Out From Under

We’re all for creative sensuality here at Out from Under. No reason a girl should limit her play to the obvious. We’ve discussed the erotic potential of vegetables , some battery-operated faves, sing-along vibes, and even the classy Delft variety .

However, creative thinker though I am, it had honestly never occurred to me to look to my desk for inspiration. On the desk, sure. What teacher-cum-writer doesn’t harbour some happy bent-over-the-desk fantasies memories? Over and under, even. But in the desk? There just didn’t seem to be a whole lot of inspiration in file folders, a calculator, some scraps of paper, a couple of pencils and a pen or two.

Obviously, I was not paying the right kind of attention. I have had my eyes opened by Doug, the writer of this post , who, “In the past couple of years, [has] become far more intimate with [his] writing tools.”

They say that the best place to hide something is out in plain sight, but I confess to being a little disappointed with myself. I have a whole desk full of “writing tools”, and I’d never considered their “tool” potential, much less become intimate with any of them. Shame on me.

Turns out he’s talking about this, the “Cross Roadster Gel Pen”, available in black, blue, or red at your local Staples.

Now, Doug claims to be writing a straight review of the merits of the pen. Maybe Doug thinks he’s doing just that. Or maybe Doug is as subversive as one hopes he might be.

Just take a gander at this paragraph. His text is in bold; my comments in italics.

I found the Roadster at my local Staples and fell in love with it right away.
Claiming to love inanimate objects is pretty commonplace, so you can’t make undue hay with that, but hang in there. It gets better.
It’s a thick, fairly stubby pen just under 4.5″ long;
Four and a half inches may be a wee bit on the shortish side, but “thick, fairly stubby” should make up for a lot. Girth is good.
however, with its cap posted it turns into a meaty 5.75″.
Meaty. Yes, that’s the word he used. That’s what I look for in my peni… er, pens, for sure. Meaty. And 5.75″ should satisfy those with a taste for more meatiness.
Vaguely bullet-shaped,
Yes, yes they are, now that you mention it.
with a long brushed chrome cap
Well, length does increase with familiarity…
and a sturdy
sturdy is good
and beautifully-coloured barrel that’s well-rounded at its base,
mmmmm, mmmmm, mmmm
it certainly has a look all its own.

If this isn’t a hymn to the him, I don’t know what it is. “Hey, writer: Is that a pen in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”

Speaking of pockets, one of this pen’s supposed ‘cons’ is that it’s “a little bulgy in tight pockets”.

Need we say more?

From the “bigger is better” school of life comes The Big Penis Book. Why a book of outsized out-riggers? Because, we’re told, we all love the things. Drawn to them like moths to a flame. Just can’t help our wide-eyed selves.

…who can deny the allure of a big dick? Flaccid or erect, it is aesthetically stunning - commanding every onlooker to consider capacity and consequence.

“Aesthetically stunning?”

“Stunning”, certainly. But “aesthetically”?

I showed the sample pages to a sample of women friends, all of them straight, ranging from 15 to 57 years. They were evenly divided between…

…those who couldn’t bear to look… “Oh, my GOD! That would HURT!” (Aka “considering capacity and consequence.”) Some even covered the images as they read, because “Oh, my GOD! That would HURT!”

…and those who couldn’t focus on the text at all. Simply couldn’t keep their eyes away from those pictures down the side, because “Oh, my GOD! That would HURT!”

No aesthetic appeal there, either.

There seemed to be no middle ground. None of the women looked at it and thought, “Meh, whatever.” And certainly no one had a “Too big for real-life sex, but my GOD, isn’t it GORGEOUS?” response. Not a one.

Leave it not to me to be unkind about this. If I were confronted with a real-life mega-dick, I’d be kind. Because when it comes to what nature dishes out, you get what you get. The guy who gets a micro dick, the guy who gets a macro one… they don’t deserve to be mocked. So of course I’d be kind.

As kind as I could be, that is, while breaking out into a cold sweat and plotting my immediate escape. Because me, I am not of the small subsection of women who fantasize about being impaled with a baseball bat…

Seems those of us in the “Oh, my GOD! That would HURT!” camp are not alone:

Many viewing the photos for this book blurted out, “I wouldn’t let that near me!” As if anyone were offering.

“I wouldn’t let that near me!” are not the words of someone overcome by an object’s aesthetic appeal. Sounds more like they’re repelled than attracted.

But not to worry. The editor can dismiss all those know-nothings, because, like, “Yeah? So who’s offering? Nyah.” A teeny bit dishonest, don’t you think, when what is the entire book but an offering? Still, you can’t deny the convenience of “so who’s offering” to dismiss a differing response without having to acknowledge its a) prevalence and b) potential validity.

So, what do you think? You can check out the sample pages if you like, then come back and report!

Ginormous penises: “aesthetically stunning” or just … not?

Ah, flirting. One of the best social games out there. It’s a multi-tiered exchange involving the mind as much as — no, more than — the body, with lots of mutual appreciation, suggestion, inneundo, a ton of sexual charge. While the possibility of sex is always in the air, the best flirts enjoy the process for the flirting itself, whether or not the players end up in a sweaty tangle in the sheets.

Well, that’s what most of us think. Except those impatient sorts who think that’s all too, too passé…

But how do you let him know you want him…? While some morons, er, dating gurus think smiling, touching his arm, leaning in etcetera, will help send him signals, that type of flirting went out with corsets and bustles.

So “forget subtlety”, they counsel. Never mind with the conversation, the suggestive banter, innuendo. Never mind turning up the heat slowly and savouring the rising pulses.

Nah. Just wear something skimpy and stick your tongue in his ear.

The brave new woman of the 21st Century. Can’t you just see her? The girl with all the sexual finesse of a dog with its nose up another dog’s butt. Flash a lotta flesh and get to it, girl!

Why not just hump his leg?

When you’ve successfully bedded the guy, booted him out, and have finished carving the notch in the bedpost…

Then pat your brave sexy self on the back and if you want, tell all your friends about the booty you just bagged. Dudes do it all the time.

Yeah, and we all know that if dudes do it, it has to be right, right?! Women can know they’ve achieved equality with men when they can be every bit as much of a jerk as the most insensitive dork with a dick out there. So, sure, let’s have sex without foreplay, and treat our partners as so much ego-boost. After all, what’s equality of the sexes about if not proving that a girl can be just as much of an asshole as the next guy?

There are rules, you know. There are always rules. You’re in a traditional marriage, there are rules: sexual exclusivity, respect, who takes the garbage out. You’re in a non-traditional one, there are still rules.

In fact, maybe there are more. At any rate, if you’re smart they’ll be more explicit. My friend and her husband are smart. They have some ground rules for their not-quite-traditional arrangement. Here’s what you can do, here’s what you can’t.

Communication is key. A, B, and semi-kinky Q are all allowed, but if/when one decides to trot off in that direction, the trotter has to let the other one know. Not privacy-violating details about who’s doing exactly what to whom, just that it’s happening.

So when my friend discovered that her husband had stepped outside this fundamental ground rule, she was understandably upset. And pissed off. And seriously considering bailing on the whole arrangement which had, over the years, been more her husband’s baby than hers, anyway.

He was promising it was a one-off. Everyone’s allowed one slip-up, right? And, after all, it’s not like there was nothing in the arrangement for her… But how did she know it was a one-off? How do you regain trust, when the other person’s word is all you have to go on, and now the other person’s word is suspect?

What to do?

Well, what any pissed off — but still curious — woman would do, of course. She created a fake persona on a site her husband played on, and approached him, incognito.

ENTRAPMENT! Well, maybe. Or perhaps simply fact-checking. Put it through whatever moral sieve you like, that’s what she did.

And in fact, he didn’t do too badly. If this was a test, he got… oh, about a B+.

So that’s good, right? The marriage hit a hurdle, there was some pain and suffering, a few psychic bumps, but in the end, it was all good. Life proceeded. Husband and wife continued to work through the repercussions, but the marriage remained sound, and the “arrangement”? It was getting revamped, possibly thrown out, because the wife, she just didn’t really see what she was getting out of it … besides anxiety.

They both forgot about her fake persona.

Until someone on the site pinged her.

Someone very, very appealing. Physically appealing, conversationally appealing. Similar education, attitudes and interests — both inside and outside the bedroom. And attractive? She got weak in the knees just gazing upon the image on her screen, and apparently her picture provoked the same effects on his knees. And different efects on other parts.

And suddenly, the “arrangement” began to seem a lot more appealing. Shared experience is so important in a marriage, don’t you agree? They’re still tweaking it, but the arrangement will probably remain a part of their marriage.

And of course she told her husband. Because rules are rules, you know.

Awww, it’s a baaaaaaby! Isnt’ that sweeet?

In fact, it’s a cake! Really! Isn’t the craftmanship amazing? The woman who creates these things — she’s an artist. No doubt about it. Her medium may be cake, marzipan, chocolate and fondant icing, but who can deny the skill required, or the beauty of her creations?

You can totally see why someone would buy this for a friend’s baby shower, now, can’t you?

I mean, look! Just look at those pudgy baby arms! That soft blush on the cheeks! And those blankets! Can’t you just feel the softness? How does she get icing to look like it feels like fabric? Amazing!

Oooo. And those toes! Those little chick-pea toes peeping out over the edge of the blanket! Aren’t they just the most adorable things? Couldn’t you just eat those right up?

Oh, but you CAN!!

So, here’s the knife. Who’s going to make the first cut??

There are as many types of ’sexy’ as their are women. We know that in theory, but we don’t all believe it. It’s too obvious what’s really sexy: she’s young, slim, she’s got big boobs. These days she’s also allowed to have a curvaceous ass — so long as it’s not too big. There are subclassifications of this kind of sexy: she can be of different ethnicities — black, white, Asian. The Asian variety is more often permitted small breasts — but no matter what he colour, she’s always going to be young and slim.

Because that’s what makes sexy, right?

Depends on who you ask. Go back a while, go back a long, long, long while. Go back, oh 25,000 years or so, and you get this:

Quite something, isn’t she? She’s called the “Venus of Willendorf“. (’Venus’ was ironic; Willendorf was where she was found.)

You can call her “curvaceous”, if you will — and she certainly is all that. But that’s a euphemism. This woman is FAT.

If some “curvy” women out there are pissed that I’ve dismissed the euphemism and used the F-word, stop for a second. Why are you pissed? Who says “fat” is an insult? And why do you buy into the definition?

It wasn’t an insult to whoever made this statue. Way back then, there were no grocery stores, dispensing food at the drop of a wallet. You had to find your food, hunt it down, maybe chase and kill it. Maybe you’d find your food growing here and there. Then you’d have to pick it. Time-consuming, to say the least. People wandered around a lot, miles and miles every day. They may or may not have eaten every day. They certainly never got “three squares”.

My point is: It wasn’t easy to be anything but skinny back then. People just didn’t have ready access to those extra calories. The fact that she obviously consumed a lot more calories than the bare essentials suggests that she was special in some way, special enough that people brought her food. This mama, she’s fat.

And someone thought that was special enough, someone thought that was beautiful enough, to take the time to carve this little gem. Carve her so that she fits perfectly into the palm of a hand. So that, maybe, she could be carried around and admired?

That curving belly, those enormous breasts, that giant and obvious vulva, the wide ass, the (unfortunate) lack of a face. Whether she’s an Earth Mother, a fertility symbol, or Paleolithic pornography, this woman is all about sex and fertility.

This woman is sexy.

Summertime! Time for cold drinks on a hot afternoon, sipped in civilized pleasure from your front porch as you scan the rolling expanse of your lovely green lawn. (If, like me, your front yard is nothing like that, you can nonetheless join me in the fantasy. Your porch — wide and sweeping, embellished with white gingerbread — the land, as it spreads before you a carefully crafted mix of brilliant colours, shading greenery, verdant grass. It’s elegant, no? One of my more PG, but none the less beloved, fantasies.)

Perhaps, instead of a late-afternoon cold beverage, you’d prefer to spend a few minutes in the morning, hot coffee in your hand, savouring the gracious view before you. The lawns, the trees, the flowers, the morning dew.

Elegant.

Civilized.

Erect.

Erect? WHAT is that? Oh, and that, and that? Peppering your lawn are dozens of small-to-life-size… Could it be? You wander over, cup in hand, to check it out.

Yup. Dicks, cocks, penises. Here and there. Willies, johnsons. Large and small. Peckers in abundance.

Some are flaccid.

Some are tall and proud.

Some of them even have the balls attached.

And some you will recognize best if you’ve ever owned a (male) dog.

A closer look, and you see that the cap is covered in a glistening pre-cu mucous. Take a whiff and you’ll soon learn where they earned their colloquial name, because these, my friends, are stinkhorns.

Stink because of the stink and horn because, well, they sure look like horny little items, don’t they? Even the scientists couldn’t miss it: Phallus impudicus — and aren’t they saucy little peckers? Mutinus Caninus — those’d be the canine-inspired variety.

They can pop up literally overnight — even less — becoming fully erect grown in half an hour. Some even achieve a rather daunting ten inches in two hours.

From fantasy porch with sweeping summer vista to a lawn full of turgid, glistening fungi. Pastoral dreams aren’t what they’re cracked up to be.

(eeww)

In case you can’t read the small print, it says

“Earn the right to wear white.”

ABSTAIN

Goodness. Where to begin?

Who wears white? The Bride, of course. The Princess for a Day. The Virgin Offering. Certainly not her potential husband. You don’t see any abstinence boxers out there. So, the target audience for these words of mind-control encouragement is the girl who wears it? If that’s true, why isn’t it oriented the other way? She’s not going to see it that way, is she? From where she stands, it says something more like this:

While I respect the right of a young woman to genuinely choose to practice abstinence (because it’s all about choice), should she really be wearing these? With all the good things she is already denying herself (or at least deferring), it does seem a shame to relegate the poor thing to granny panties, but you have to admit the teeniest bit of cognitive dissonance between the medium and the message here.

But the target audience can’t be anyone else, can it? It’s not like her boyfriend will be seeing it until after the rock goes on the finger and the Big White Dress comes off. Because that print, it’s pretty fine. He’d have to be awfully close to be reading it. Far too close for any male associated with a woman of THIS kind of purity.

Her girlfriend, then? Um, no. Not even on the radar. Girls who wear these things do not have girlfriends. Or if they do, they’re probably being De-Programmed even as we speak. (Which is odd, given that girl-on-girl sex isn’t “real” sex. “Real” sex? Oh, you know, PIV, the only kind that really counts…)

Oh, perhaps it’s the other (straight) girls in the locker room! So the young woman buys this for herself, and then flaunts it to the other girls as a way to shame them from their shameless ways. In a thong.

Or do the young woman’s parents buy it for her? Because conservative parents, they’re just yearning to buy their daughters sexy underthings. Especially barely-there sexy underthings that will almost certainly require a high degree of hair management.

All these questions lead to the final one: WWJD?

Tearing his hair out? Beating his head against a wall? Trying to convince dad that another flood is in order? One thing is certain: he would not be wearing one. Even if he were a girl.

via: Feministing

Meg fakes it

Why do so many women fake orgasm?

Most of us have faked it, at least once. (At least, straight women have. I’m kind of working on the assumption that lesbians don’t, or with way reduced frequency… but if I’m wrong, feel free to correct me!) Once and a while, you’ll have your reasons, and no harm done, most likely. As a way of life? Not so smart.

But why do so many women fake it? It’s not because men can’t. Sure they can could… ’specially if he’s wearing a condom (he is wearing a condom, right?), so the evidence (or lack of) is contained.

Men could. But they don’t. Or — astonishing possibility! — they’re doing it so very well that no one knows about it!

… and keeping it a complete and utter secret?

Nah.

Reasons why a woman might fake it:

1. You’re tired.

Stacey Ballis expresses it so very, very well in her book “Inappropriate Men“.

“…[A] smart girl takes her new lover to the bedroom with romance in her heart, but realism on her mind. We expect to have fun. We expect to see some potential. We do not expect to achieve orgasm, nor do we plan to fake it unless our compatriot is of the single-minded-no-one-sleeps-until-everyone-comes- really-I-can-do-this sort, in which case we play Meg Ryan so that we can get some rest…”

2. You hate to disappoint. Thus ensuring that the only person who is disappointed is you. Ahem.

3. You’ve given up. Some years ago, I pounded the mattress with my fists and bellowed in frustration. “Agh! It’s just not happening!” He looked at me, “Yeah, I’ve noticed that. What’s wrong with you lately?”

No, we are not still together.

4. You have a deadline. Somewhere to be, something to do… Busy, busy, busy.

5. He’ll get pissy if you don’t. And don’t be telling him how to help you get there, either. The ego can’t take that. (Move on, woman! Move on!)

6. Your roommate’s in the next room, and you want to make him/her jealous. “I have a sex life and yoooou don’t…”

7. Because so many men fake foreplay.

How about you? Care to make any additions to the list? (Hypothetical, of course.)

You’re a strong, independent woman, right? Able to tackle whatever comes your way, ready for the challenges of life.

That’s why YOU need one of THESE:

Yes! Half a stuffed shirt! Well, really, half a man’s pajama top! With an upside-down hand attached!

If that creeps you out, how’s about this:

There. Isn’t that better? See how the little woman is so comforted by her half-a-stuffed-pajama-top? When she finds herself alone in bed, she can snuggle into her half-torsoe man replacement, and feel safe and secure. None of those scary creaks the house makes in the night can get at her now!

Mmmm, honey, that’s so good. Just move your hand a little down and to the left…