mix it up a bit and talk about abortion. Firstly I'm going to talk about an idea so bizarre I had to read it twice to see that I hadn't got my wires crossed. In Texas, (where else?) they want to introduce a law that will offer you $500 not to have an abortion.
Now I don't know about you, but if I'd made an educated decision to have an abortion and someone offered me $500 not to have one, I'd certainly change my mind in a heartbeat and take the money, thinking of all the lovely shoes I could buy....if I was, er, unhinged? I suppose some religious nutters, Bush etc, think people who were going to have abortions would be so easily swayed. Makes my blood boil.
And on the other side of the coin, what about this heart warming tale? Now, I don't mean to be judgmental, but okay I'm going to be. But what's the story with this woman, who is suing Planned Parenthood over a failed abortion which resulted in her daughter being born (the woman is now bringing the child up)?
Now, I don't mean to be rude, but isn't that kid going to be severely fucked up knowing its mother wanted it aborted and is reluctantly bringing it up? I mean, shouldn't she have had the kid adopted?
And Hallmark, if you're reading this, there's a market for a new kind of card with the slogan:
'You may have tried to abort me and sued to have someone else pay to feed me, but I'll always love you mom.'
That's Baltimore for you. Last week snow, this week eighty degrees. Hey, I'm not complaining! But, here's the thing, do any of you still get that kind of nauseated feeling when spring comes around, or rather what I mean is, when May/June comes around (exam season in the UK)? Since the weather now here in Baltimore is about how hot it would be in May in England, I just got that weird panicky feeling, like a Pavlov dog response to exams, even though I did my last exam donkey's years ago.
Question, why do they have exams in the summer? Why do they lock you in an airless gymnasium that stinks of feet and boil you alive while you try and stay awake trying to answer a question about:
'Craig is pimping three girls. If the price is £30 for each trick, how many tricks will each girl have to turn to support Craig's £600 per day crack habit?'
Ah, if only the questions had ever been so relevant to the real world. It was much more likely to be:
'Give an equation of benzoic acid with ethanol, acetic acid with ethanol and salicyclic acid with ethanol.'
Actually, I never got that question, because I was chucked out of the chemistry 'O' level class after the first term. The teacher, Mr Brown, told us that he used to work in a bread factory and studied after hours to achieve his dream, to teach chemistry to horny schoolgirls in short skirts...no, not even, just to be a chemistry teacher. And he was so proud to have dragged himself up by the boot straps. But in any case, he gave me a D on my report card (after an incident involving some exploding test tubes and setting fire to the gas taps), declaring, as if the very idea were outrageous, 'Emma has absolutely no interest in chemistry.' So to this day I do not know my chemical symbols and my life has been a barren desert of misery because of it. Not.
Because I went to a posh girls' school, they made us do mock exams every year, so that we would not panic when the incredible stress (said in a sarcastic voice), of doing 'O' levels landed on us when we were sixteen. (Yes, I am that old. Yes, mine was the last year to do 'O' levels, the nerds among you can figure out how old I am from that).
And I won't have anyone say that exams teach you nothing about life. They teach you that if you really want to get somewhere you should study hard and apply yourself and then the world is your oyster. Actually what they really teach you is, cram like a lunatic on the morning of the exam, or write the answers on your leg (an advantage of being a school girl and wearing a skirt), or failing that, sit behind the swot of the class and copy her answers.
There was nothing too stressful about exams at school, or at university actually. But once we got to university and we were first years and we saw all these third years studying for their finals, well, it seemed like a really big deal. It felt like the world would end if you didn't pass your finals. And you did hear the occasional story about people who got so stressed out that they topped themselves. There was a guy who, apparently, wrapped himself in copper wire and plugged himself in (a chemist, possibly?)
But even at the time I thought, I don't think the idea of failing your exams is worth committing suicide over. Still, years after university, around May/June I still sometimes have those nightmares where I am naked, in an exam room and looking at the English exam questions and realizing I have crammed for Spanish and don't know a thing, and start crying.
I did something really really bad during finals actually. I got drunk after one exam and slept with a friend's boyfriend (by the way, she wasn't a close friend), and he spent the night in my room. We woke up and thought, "Oh shit." We had to show up to the exam together in about ten minutes. So I swaggered into the exam room (where his girlfriend was also taking the exam), and then he comes in a few minutes later, all casual like and looking like he'd got drunk and shagged someone ... and of course, ten minutes into the exam, the girlfriend puts one and one together and makes two and starts sobbing and has to be taken out of the exam room. I don't know why, but I didn't feel guilty about that at the time...no seriously. After all, I reckoned, I was the unattached one in all this. I'd been quite drunk and hadn't forced him into anything. But I think they both did quite badly in their exams after that. Do you think I'm a dog? I suppose it was a bad thing to do...or rather the fact that we were caught out. I've not done anything like it since, no seriously. I have never slept with anyone's boyfriend. I know you don't believe me, but, I swear....
Ah exams, there's a certain sweet nostalgia to thinking about doing them. In fact, honestly, I kind of miss doing them. Is this a sign that I should go back to college and study something? What do you think I should study, since I am still looking for my vocation? I thought maybe my vocation was to entertain/make people laugh, and maybe that's all it will ever be, but what kind of a career do you think I should do that doesn't involve contact with people or working in an office? Actually, I've started doing charity work, no, for real. There's this thing called Radio for the Blind or summat, closed circuit radio where they need people to read stuff out of magazines for them, and it gets recorded and the blind listen to it. I'm seriously going to be doing this. No contact with people see, but giving back to the community. A win/win situation?
I've gone off track again, but what I also wanted to ask was, what's the stupidest thing you ever did during exams?
Well, here I am again, trying to assist those of you in mental turmoil. So here we go. I wasn't sure what to make of this letter at first. I'm still not sure if this is for real, but if it is, I will do my best to answer it.
I wonder if you can help me? You seem like you are pretty broadminded and would understand where I am coming from. I have weird sexual fantasies about girls that are half girl half wolf. Yeah, I have heard about the furry culture, but the idea of being attracted to a girl in a fur suit repulses me. I feel more like I am a monster, like a werewolf or something of that nature, and that is an idea I find intriguing. I can't help but feel the instinct to kill and feed on the flesh of others is completely normal.
I often find myself wishing I were some sort of predatory animal stalking its prey on a dark night, but when I search for the community that seems to fit this personality, I can never find it. I don't want to be all cutesy and dress in those big furry suits and hug other fake animals. Real animals don't act in this kind of a retarded fashion, now do they? Maybe I missed something. Do you think there could be any like minded people out there who understand the way I feel?
Dear Wolf Boy
For those of you reading this who don't know what a furry is, it is a person who is happiest when zipped into the sweltering interior of a giant mascot animal suit. When I first heard of the furry craze, I thought, "Only in America," where people are spoon fed Disney films from cradle to grave. But how wrong I was. As I researched this unique group, I learnt that the UK has the highest population of furries in Europe. England also boasts the highest percentage of student furs, although I don't remember there being any student furs at my university, alas!
Now I know what you are all thinking, how do people have sex in these giant suits? But if you think this is mainly about furry sex, you are wrong my friend, very wrong. People who become furries are simply people who are nuts about talking animals, like Yogi Bear or Planet of the Apes. Just about every major science fiction convention includes a furry party, where people trade sketches of furry characters, and talk about their fan interests. But, apparently, the vast majority of furs have no interest in fursuit sex or having sex with stuffed animals. Just thought I'd clear that up before we go on.
How far furrys go in transforming themselves into their favorite animal is up to them. Some furrys wear full body fur suits, some wear collars. Furry lifestyling is about behaviour and artwork, not fashion, so it is only a subset of furs choose to decorate themselves in this way.
As far as I can ascertain, hugging and grooming in big piles of snuggly furries is a common practice among this group, which actually sounds quite cute.
Furry lifestyler get togethers in chat rooms are for many a place to express themselves in as silly a way as possible. Furry society is not based on how 'mature' you are but on how accepting, fun, silly or social you are.
There is also, apparently, furry porn, which I have not been able to bring myself to look at, despite the fact that I do indeed consider myself to be quite a broadminded person. Okay, I did take a peek, and these were the nicest examples I could find, and they are actually quite amusing:
Now, as to your problem, Wolf Boy, you are right in thinking that you are not a furry. There is a feral aspect to you which would not find the correct expression at furry conventions, where people dance about all night in furry suits (I wonder if anyone's ever asphixiated in there?) before having a group hug and 'skritching' (grooming) each other.
Fantasies express a part of our personalities which we can't express in normal society, and I reckon you should just write stories or draw pictures of your fantasies to get them out of your system. Why? Because acting them out would be disaster. I would not suggest that you should give into your impulse to become a predatory animal and try to hunt rabbits or mice, nor should you try sleeping in the wild and becoming feral. For one thing, you probably won't be wanted at work the next day, due to the fact that bits of mouse are hanging out of your mouth, coupled with the fact that you will smell really bad.
So, my advice, Wolf Boy, is to keep it all in your head. And, if you get desperate, try persuading your girlfriend to wear a wolf mask in bed.
Or, failing that, you could always become a pretentious video director and tie monkeys to crosses and stuff like that, as someone has done in this Nine Inch Nails' video, which has a line in it that I'm sure you'll be able to relate to: "I want to fuck you like an animal."
Good luck, Emma
And for the rest of you out there, send me your problems at emma.theespot at gmail.com and I will sort you out.
It's a bit of a mystery why so many women - myself included - project romantic fantasies onto men, and then complain when reality bites them in the butt. Case in point, my friend Sabine, who, at thirty-four, is probably old enough to know better. Just a few weeks ago she was gushing about Klaus, her forty-two year old boyfriend, how, "We are so in love, and you know how badly I want a baby... well, Klaus has had a vasectomy (he has three kids back in Germany), but ....guess what! He has two litres of frozen sperm in Germany, and says he definitely wants to have a baby with me. So all we'll have to do is fly to Germany, defrost some sperm, and voila, I will be knocked up. Doesn't he sound wonderful? Plus he has so much money..."
Well, I did feel a little dubious about that sperm story, but kept my mouth shut for once. And then, yesterday, she phones to say that the bubble has burst with Klaus. They haven't exactly split up yet, because he is currently away on business in Hong Kong, but they did have a phone conversation along the lines of:
Sabine: "I was thinking about your frozen sperm the other day. Maybe we could go defrost some when you get back?"
Klaus, laughing hysterically: "You didn't actually believe that I had some frozen sperm, did you?"
Sabine: "Of course I did. I've told everyone about it."
Klaus: "Oh Sabine! I thought you knew that was just a joke."
I suppose you're wondering why she didn't dump him for leading her on and indulging her baby fantasies? Well, that's the million dollar question, or rather, the thirty thousand dollar question. Well, you see, when he first moved to Baltimore a year ago, for some reason he didn't have a work visa and couldn't get a driver's license, so bought this fabulous Jeep in her name (paying for the whole thing outright), and whenever he is out of town, she drives it about and drives us about to clubs etc. (So thanks for that Klaus, it's a very nice car and gets us about in style). Right now he is in Hong Kong and she has the car and I don't think she wants to give it up, because her car is bust.
Which brings me to my point. Why did Klaus lie to her? Men, eh, all they want is sex. Okay, but why couldn't he have been honest and said, "I see you as a convenient screw until something better comes along," instead of indulging her baby fantasies with some half baked lie about frozen sperm?
Should one just assume that everything men say is bullshit? I just thank God I'm no longer on the dating scene.
Still, maybe Sabine will have the last laugh. Not that the frozen sperm lie is worth thirty thousand dollars worth of revenge, but if I were Sabine, maybe I'd just drive off with that car as a little parting gift.
Women, eh, all they want is a man's money, and, of course, his biological material.
Well, there's a bunch of these videos up on youtube about what makes people get out of bed every day.
Hey, I bitch and I moan and I whine because my little daughter (3) Sausage often comes in at six and yanks open my eyes and says, "Mummy, it's morning time!"
And I try to stop saying "FFFFFFUUUUUUCKKKK," and instead I say, "Yeah, isn't that great?"
And sometimes I get her into bed with me and we manage to nap for a quarter of an hour and sometimes I force myself to get up. But I can honestly say that she and her sister Scarlett are what get me up in the morning, and more than that, they are my reason for living. And although I always complain about them, I always do, I sometimes think, what would my life be without those kids? Without their smiles? Without their pictures that they draw for me and bring home from school:
Well, the answer is, life would be quieter, less chaotic, sure, but it would also be emptier.
Hey, I might act like a hard bitch, but underneath it all I'm soft like a marshmallow. And I might not always show it, but you kids are my first, my last, my everything, my past, my future, the greatest things that ever happened to me and the things I love the best.
A radio broadcast in which Rachael and I ponder the deep questions of life, like if men reach their sexual peak before eighteen, while women reach their prime in their mid/late thirties (us), then what's a girl to do?
In the show I say something along the lines of:
"If we really are meant to just sleep with college boys, well, I think that's kind of depressing. Also, in some states it's also illegal - I believe they call it statutory rape."
Rachael: "Is that why you moved to Baltimore? Because you got in trouble elsewhere seducing college boys?"
Me: "Actually, they were more like school boys (gives an evil grin)."
To learn more about my sordid past and Rachael's Mormon youth, press the arrow below:
And for our next show (airing in two weeks), we'd love to talk to some of you men. Thanks for climaxing early Lambent (who tried to call from Hong Kong while he was drunk, a day early, and wasted quite a lot of money doing that). And thanks also to Moobs, I know you tried and we appreciate that, but didn't get through due to technical difficulties.
Also, thanks to everyone who tuned in and do tell us what topic you'd like us to discuss next time.
And finally, for anyone who needs their sexual and relationship questions answered, I do a column called The E-Spot every Friday, so if you have a question, send it to emma.theespot at gmail.com (stating if you wish to remain anonymous), and I promise to sort you out.
Listen in to our radio show tomorrow (Saturday 17th) at 1pm Pacific Time (4pm Eastern Standard), as Rachael and I debunk myths surrounding Sexual Prime: Myth or Reality?
For example, it is a common 'fact' that women hit their sexual prime at thirty......or do they? Or do they hit their groove at 35? or 40? And what about men? Do you feel you are enjoying sex more now, or was it better when you were a young un?
Call in by dialing
Listen in (once show is underway) by pressing this button:
or by going here:
ALSO - PLEASE DO ME A FAVOR AND BUY THIS BOOK FOR CHARITY
Yes, one of my posts is included in a book called 'Shaggy Blog Stories' published by British Bloggers to raise funds for the BBC's Comic Relief appeal today.
Mike Atkinston, who edited this book, said: "This is a showcase of British Blogging at its finest. Most of the entries, and indeed many of the submissions which didn't make it to press, have made me laugh out loud. Sometimes, I have been in stitches. Yes, that might have been simple hysteria. But never has hysteria felt so sweet."
So what are you waiting for? Buy it! And laugh your socks off for a good cause.
Today is a sad day, a very sad day. Today I had to finally admit to myself that yes, I do actually live in the United States of America. My six year old, Scarlett, came home and proudly rattled off: "I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
"No you don't pledge allegiance," I wanted to sob. Not that I have anything particularly against the USA, but I certainly never had a dream to live here. Thing is, I got here and then it was, oh we'll stay one year, and then it was, oh well, we'll stay another. And now we are getting the green card.
Before I get acid bombs in the mail, may I just say I don't just dislike the USA. I have whinged about England in the past, also about Austria, which is kind of my second home. Okay, London is not England, but a lot of people in London are just cold, unfriendly, stuck up, pretentious. Not all of them of course, not even most of them, but a lot of them. And you really do feel the pressure to follow fashion, which is a bit of a pain after you turn thirty. I do miss London though, because it is very cultural, the people have a fantastic sense of humor, the night life is ace and I love the pubs and and pub gardens and Sunday roasts in pubs and DID I MENTION ENGLISH PUBS and ENGLISH BEER?
But as for being tolerant of foreigners, I wouldn't say the British are, particularly. I was always called the Kraut at school, well I suppose that isn't too offensive. But if I said my mum was Austrian most people would say, "Oh, is your grand dad Hitler?" Funny the first two hundred times, not thereafter.
But anyroad, here I am in the good old USA, and while I can just say, "Oh I'm living here at the moment," the kids certainly do not think they are living here at the moment, they think, indeed they are, American citizens. God help me, Scarlett loves America and is proud to be an American.
Okay, the thing is this. I've been here for nearly seven years and I still don't understand Americans. I don't understand how they can say it is the greatest country in the world when less than ten per cent of them have passports and have never been to Europe or anywhere (did you know that in Europe you usually start wtih six weeks vacation while here is it three weeks or less, to name but one aspect of life that is better in Europe). I don't understand why their politicians are not accountable for their actions and how there are no interview shows on TV where politicians answer tough questions, without recourse to scripts, ear pieces or rehearsed interviews. If Jeremy Paxman ever grilled Bush, I guarantee Dubya would crap his pants and not be able to answer one single question. I also don't understand why Americans say, oh but we pay lower taxes than in Europe. Yeah you do and you get jack for it. Your public schools are up shit creek without a paddle, you have no socialised medicine and, and ....well, I'd better stop, I think you know the rest.
What do I like about America, okay Baltimore? God, the people are so friendly it's unbelievable and it's quite nice, actually. But look, I know some foreigners want to become Americans and good for them, but I will never be an American, even if I live here for the next twenty years.
So why don't I leave? I suppose it is the reason why most people don't. Life is too fucking easy for anyone who earns even a low wage by European standards. Like there is absolutely no pressure for me to work. If I was living in England I would have to work full time just to keep a roof over the family's heads. If you are prepared to live in a fairly uniteresting city like Baltimore, you can really live a life with absolutely no financial worries whatsoever, in a house that is massive by English standards.
And if anyone wants to list all that is wrong with Europe I don't mind either, I'm just so out of touch with EU policy that I don't think I could give you an up to date critique.
Okay, you can start pelting me with rotten eggs now.
That horny bitch Rachael tagged me to do Kristen's Real Mom's meme in which I am meant to reveal some deep, dark truth about moms. Well, I can't think of any. Everyone knows that most moms have saggy tits, don't they? But if you didn't, here's why they do.
Yeah, yeah, we all know that if you don't breastfeed your babies for one year you will roast on a spit in hell until the end of time. We all know it's good for their immunity and we can all pat ourselves on the back when we have done the time. And quite frankly, I really liked breastfeeding. Especially at night, you just stick a nipple in the tiddler's mouth and fall asleep. It's the lazy mom's dream.
There's just one incey wincey drawback to nursing, and that's saggy tits. While you're doing it your tits look like this:
And after you've finished breastfeeding, and all the milk has dried up, your tits look like oranges in a sock. By the way, I know you all think I'm crazy to want implants and breasts that actually stand to attention, and I am, because I don't want artificial looking ones. But I just heard about a really interesting development in Japan where they grow breasts naturally for you from your own stem cells. Maybe I'll try that.
Although, actually I think I look pretty good for thirty six (what do you think?):
And if you do want to email me for sex, please make sure you have the goods and can deliver. No time wasters please.
When you see women with fake blonde hair and perky breasts leaning back and allowing a product designed to paralyze your gag reflex to be sprayed into their mouths, you might think you were on the set of a porn movie.
But no, for Tiffany, the sales woman for Dildos R Us (not the real name of the company), this was just another suburban sex toy party, another thousand dollars worth of sales, thank you very much.
How did I end up here? A friend invited me. I don’t usually go to the suburbs, because, quite honestly, they scare me. All those huge houses with their double garages and totally soulless ambiance. At this house there were dozens of cupcakes and cheesecakes on offer if you felt like pigging out. There was also a very expensive designer dog with a red bow in her hair, in a cage, yes, a cage, in the sitting room, spinning around manically. There was no freaking alcohol either. There was just a fifty year old, well- preserved woman spraying Gag-No-More into one mouth after another.
“When you are giving your husband an oral favor, do you find yourself gagging?” asked Tiffany. Lots of housewives nodded. I just looked dazed. Who calls it an ‘oral favor?’
The woman next to me, fake tan, blonde hair extensions and lip liner nodded. “I have terrible trouble with gagging.”
Who knew that the biggest problem in the suburbs was gagging? Turns out most of them think that giving a blow job is having your husband thrust his dick down your throat until you gag! I thought that was what porn and films like Deep Throat were for – to show that no one who isn’t paid to do it likes a dick rammed down their gullet from start to finish. Sure, part of the time, but the ten minutes or whatever until he comes? I don’t think so. What possible enjoyment can there be for the woman in that? Well anyway, all these housewives reported that the spray had indeed numbed their throats and possibly cured their gag reflex. That was Tiffany’s first sale of the evening.
Next, she showed us more potions, one that claimed to make a guy come in one minute, another to make him stay hard for half an hour, some spray you put up your pussy that makes you tight, called I’m a Virgin. Then she passed round those weird multi-functional vibrators named after animals, like the Dolphin and the Elephant (some of which cost $130!). The only thing I fancied was the shaving cream which apparently guaranteed you’d never have razor burn again.
Well, Tiffany was really giving it her all, writhing on the floor and simulating orgasm like crazy while she pseudo-fucked herself with a vibrator. Still, she had the last laugh, all the housewives bought some of this junk off her, and she had a fantastic looking Jag parked in the driveway, so she must have been doing all right.
She even persuaded me to put some cream called X-Tasy on my bits (get your mind out of the gutter, no we weren’t all sitting round with our pants around our ankles, we went to the bathroom to apply this miracle potion). It was meant to make your, um – Tiffany used the word ‘doorbell’ as a euphemism for clitoris – your doorbell start ringing. All I felt was a burning sensation akin to cystitis.
I leafed through the catalogue and saw a blow up sheep listed, with a hole in its ass. I couldn’t help thinking, how sad must you be if you can’t pick up your own live sheep in a field, if indeed you are a sheep shagger (all right, I nicked that gag from Ricky Gervais’ Animals DVD). Still, most of the products seemed like a bit of a waste of money. Apart from the artificial vagina. All over the suburbs wives are saying “Not tonight darling, I have a headache,” and passing their husbands this artificial vagina to come into. And Tiffany actually said that this artificial vagina, made of some kind of wobbly jelly like substance, traps sperm so there is “No fuss, no mess. The sperm stays inside for easy clean up.”
Wow! Easy clean up. In that case, I’ll take half a dozen.
It’s interesting that Tiffany shifted so much of this stuff by pointing out a bunch of male inadequacies. All I could think of was, if you are really married to men this bad in bed you need to a) communicate what you need better, or, failing that, b) divorce him.
Tiffany goes, “You know how he often comes and leaves you desperate for your own orgasm, meanwhile he’s snoring?”
No, I don’t know how that is, because it’s never happened with my husband. Every man knows you try and get the woman to come before you do. Don’t they? I mean, sure, I’ve had selfish lovers, but they certainly didn’t become my boyfriends.
I thought it was kind of sad actually. All these women hoping these gadgets would spice up their love life, when what they really needed was a new man. To be honest, it made me realize quite how lucky I was to have my husband!
Your questions are coming in to my in box hot and fast, and I feel that I need to give some urgent help to those of you in need, so here goes.
To come or not to come, that is the question
Firstly, a cheeky bugger called Lambent, who has already called me cheap because if I did wax my nether regions I said I would do it myself, now goes on to insult me further by asking me why I feel I am qualified to answer sex questions. I'd punch him if I hadn't enjoyed his last blog so much...there's a new one too, so check it out. Anyway, here's his rude letter:
I have spent most of my adult life sleeping around like a complete dog. Despite my enormous knowledge of the opposite sex, I feel I would be crap at giving other men/women advice about it. Can you please let us know what qualities you have that you feel qualify you to give us all advice of a sexual nature? Have you been a complete dog too?
My first real question to you:
Is it important for me to tell a woman when I'm about to come whilst she is giving me a blow job? I have found that when I do tell them, it puts me off and I end up not coming at all.
What I mean is, if it's someone I don't know giving me a BJ, I'm obviously not going to ask them beforehand if I can come in their mouth, it would be too forward. Is it OK to just let loose in her mouth with no warning? I know some women hate it.
Let A Mouthful Be Entertaining, Not Troublesome
In answer to your question about what makes me qualified to answer sex questions, the answer is, nothing. Do you think Dr Phil knows jack about fuck, or any of those other tossers, Dr Ruth etc? Course not. How many people, quite honestly, do you think Dr Ruth has slept with? Exactly.
Am I a dog, you ask? Well, while you sound like you're more of a Great Dane on the shagging front, I'm probably more of a Golden Retriever, by which I mean, yeah, I have slept around a fair bit, but actually I'm not sure casual sex really qualifies one to know much, because it is usually a short lived affair and quite frankly, do either of you really give a monkey's about the other's pleasure, as long as you get off yourself?
My real objective to writing the column is, I suppose, to just tell it like it is. People always pretend sex is fantastic, but often it isn't. And then when you have a relationship with someone, it's good for about eight months and then it becomes boring. So, in any case, I'm going to share my knowledge, for what it's worth.
Now as to your blow job question, I think it is a bit silly just telling her at the last minute "I'm going to come," and hoping she doesn't mind a mouthful of sperm. Whether most women hate it when you come in their mouths, I have no idea, but quite frankly, if the woman does hate it then it is her responsibility to tell you beforehand. I think you do need to have a bit of a talk about this before you get down to it. Say, "I know some women hate having a man come in their mouth, do you?" and she'll say yes or no. Sorted.
I wouldn't worry about it so much!
I need it so freakin bad
My husband and I have a wonderful sex life. He's very generous in bed, he has all the right moves and he always has my pleasure in mind. I really am very lucky. However, sometimes I feel like I want to have more sex than my husband wants to have sex. I wish we could move up our 2 to 3 times a week to more like 4, 5 or even 6 times a week. It seems like it's a time factor: usually when we make love, we spend a lot of time and effort on it. So, when we're busy or tired, why can't we just go for a quickie? I've tried to talk to him about this but it's going nowhere, mainly because I don't want to damage his male ego. From his responses, when we talk about this, I get the feeling it would totally damage his male ego to know I think my sex drive is higher than his. It seems to be OK if my sex drive is the same if his but not any higher than his sex drive. I've also tried initiating more sex, but after getting turned down a few times I find myself hesitating for fear of rejection.
So, how do I bring up this subject without slamming his manhood? I could never tell him that I think my sex drive is higher, this is one of my deepest, darkest secrets.
Dear Sex Queen,
I'm envious. My sex drive has never been higher than my partner's, but I suppose I asked for that, because they have mostly been pretty young, mid/late twenties max. But oh my God, I hear you, I hear your pain.
My sex drive may not be as high as yours, but I am impatient. If I am feeling horny during the day, rather than waiting for my husband to screw me in the evening, I do wank off. Sometimes this will mean I won't care if I don't have sex with my husband in the evening because I have already satisfied myself to some extent. But the thing is, not only does he not like that I've been masturbating during the day, but also the fact that he won't be getting any. But my point is this, why not dress it up like this to your husband: "Sometimes when I fantasize about you during the day, I get so hot that I just can't help myself and find myself masturbating. I can't help it that I find you so hot. And when I've come, all I can think is, that was not as good as how sex is with you, and I wish I had waited until you came home and really gave me a much deeper orgasm, and also it is so much more fun being in bed with you than in bed with just my vibrator." What I am getting at is, don't even mention the concept that you have a higher sex drive. Just go at it like, I am so horny for you, I just can't help myself, that I am reduced to playing with myself. You have to make him feel like he is the only man for you in the whole world (maybe he is), and maybe send him really dirty emails during the day about how horny you are feeling - without asking him, or rather making demands like: "When you come home I really want you to fuck me so hard." Because then he will feel pressurized, and that is no good for his ego.
Some men don't mind if the woman usually initiates (I do about 99% of the time), but maybe your guy is one who wants to be the initiator. So you need to somehow manipulate him into thinking he is the one who wants this extra sex and not you. And the way to achieve that is through dirty emails, phonecalls etc. Try that?
Okay now, send your sex and relationship problems to email@example.com and I promise to sort you out next week (you can remain anonymous if you wish).
My six year old, Scarlett, is getting a bit too smart for her own good.
Another perky conversation:
Scarlett: Can two girls get married?
Me: Yes, you know they can. Just like Thomas and Simon have two daddies, kids can also have two mummies. Why?
Scarlett: When I grow up I'm going to marry a girl.
Me: Oh, good (thinks, yes! Maybe she is a lesbian. No problem with teenage pregnancies etc). Why do you want to marry a girl?
Scarlett: Well, the problem is, mummies do all the cooking in the house and I don't want to do all the cooking, so I would want to live with another girl who would help me do the cooking.
Me: Now come on, daddy cooks sometimes. Pancakes and er, toast.
Scarlett: Yes, but he's not a good cooker. No, I want to marry a girl.
Me: Some men are good cooks too, you know.
Scarlett (unconvinced): I never saw any. Would I have to kiss the girl?
Me: Yes, probably. You two going to have babies?
Scarlett: Of course we are.
Me: By the way, two women can't have babies on their own, did you know that? You need a sperm from the man and an egg from the woman to make a baby. So they have to adopt a child or get sperm from a man and, er (no, I can't talk about turkey basters, not now, she's too young) and mix them together.
Scarlett (sighing): Oh mummy, I know that two ladies or two men have to adopt. Can I have squiggly noodles for dinner?
Me: Um, yes, if you like.
Question: Did anyone have these kind of complicated conversations twenty years ago?
Imagine there's no heaven, It's easy if you try, No hell below us, Above us only sky, Imagine all the people, Living for today...
Wierd. Those lines just came to me, maybe I'm a genius, or no, maybe I'm just seriously out of it. Where was I? Actually, what I wanted to say was...imagine a day, yes, one whole day, without using a computer.
Terrifying, isn't it?
Well, um, no, not for most people it isn't. But some misguided individuals have made a day for this express purpose. Yes, mark your calenders, Shut Down Day is coming on March 24th.
Yes, it's another one of those days that are meant to prove something about people being too into computers, or something. Actually the video for it (below) is quite funny. It's got people using laptops for something other than the main four uses: downloading porn, pretending to be a fourteen year old on MySpace when you're actually a 65 year old man, putting horrible photos of your cats up on your website and sending sexually harassing emails to women in accounts about how their VPLs are really turning you on.
And amazingly, the guy who slides down that banister, did not, apparently, twist his nuts in the process:
Now, maybe I'm missing something. I'm as into the Internet as much as the next saddo, but one day, one flipping day of going without? Is this what the world has come to? The site also asks what else people are planning to do on that day instead of using the computer.
Well, I, for one am at a loss. I imagine I will just sit in a chair and stare at it for 24 hours, just stroking the blank screen.
Admittedly, if you asked me to go cold turkey for a week, well, that would be another matter. I'd be frothing at the mouth, chomping at the bit, weeping and plucking out handfuls of hair. Not that I'm addicted or anything...
Frankly, it's time to say, enough is enough. Anyone can go without a flipping computer for 24 hours. Let's start some really tough go without days. I think these would really separate the winners from the losers amongst you:
1. Go without Clothes Day - see if you can go to work, shopping, drop the kids off to school, without wearing a stitch. And not get arrested. Now there's a challenge.
2. Go without Eating Day. I say this is impossible unless you are Nicole Ritchie.
3. Don't go to the Toilet Day. I don't think anyone could manage this. Could you?
4. Don't Masturbate to Internet Porn Day. Show me one man who can do this and I'll show you...a liar.
5. Switch off your Kettle Day. Ever made Ramen Noodles with warm tap water? This is a challenge only the toughest nuts amongst you have a hope of surviving.
6. Go to Work and don't make any Personal Calls/Surf the Internet Day. Totally impossible, IMHO.
7. Live with a Porn Star and Don't Shag Him/Her Day. A Porn star is staying with you, in your bed. Your challenge, not to sleep with Him/Her. Go on, if you think you're hard enough. And no jacking off either!
8. Talk to an Old Person All Day Day. Yeah, we all say we like old people. They're so wise, aren't they? But ever spent more than an hour with a really old person and actually done more than nod in their general direction? Ever listened to the same tales of making cheese sauce out of mouse turds or bras out of parachutes during the War, for a twenty-four hour period? No way anyone would survive this without a total nervous breakdown.
Any other days you think would present a real challenge?
Who am I? Displaced Londoner now living in the States with my two little girlies and long suffering husband. Co-author of hilarious parenting book Cocktails at Naptime www.cocktailsatnaptime.com
My mom's an Austrian, my dad's a Brit, which makes me a Britaustrian, or possibly an Austrish?