Self-subjectification: Directing Discourse

DIRECTING DISCOURSE: GENERATING OWN MATERIAL

Whether the porn we make together is consciously subversive or if it’s solely sexy, fun, and performative, I hope it accomplishes my goals: to bring more authentic sexuality to porn, to change the images that dominate porn, and to transform what people think porn is.

–Dylan Ryan, How I Became a Feminist Porn Star

Women complain about how female sexuality is presented in the media, and rightly so. However, few are willing to make sacrifices in their personal or professional lives to effect change in a public forum. There are extensive social and institutional sanctions in place for those who speak out; specifically, for women. This severely limits the viewpoints presented. The most effective way to direct discussion is to generate one’s own material. Once you’ve developed your own narrative, you can’t be “sexualized.” Meaning, you can’t have normative heterosexual cisgender male desires projected onto you. My goal is to provide an alternative to and, ultimately, to displace the dominant discourse on sexuality.

Currently, sexually explicit material is almost exclusively written and produced by men, with men as the intended audience. While enforcing gender roles beneficial to men, the depictions of sexuality ignore female fantasy entirely. To put it in typical feminist language, female desire has been co-opted by the male gaze and it is time for us to reclaim it! Rather than comment on a culture over which we have little control, we must take the initiative to create one of our own.

A culture in which female desire takes the forefront.

Alec: you should submit to Fleshbot. They have a section on sex blogs.

You’re perfect.

Genie: this sex blog roundup thing is blogs to get off to, not blogs to laugh and cry to

clearly the purpose of my blog is to make people cringe

Alec: perhaps you can be a paradigm shift

Genie: in an “I can identify” sort of way

I want to be the female sexual anti-hero

not to sound too grandiose or anything

I just think women need a representative like portnoy or victor in choke

someone who does despicable and humiliating things to get off

someone who begs to suck homo cock

Alec: DO it.

I’m being a little facetious about wanting to be perceived as disgusting and depraved. But there are a lot of issues I have with the presentation of female sexuality, and not just in terms of who is given the space to speak. People with privilege are notorious for squeezing out the voices of the marginalized. When women are given the podium, though, they tend to present in a manner that is in line with social expectations as dictated by the patriarchy. There is so much pressure for women to be seen as sexually desirable and deliberate; they can’t risk divulging deets that make them appear sloppy or, god forbid, desperate.

I aim to follow my impulses, not good sense. To expose myself without being eroticized. I want people to be like, Jesus Christ, that isn’t even sexy: you are vain, demented, and impalatable, But I’d still fuck you because you have nice tits and are totally unapologetic. Foolhardy but not a fool. A sexual delinquent not yet a degenerate.

I don’t care if you masturbate to me, as long as you listen up! My blog isn’t porn or erotica; it’s reality. Not some stupid soft-lit X-Art dream sequence where sex is sanitized and women are fluid-free. Sex should be matter-of-fact and clinical. That isn’t synonymous with wiped down. Though I do love the guy who is sent to “wipe down the loads” in It’s Always Sunny’s “Charlie Kelly: King of the Rats.” People have this bullshit idea that porn for ladies is figurative rather than literal. Metaphor without the mess. Abstract. Because of the unsubstantiated (and scientifically debunked) assumption that women are turned on by emotional connection, yet indifferent to isolated visuals. Person over peen! It has become impossible for us to admit to having basic, human needs without being suspect. Nevertheless for us to admit to enjoying watching naked people bump uglies—as seen in real life. Women are supposed to be too highbrow or too evolved for that or whatever. It’s okay for us to salivate watching food porn on TV, but vagina salivation is a MYTH! Remember that satire “Porn for Women: Men Cleaning the House,” featuring helpful men catering to the desires of the “fairer” sex? The premise of the book is vaguely offensive: it gives credence to the idea that women hate penises and must be enticed with non-sexual services and goods. How do we mainstream something everyone is doing but no talks about, while acknowledging diversity and variation. I don’t purport that my story is everyone’s, only that there are certain shared realities among women. I can’t wait for the day when we no longer need to convince men that we don’t need to be convinced, when we have permission to be transparent.

Which brings me to this Kathleen Hanna quote about how women struggle with men’s automatic acceptance as the arbiters of sexual truth:

I just think there’s this assumption that when a man tells the truth, it’s the truth. And when I, as a woman, go to tell the truth, I feel like I have to negotiate the way I’m perceived… I feel like there’s always the suspicion around a woman’s truth: the idea that you’re exaggerating. There’s this whole fear that I’m gonna have finally fucking stepped to the plate and told the truth and someone’s gonna go, ‘Uhhh, I don’t think so.’

—Kathleen Hanna, The Punk Singer

Sexual disclosure for women is so self-conscious. It’s impossible to speak without hearing yourself in the third-person first—anticipating your reception. Think impression management. I’m not sure where women think their self-censorship is getting them—us. But, like, I have this blog where I share embarrassing masturbation stories. And I still have friends and I still get laid and occasionally it is even pleasurable. Sometimes I speak as if I am Jack Handy from SNL. Let that be a lesson to all of us.

We are overdue for a paradigm shift because on the oft chance that a woman depicts herself as a sexual agent, her goal is to arouse—others. Fuck Paris Hilton and her performative cock sucking. Let’s dare to be sexual without being sexy. We are sold the story that we are supposed to be demure, coy—pretend that we don’t want it ourselves but can’t get enough cock because we lurrve pleasing men. We think of ourselves as sexual assets or accessories rather than being needy and greedy.

In Hugo Schwyer’s incisive essay on “The Paris Paradox,” he points to the quandary young women find themselves in when they succumb to the societal expectation of being “sexy, but not sexual.”

“Not every young girl experiences herself as an object of desire. But virtually every young girl is aware that young women are “supposed” to be desired… [G]iven how blunt and brazen so many of their male peers (and, sadly, so many much older men) are about what they want sexually, it’s little wonder that developing one’s own sexuality is often a much-later development than developing one’s sexiness.”

Women are simultaneously overwhelmed by the pressure to be sexually alluring to men and scared of the consequences of being stigmatized as sluts. In the balancing act that is part and parcel of crafting a sexual image, the ability to articulate one’s own desire gets lost. As Schwyxer puts it: “the freedom to learn how to be sexual requires the freedom from sexualization… desire and duty are enemies.” In a society where women are sluts or prudes—damned if they do and damned if they don’t—it is challenging to separate what they want from the penalties incurred therefrom. Schwyer concludes that instead of teaching empowerment though unfettered sexual expression or chastity, we must teach women to distinguish “the desire to be desired and desire itself.” Once a woman is able to articulate what she’s into, independent of the pleasure she derives from pleasing others, we must take care to ensure her requests are not met with judgments resulting in shame. It is only then that a woman has full ownership over her sexuality.

Schwyer’s call to discern desire from duty is thought-provoking. I’m not wanted because I’m willing to meet men’s needs; I’m wanted because I’m able to articulate my own. Though, I am wanted only among select men. I do believe that the more women who are in touch with their kinks and grooves and the braver they are about expressing them, the more our culture will change to accept women’s needs. The missing piece of the puzzle is penalizing men who limit female sexual expression. I’m mean, effectively they are penalizing themselves by limiting their access to hot chicks, but I think they should be shamed, too.

My blog is fact, not fiction; I never intended for it to be a creative work. In the current climate, my “work” has been contextualized as an art piece—cultural commentary in lieu of documentary. As I lay shrouded in the layers of intellectualization that my education affords, I am safe yet stilted. Our work will not be over until women are able to get naked—with the explicit intention of arousing—without being judged or devalued. Porn must be elevated to the level of and treated with the same dignity as art. No more high-brow v. low-brow. Sex and bodies are beautiful, and not in a sentimental way. One of my friends told me how irksome she found it when a friend’s girlfriend asked how much she makes stripping, then inquired whether she has read scientific studies about sex workers or intends to write about her experiences. The implication: stripping must be so awful that no one would do it unless paid a sizeable sum for her misery, and one must intellectually interpret her experience to legitimatize it. Something about ‘sex work is more degrading than other service industry jobs’ screams ‘women’s bodies are filthier than fast food.’ We are sick of defending our choices, having our truths viewed with suspicion when men’s are taken for granted. Unless women’s bodies are inherently sinful and obscene, a woman should not be compelled to disown her sexuality while her male counterpart is encouraged to embrace his. It is bad enough that writing is separated into writing and lady writing. Worse still, women’s narratives are limited to tales of victimization, recklessness and reform. Everyone likes a woman who has mended her wanton ways; there is moral absolution in the postmortem. But what of those who find redemption in the moment?

To those who question my glamorization of sexual depravity, I answer with an apropos Cat Marnell quote:

The reason I write about drugs so much is that it’s always been a boys club—the shameless drug user writers club at least. Women always write the recovery memoirs.

–Cat Marnell, Cat Marnell Does Not Give a Shit

Same goes for women and sex. We need a space for sexual sharing that is not tinged by contrition. GKF does not give a fuck.

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Self-subjectification, Part 2

SELF-SUBJECTIFICATION, PART 2

NARRATIVE

Martha Nussbaum’s conception of objectification “includes denial of autonomy, subjectivity. Not taking people’s feelings into account, but also treating them as a mere instrument…The internet opens that up in a big way because it is a relatively autonomous world in which someone who portrays a woman in a certain light, can create a whole story about her that is relatively immune to correction…”

Julie JC Peters contrasts object with subject: “In the context of a book, movie, or image, the subject is the being that acts, the main character. It’s essentially you: the one you can relate and align with. An object is the thing acted upon…. In an image, we feel with the subject and look at the object.”

As agents, subjects reflect upon and manipulate the world around them; rather than relying on others to create context, they imbue their own experiences with meaning. Subjects have internal monologues, while objects are limited to stimulus-response. We can identify with subjects, but only project onto objects.

Subjectifying yourself is easy. It entails crafting a narrative then exposing yourself. Deliberately putting a spin on things before giving someone else the opportunity to react. Controlling your image by casting yourself in a certain light, soft or hard, flattering or not. Sort of like the plot of Easy A: Emma Stone’s character spreads false rumors about her sexual exploits, cementing her reputation and those of her alleged sexual partners. Sure the sexual double standard is alive and well, but you can exploit it for your benefit.

NUDITY AND NONSENSE

But, thankfully, no one expected me to give extreme fake moans. I understood that I could be as into it as I felt like being… I liked performance and how I felt sexually embodied and in control of my representation… I chose how to be, what to show, what to do.

–Dylan Ryan, How I Became a Feminist Porn Star

My life goals are to become a parody of myself and to balance the practical with the absurd. Few items of clothing are as costumey and comical as academic attire. The antiquated ritual and symbolic distinction. Religion for the educated masses. Upon receiving an e-mail about renting graduation garb, I could not resist: I don’t care what my teachers say, I’m gonna be a supermodel and everyone is gonna dress like me, wait and see. When I’m a supermodel in a mega-tassel.

I can’t explain it exactly: something about robing up begged for disrobing. Months later, when I picked up the graduation garb, I was pleased to discover that it was a non-descript, ultra purple, amorphous mass of a sheet that unzipped in all the right places. Easssy access. Funsies! Here’s to controlling my image, subjectifying myself: On paper I have an expensive, prestigious, hard-earned degree that is evidence of my smarts and grit. In photographs, I am a fleshy, ready body just like any other. Marketable skills, down to fuck. I designed that story and I’m sticking to it.

My inspired recipe of rebellion required one co-conspirator to capture the joyous occasion. I enlisted Caleb, the doe-eyed, tattooed, Kewpie doll of a boy I sort of dated in grad school. My male prototype: skinny, pretty, a little rough around the edges. Down for hijinks, shenanigans, tomfoolery, and nonsense of non-normative persuasion. If nothing else, I enjoyed getting naked in front of him. That’s, like, important.

It goes without saying that this was an IRONIC photo shoot. Oh purportedly liberal academia, time to thumb my nose at society, gently mock the machine. Accepting Herff Jones Inc. as the outfitter and arbiter of academic officiation is a step above fashioning oneself athletic in an American Apparel unisex unitard. The ridiculous fucking ultra purple Hassid sheet came with instructions on how to look maximally distinguished/refined/proper in academic regalia. I made sure to disregard those instructions entirely, defile them. Naturallly.

“The proper wearing…” The only thing you should be wearing properly is a habit. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. “Fasten the cord…” That’s fastenating! “From a frontal view…” More like full-frontal, heh heh “To expose the lining, turn the velvet border to the outside as shown in Red and White.” To expose yourself, spread your legs… show the Red, White, Pink, and Stink. Srsly, guys. Why are ‘Red’ and ‘White’ capitalized? Are colors God? Yisss. Baruch atah adonai. Ohhh, Jeez, I’m gonna hell.

“The proper wearing…”
The only thing you should be wearing properly is a habit. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.
“Fasten the cord…”
That’s fastenating!
“From a frontal view…”
More like full-frontal, heh heh
“To expose the lining, turn the velvet border to the outside as shown in Red and White.”
To expose yourself, spread your legs… show the Red, White, Pink, and Stink.
Srsly, guys. Why are ‘Red’ and ‘White’ capitalized? Are colors God? Yisss. Baruch atah adonai.
Ohhh, Jeez, I’m gonna hell.

The photo shoot was: fun, lighthearted, spontaneous, collaborative.

Silly, sexy. Sex me.

The images are mostly interactive and full of facial expression. Dynamic, borne out of Caleb and my dynamic. In the tongue-in-cheek photo below, my pursed lips, piercing eyes, and pointed elbow catapult me into an iconic space halfway between Rosie the Riveter and a pin-up harlot.

rosie riveter faceless

It’s funny, then, that the image I chose for my business cards is faceless, nameless, disengaged. Caleb catching me in a private, transitional moment when I am pulling my underwear back up in conclusion, not performing for an audience. It has an air of voyeurism and authenticity. Like catching someone with a bite of food in her mouth, only sexier. My head floats into the fence, bleeds into the background, and you don’t know what I’m thinking. I reserve the right to be both a disembodied fuckhole and human. As you gaze past me, you arrive at the name of my blog—my personal narrative. Draw your finger over the line from the nape of my neck down the valley of my back, and you end up inside me. Wanna bend me over and spread me open a bit? I thought so.

indefensebuttpreviewfullscreenedit

Recently I saw the movie The Punk Singer about Bikini Kill’s Kathleen Hanna, and a few months later I saw her speak! An astute and accessible feminist, she began creating cultural commentary as a disgruntled visual art student at Evergreen State College. In one poignant piece, she juxtaposed an image of a forlorn, topless teen girl in portrait with one of housewives gleefully sewing, aerobicizing, and chatting on the phone. The caption she added was, “Pretend you like it; believe you like it.” Implying that single, sexually exposed females are more liberated by virtue of self-awareness. Awareness that the oppressive roles they serve are independent of their desires. To Kathleen Hanna’s art piece, I would add: “verify you like it,” with my crusty underwear as photographic evidence. As Caleb snapped photos of me, I stripped from my graduation robe to lingerie, changed into a new outfit, repeated, and eventually stripped to full nudity. With each on-camera costume change, I fought the urge to slide fingers inside myself as I dislodged fabric from my sticky slit. Each pair of underpants creamier than the previous.

Sexploitation, ha ha.

I think about how women are devalued for seeking sex. Told that if they are giving it away for free, it must be attention that they really want. Something about selling cheap. And it brings me to this Clarisse Thorne quote about sexual currency:

Women are expected to trade sex to men in exchange for support or romance. Women who don’t get a “good trade” (e.g. women who don’t receive a certain level of financial support or romance “in exchange for” sex) are seen as sluts… women are always expected to be looking for more emotional or financial investment from a guy, whereas men are always expected to be looking for more (or more so-called “extreme”) sex. Women who actively seek sex, or men who actively seek intimacy, are shamed…

–Clarisse Thorn, Towards my personal Sex-Positive Feminist 101

People need to learn to assess diverse sexual motivations outside of the reductive paradigm that assumes all sexual interactions are dictated by the gender binary and sexual equivalencies (i.e., that physical, monetary, and emotional resources are forms of sexual currency that can be exchanged for one another). Until then,

I don’t give a damn ‘bout my bad reputation
Never said I wanted to improve my station

-Joan Jett, Bad Reputation

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Self-subjectification, Part 1

SELF-SUBJECTIFICATION, PART 1

PASSIVITY

Like many female viewers, I had difficulty relating to the women in these films and their sexual preferences… they seemed to embody a sexuality that was foreign to me, one of extreme femininity: vulnerable yet hypersexual, passive but sexually desiring, ready for any sex act but without the impetus to make it happen. It seemed as if sex was happening “to” these women rather than with them or because of their choice or motivation.

–Dylan Ryan, How I Became a Feminist Porn Star

Growing up, I always sensed I was a sexual freak, a deviant. Queer was the only category that could contain my non-normative desires and concomitant identity. While there is a certain cachet in being a non-conformist as an adolescent and letting one’s proverbial “freak flag fly,” there is comfort in connectivity. I longed for representations of sexuality that resonated and, in the absence of positive female role models, depended on my male friends to ground me. Their sexuality seemed easier, less complicated. More in line with their desires and less constrained by societal expectations. They appreciated my directness and acuity in expressing myself. My female friends acted more judgmental, feared being guilty by association, accepted a more passive role in having their desires met, were boundary-makers rather than boundary-breakers (see: Josh Ackerman  & Doug Kenrick study), and were quite frankly alien to me. They fell prey to the ‘be sexy but not sexual’ dichotomy, and it seemed like they weren’t in on the joke: Guys who are worth your time like women who like sex and who are unashamed of expressing their sexuality; those who fear being emasculated are too wrapped up in their egos to prioritize pleasing you. I wanted my sex life to be about pleasure and exploration, rather than regret and reputation. Yet women are taught how to say “no” before learning that it is okay to say “yes.” Sexual safety is not limited to the ability to protect yourself against unwanted advances or unintended consequences; it includes the freedom to share and enact your desires without shame or social sanctions.

REPRESENTATION

 I recall watching porn and thinking that I had something to offer to it. With very few exceptions, the porn I had seen felt empty, inauthentic, and not representative of my sexuality and the kind of sex I was having. I honestly thought that I could change to movies for the better.

–Dylan Ryan, How I Became a Feminist Porn Star

I’ve never been able to pinpoint whether I’m unique in my sexual needs or my need to express my rather tame sexuality. Are others afraid of diverging in a way that renders them ruined or are they simply cookie-cutter automatons who don’t think critically about their sexuality in relation to social standards? All I know is, I depict myself in a way that gives people pause and enables them to open up to me. When I talk about sex, people respond. And I don’t think it’s because I’m a cute girl talking about dirty things; it is because I’m a cute girl asserting that sex isn’t dirty. That the ubiquitous shouldn’t be forced underground. This blog has been an outlet for me and a sounding board for others. While it doesn’t come across online because no one comments, people do approach me in person. I’m always surprised by how much friends-of-friends and acquaintances are willing to share—and that more often than not I can relate. One sexually wild, socially conservative friend-of-friend offered, “You know how sometimes you make a mistake with a guy, then you do it again because you figure you might as well GET YOURS?” Yes, yes I do. Exchanges like this make me feel as if I am providing a public service: empowering people to be authentic with themselves and, ideally, to connect with others. To find community in confession.

INTELLECTUALIZATION

On the dawn of her first film release, a facebook friend crowdsourced on what she should name her burgeoning “educational smut” company. Multiple commenters implored her not to use her legal name—for protection and privacy. She cleverly countered, “Well, the idea is to de-stigmatize the industry, therein [lies] the philosophical/sociological discussion that we should have.” Let’s just take a moment to acknowledge that is it unsafe—physically, professionally, and in both custody and rape cases—for a woman to express her unadultered sexuality. Wow. Fuck the world.

It disturbs me to think that I have the freedom to detail and critique my sex life publicly, but my face is off limits. A woman can’t be a body and a brain, pretty and smart, sexual and taken seriously. The fact that I can only post headless pics on my blog demonstrates how little ownership we have over our bodies. The act of putting a face to my name would be considered making a bold STATEMENT, instead of letting a cohesive identity breathe. I’m worried that by being closeted, I’m reinforcing the very stigma I’m fighting to negate. Fragmenting our sexual and real life identities—separating higher order cognitive functions from animalistic urges—is the ultimate dehumanization.

Once upon a time, I posed for some “tasteful” nudie pics and submitted a version of “my pillow buddy: sad but true” for publication in C-Spot, my school’s sexual literary magazine. Had the publication actually hit the presses, my naked body would have been cloaked in—justified by—the following mission statement:

 

Our mission is to create a sex-positive revolution across college campuses. What do we mean by sex-positive? Students are encouraged by the mainstream to openly debate politics, religion, philosophy, etc. while the subject of sex still remains taboo. Western culture relegates sex to the same category of vices as drugs and alcohol. We are living in the 21st century and we think this matter needs to be addressed. We want to bring sex out of the private sphere and into the public sphere. We believe that sexual expression is a positive, healthy force in our lives, and it is necessary that universities also adopt this approach. We want sexuality to be treated as any other subject that we study in class. We want to apply the academic to the erotic.

-C-Spot Magazine

Let’s take a minute to acknowledge this, too: An educated woman must intellectualize her sexuality to dissociate herself from its base implications. As if mind and body are disparate matter; as if the food we consume isn’t converted into the energy that fuels and the tissue that comprises our brains. One day I hope to cease the charade of academic distance without reneging the credibility that intellectualization affords. Fuck Canada; let’s move to France where we can seamlessly fuse our profesh and personal identities, or at least allow them to remain separate. My blog doesn’t even make sense without physical context. Like, sorry not sorry, it is relevant that I am cute, little, white, and attractive by mainstream standards. A few years ago I received a solicitation in my comments:

dear k,
i’m a fan of your blog, and I’m writing here because i miss your postings. it has been 2 months since your last entry, and i’m tormented with the idea that you might have lost interest.
i’d also like to add that I would love to be a character of your stories. i’m male, 32, skinny, dark hair, live in boston but travel often to ny. i really hope to hear from you.
best wishes,
s

How does Simon know I am not ugly? Granted, I don’t behave as if I am hurting for sex, accepting pity fucks. But still, everyone has his/her preferences.

Here is the fucked up thing about pushing porn underground, assuming that we can distinguish between content and means of production: Ideally, we’d want performers who are empowered, love to fuck, and understand the cultural implications of what they are creating. As opposed to performers who are sex trafficked, desperate for money, or otherwise limited in their choices. Unfortunately, those who have the privilege to choose how they represent themselves sexually tend to have prestigious careers to protect. “Respected” or “productive” members of society are pressured to dissociate their “sex lives” from their “real lives.” Therefore, sexual stigma and secrecy increase the likelihood that the porn we consume is made in an exploitative way. The “lower class” and non-White do not have to worry about safeguarding their images; they were never afforded the assumption of chastity and virtue in the first place. (See: How to Lose Your Virginity for historical context on the exotification of POC.)

I’ll leave you with a quote on the false dichotomy between our personal and professional lives:

[We] insist on maintaining some kind of a priori divide between the fact that porn performers engage in on-camera sex and their humanity — their intelligence, their ambitions, their academic interests. “If I were a porn star and weren’t in school, people would hate me and say I have no future, while when financing school by doing sex work I’m getting told that I can’t do both,” Belle told The Cut. “So basically the narrative is you can’t be sexual and intelligent; you have to choose one.”

-Callie Beusman, Why Our Culture Jerks Off to College Porn but Hates College Porn Stars

The implication is that even performative sex should be integrated into our humanity.

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Homo Erectus

Homo Erectus (March 14, 2014)

 

Clyde: Hey, what are you up to next week? We should get together again…

Genie: [screenshots of a convo I had with one of our mutual friends a few days earlier]

evolution 1

evolution 2

Clyde: Oh no

Clyde: Did I break you

Genie: Ha ha ha, well at least no internal injuries this time.

Genie: Have been going to acupuncture for my back.

Clyde: Oh man! I’m sorry

Clyde: I really had fun I wish my dick didn’t ruin your body

Genie: Thanks. Not your fault.

Clyde: Still bummed

Genie: Well your dick didn’t ruin my body per se. Was actually satisfied for days afterwards, so there is that.

Genie: Yeah, bummer.

Clyde: Could be worth it

Clyde: I want you again but it may not be a good idea if you get hurt days later

Genie: Yeah, I mean I want you too. The situation is just silly, like irreconcilable mechanical differences.

elephant chihuahua

 

To review, I’ve found delightfully apropos images when searching for “elephant cock” and “elephant chihuahua.” We’re all familiar with rule 34 of the universe: if it exists, there is porn of it. Let’s add: everything exists, and it is on the internet.

xkcd.com/305/

xkcd.com/305/

Paul, you did this to me! No, I definitely did this to myself when I yelled, “FUCK ME HARDERR!!!”

 

Addendum (April 16, 2014)

Paul: How is Clyde?

Genie: Clyde?

Paul: Clyde McManus.

Genie: Did you read the post I sent you the link to?

Paul: I think so.

Genie: Not being able to walk or sneeze or laugh for three days is one thing: it’s totally worth it. Last time, I was crippled for one month. I spent 400 dollars on acupuncture.

Paul: You should send him the invoices.

Genie: Seriously.

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Self-objectification

Because I am applying to medical school, I must be a brain without a body.

Recently I attended various feminist film screenings, and decided I must have business cards to connect with like-minded folk. I selected prospective images from among a photo shoot I did with a friend whom I dated in grad school. Somewhat ironically, a self-objectifying image ended up being the winner. I say that in the passive voice on purpose.

Faceless, nameless.

image contender

image contender

image contender

image contender

indefensebuttpreviewfullscreenedit

finished “product”

 

 

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In Your Face

LIVE PORN

Spring, 2006

Genie: hey nick, you know what i love about myself

Genie: when most people look at porn they are like, this is like sex, but on tv… when i have sex i’m like, this is like porn, but in real life

Nick: i think most ppl look at porn and think this isn’t like sex at all

Nick: but since i’ve got my dick in my hand anyway, i might as well jerk off

 

IN YOUR FACE

February, 2009

Soon after my V Day hook up with Andy, I scrawled this on a piece of paper. Tried to transcribe this as faithfully as possible. It might be a little scrambled on account of my handwriting looking like this.

inyourface

I have to admit that I recently set up a sexual experience according to porn preferences. I was at that stage where I was so close but just couldn’t orgasm and was at a loss as to what I should do, what would push me over the edge, what would be the tipping point. I consulted that which was most accessible to me—I thought, ‘What would jesus do?’ Ha, no—I thought, ‘What would get me off if I were watching porn?’

I half-jokingly think of hook ups in terms of masturbatory material anyway. In effect, I posed the experience according to what I could get off to later—maximizing its utility. But, blurring the line between art imitating life and life imitating art, the hotness of the real life experience was determined by what would be hot from a third-person perspective.

Really, I thought ‘I have to be as inundated with cock as possible, what position will enable this?’ I want to smell cock and have it polished in my face. As options narrow, come face-to-face. The tease and immediacy. The physical constraint. The omnipresence and inescapability—an orgasm predetermined by persistence. “STRADDLE MY FACE,” I demanded. He questioned me, questioned if it was what I really wanted (intended). Was it? Well, it got the job done. But would I prefer that something else did?

As a porn watching people, we have grown accustomed to being voyeurs as well as participants, and our objective yet acculturated eye bleeds into the arena of active participation. POV staging has become so embedded in our collective thought processes, our personal pornographic narrative that it is easy to invent a sexual experience on the spot and view it in a sequentially counterintuitive manner—as if it were masturbatory material after the fact. Granted, I am an extremely visual person, but I can’t help but think that my body has been trained to react.

 

AN OFFERING

March, 2009

Genie: so here is one of the reasons i miss the redhead so much: he had like no refractory period so i could blow him and he’d cum then we had sex and he would cum again. i got the show and he got the orgasms. it was perfect.

Josh: wow

Genie: part two of a ten-part series of why i miss the red head is that before he came he would ask me what i wanted him to do with it, like it was an offering. how considerate.

Josh: where to deposit his gift

what is your usual answer?

Genie: not even like, “what do you want me to do with this cum?” more like, “my penis is going to expire in two minutes. what do you want to do with it before then?”

no face and no mouth, anyplace else is delightful

Josh: oh ha

its nice giving a warning

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Heart Shaped Vagina, Part 2

HEART SHAPED VAGINA, PART 2

 

OBJECTIONABLE MATERIAL

December 31st, I sent Andy the link to my blog and he replied, “read the most recent post. excellent.” Thereby approving of my writing endeavor!

February 16, 2009

Daria: true

how was your party?

me: it was fun and Andy is an amazing fuck

Daria: awesome

me: but he was upset that he was in my blog

he said he felt violated

Daria: oh, that sucks

I wouldn’t have thought he would be the type to care

me: i agreed to take down the list of his tattoos, because those are identifying characteristics, but i told him i wouldn’t take down the conversation

yeah, me neither

he said he doesn’t give a fuck what our mutual friends know (and i told him that you guys pretty much constitute my whole viewership), but he is worried about work

Daria: oh, I see

me: i just don’t see how anyone except for people i know would ever be able to figure out who he was from the conversation

Daria: I agree

me: he is a red head with a red cat and he works with computers, that is all it says

now he is hesitant to tell me shit because he doesn’t want it posted.

Daria: that sucks

me: yeah. what he doesn’t get, not to sound like a huge narcissist, is that my blog is about me, not him. as in, i present the guys in such a way so that they are merely a vehicle of self-disclosure.

i guess it isn’t such a big deal because he still came over on saturday even after he read the blog. he didn’t mention it until the next morning. maybe he can get over it.

Daria: yeah, I hope he can

me: i think the fact that he misinterpreted something i said in person might help

Daria: what did you say?

me: thirty seconds post coital (when i still had cum on my neck/face) i was like “this is perfect. i’m so glad i found you.” and for the next nine hours he persisted to be extremely smug. i insisted that i had said “this is perfect,” not “you are perfect,” but he chose to interpret otherwise. he asked “when you said this did you mean this moment or our sexual chemistry?”

i think he will continue to fuck me, regardless of feeling violated, because of the ego-stroking factor

Daria: awesome, well that’s what’s important

me: i wouldn’t answer his question, because as a sexual narcissist i refuse to be an enabler

Daria: haha

me: his ego can’t be inflated more than mine

me: i found this review on sexherald for this strange product: a blowjob mirror. it has a hole in which to insert a dick and you use it so you can see yourself blowing a guy. but the mirror is puzzling for two reasons, the first being that when i suck dick, i think have a good view. granted, i can’t see my face, but i can definitely see what i am doing.

the second thing that confuses me (and in the product review they complained only that it was distracting to hold the mirror in place) is that once you drool on a mirror, you can’t see in it. obviously blow jobs produce copious amounts of drool, so the mirror would only work for approximately thirty seconds.

Daria: that sounds like a completely useless product for sure

me: and there is the whole ridiculous factor insofar as it bears too much similarity to the narcissicius myth. but maybe i just feel that way because of how i feel about blowjobs. either way, i think it would be distracting and would make you give worse head, in a paris hilton porn sort of way.

Daria: probably true

 

THREESOMES AND FANTASIES

February 20, 2009

me: last night i sent Mike, my gay boyfriend the link to my blog

Daria: oh nice

you posted some stuff about him, right?

the cum stuff?

me: he asked if i was worried about guys finding it. and i was like, you mean like you?

yes, the cum guy

Daria: did he say anything about the cum part

me: i’m not sure how far he got in his reading

i think i forgot to tell you the only bad thing about Andy besides the “your world” shit

Daria: what’s that?

me: Andy told me he knows other red jews and i immediately responded “you have a community of red jews? CAN WE HAVE A THREESOME!?!”

apparently, we can’t

Daria: why not?

is he against threesomes?

me: he said he would only have a two-guy threesome if it was about exploring his sexuality. obv i want threesomes to be about exploring my sexuality. he said he wouldn’t be comfortable fucking a girl with another guy. what a disappointment. i suppose community does not equal commune.

Daria: what about a threesome with a redheaded female?

does he know any of those?

me: “some guys just can’t do it. they’re emotionally or sexually unimaginative
but then there are various degrees of sexual orientation, too”

that’s what mike said when i explained the Andy situation to him

to which i responded, “oh mike, please tell me about the degrees of sexual orientation.”

Daria: hahaha

me: is mike for real? i offered to blow him with another girl!

and he is informing me about the fluidity of sexual orientation

about the red girl thing, i’m not sure if andy knows any, he didn’t specify

but he is fine with two-girl threesome

in fact, after my party we were at a bar with his friends and he said something kind of weird

he was like “i was worried that this other girl who i slept with was going to come and it would have been awkward. but she sort of likes girls too, so i figured it would be okay.”

Daria: that is kind of weird

me: guys don’t normally tell me that maybe they were going to see another girl they slept with

like why bring it up

but then he made it hot

he asked me if i would like it if he fantasized about me and another girl

Daria: nice

me: and i was like “as a sexual narcissist, thinking about you fantasizing about me is almost better than thinking about it happening.”

Daria: awesome

me: he also told me this incredibly hot story about how once he had this online conversation with one of his girl friends/acquaintances and was like “start masturbating now, i will too, and in five minutes when i’m ready to cum i’m going to call you, you are going to hear me cum, then i am going to hang up.”

creepy but hot

Daria: definitely hot

me: way hotter than my adolescent phone masturbation relationship with my hs boyfriend

 

HOW TO FUCK GENIE INSTRUCTION MANUAL

February 20, 2009

me: did i tell you that while I was blowing him he asked me if i liked blowing him or having red pubes in my face more

Daria: yes

me: which i found puzzling

Daria: because you do both

me: well, yes, because they aren’t mutually exclusive. and also obv i like his dick more. pubes are like a frame and what is a frame without a picture.

i realized later

that the reason he asked is he read my blog entry

on red hair

and i talk extensively about the fire bush in it

Daria: true, you do

me: i know people sometimes trim for themselves, but it seemed like Andy had trimmed for me and i was flattered

the weird thing about stuff with Andy is now i have to wonder how much of what he does to me he has researched in my blog

because also he said he was going to rip my tights off in the appropriate places

Daria: ooh nice

me: and i talk about that in my blog

Daria: right

you do

I guess this is maybe something to get used to now that you have this blog

overall it seems like a plus though

right?

me: ha ha. yeah, but sort of lame if it becomes a “here is how to seduce and fuck genie” instruction manual.” like, here is how to be the kind of creep that genie likes.

Daria: right

me: sort of like my “fuck genie on valentine’s day” party

Daria: haha

 

AUTHENTICITY

February 25, 2009

Davey: sex blog going well?

me: better than sex

have you checked it out?

the problem with my blog is, of course, i can’t post current things because that changes current situations

i recently wondered whether a guy did certain things to me because he read my blog

Davey: hmm

thats an interesting situation

was he copying old moves?

me: well he told me he was going to rip my tights off. i have this entry about how i used to get off to that in, like, middle school.

still hot.

i just question the authenticity.

Davey: i gotcha

me: maybe i can get him to do other things i used to get off to in middle school, like making guys wear my underwear

we’ll put that in an entry and hope for the best

Davey: what kind of underwear do you sport these days?

cuz i think boys would have a hard time wearing your undies

me: ha ha, well actually currently i am wearing the american apparel boy short kind, so boys would look cute in those. but it think the fantasy was more like guys in way skimpier underwear, but it had to be mine. i used to have dreams about one of my hs classmates in a very specific pair of my underwear which i will never throw out because it has sentimental value, and i am sweet like that.

Davey: well thats very cute

 

ECHO CHAMBER OF SHAME

March 16, 2009

Josh: were you publicly humiliated?

me: in a middle school-style boy drama sort of way

fuck the new “highlights” section of fb

the “highlight” of my week was finding a pic of the red head i was fucking with this girl from [high school] who is sort of my arch nemesis

and she is ugly! which makes it worse. because what will people think about

me? what will i think of myself?

Josh: but how were they with each other?

could just be a picture

me: so, yes, very adolescent and even more embarrassing because it is embarrassing how

upset i am about something so petty

Josh: yeah

an echo chamber of shame

me: hmm, well the night after i asked our mutual friend who was with them (and who introduced me to him in the first place) and she seemed to think it was more than just a series of pictures and knew at the time that it was going to be a problem, but

couldn’t figure out how to intervene

exaclty

and now he is damaged goods to me

Josh: soiled

me: there is a degrassi episode about how i feel

that’s how middle school this situation is

if it was a pic of him and anyone else it wouldn’t have evoked this rage

and i had such high hopes for him and his neon orange pubes

Josh: haha

lets call them cheetos

bc what could evoke a grosser image than that

Josh: feel free to use that term in your sex blogging

me: the only good thing about this red head thing potentially being over is now i can blog

about it

me: i think my blog has become more of a masturbation blog than a sex blog

Josh: how telling

 

After shtupping my middle school arch nemesis, Andy proceeded to sleep with everyone I know, including Danny of ‘on demand’ fame’s sister. Oh, incestuous world!

Andy was the first to use my blog as sex instruction manual, and Danny the first to order off it as a menu.

Still unsure how I feel about sex that seems scripted. Or staged, if you will. And that is the segue to my next post…

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Heart Shaped Vagina, Part 1

HEART SHAPED VAGINA, PART 1

 

OBLIGATORY

Ever the sexual opportunist, I organized a non-traditional Valentine’s Day party. Here’s an abridged version of the invite:

Event:

Not getting laid on Valentine’s Day?

Tagline:

A celebration of drinks and despair.

Description:

Skipping out on an over-priced meal and obligatory post-meal sex (the prostitution of polite society)? Despite publicly denouncing Valentine’s Day as a “meaningless, capitalist holiday” (and you believe it, too), you harbor bitter resentment for your coupled friends? Receiving an e-mail with this subject line prompted you to run to the bathroom to bawl?

Join me in my excessively pink apartment for pink drinks and despair.

I will have: strawberry vodka (not pink, but evocative of the color), strawberry yogurt, watermelon pucker, grenadine, white zinfandel (duh), etc.

Makeout music will be provided. Festive attire encouraged, as always.

Some guests refused to RSVP on facebook because they didn’t want to publicly announce they weren’t getting laid on Valentine’s Day.

 

February 4, 2009

Genie: i think i am having a v day party next weekend

Andy: do you have a date?

Genie: do you need to bring a date to an apt party at your own apt?

oh you kids these days

Andy: i’d like to show up knowing there wasn’t another guy courting you in the room as well

unless you get off on machismo competing for you

Genie: ooh, well i hadn’t even considered that, but competition is always welcome

i hear narcissists like that

really it is a party for drinks and despair, though

i suppose courting could be accommodated

Andy: i’ve been despairing for several valentines days in a row

would you like to be my valentine?

Genie: i thought you would never ask!

i hope this doesn’t entail over-priced dinner and obligatory post-dinner sex

Andy: i’m broke and nothing’s obligatory

Genie: perfect

Genie: i have to find a clever image for my fb invite

wow. google images “vagina heart”

i was expecting something more abstract

Andy: hahaahhaah

vagina heart

Genie: like the painting that jane adams’ character has on her wall in the movie the wackness

 

CREAM PIE

February 14, 2009

I prepared for my Valentine’s Day date with some arts ‘n crafts. Handmade gifts are more personal. My junior year of college, I came across this image on either creampie.com or creampies.com. The addresses now both direct to the same, porny site. Back in the day, one of the two addresses hosted a legit pastry business. Which I guess begrudgingly allowed the porno company to purchase its seemingly innocent name after it received loads (ha ha, loads) of inappropriate e-mails. Reminds me of the Sexy Cakes erotic bakery sketch from SNL. Should have totally combined those two businesses! This image is so beautiful, I hung it on my wall junior year. Nothing like a little female body appreciation.

heart shaped cream pie

vagina heart

For Andy, I flipped the image 180-degrees (as seen above), and voila: a vagina heart! I cut it out; mounted it on pink, red, and purple construction paper; added glitter glue and other embellishments; and with magic markers wished him a “Happy Valentine’s Day!” He thought it was lovely. Actually, hilarious. We are meant for each other.

Except, I was worried that he wouldn’t even show up. It was clear that he had gotten cold feet and there was all this posturing about “your world” v. “my world.” As if we a Rufus Humphrey and Lily van der Woodsen. Finally, he called me to tell me he was on his way; he was going over the Manhattan Bridge. I was confused: was he taking a taxi then a subway? It turns out that he lives in real Brooklyn where the subway in over-ground and he gets “one call from jail.” When he arrived, he admitted that he had groomed his friend to behave nicely on the UES. He insisted on calling Midtown the “Upper East Side.” Speculated on how I could “declassify” myself. Concluded that my friends and I were not snobs, after all. Duhh, I met him through my HS friends who are total slobs, wear pajamas all day, read fantasy novels, etc. None of us are even from the Upper East Side! Gahhh.

More annoying than dwelling on of the Great Class Divide, he persisted to steer the discussion toward his brilliance—how is a member of Mensa and the smartest in his family—even disclosing his IQ! Guess that is the adult equivalent of sharing SAT scores? Equally tiresome. Unfortunately for him, bragging about brilliance just ain’t classy. Besides, since I only associate with wealthy and well-connected Upper East Siders, I was unimpressed. Ha ha, as if. Ooooh, boy, I forgot the best part: He is a total rough-and-tumble Brooklyn-pride poseur. Turns out he is from Staten Island. Other than the New York Harbor, all that separated us was knowledge of the Wu Tang Clan and a few slang words. And our clothing, obviously.

My party traveled to a nearby bar, and we managed to sneak back to my place for our much-anticipated Valentine’s Day romp. Keeping him around was well worth it, despite his flaws. Once again, he got rock hard instantly then there was little variation. As I sucked his dick, he grabbed on to my necklace. Normally I’m not into BDSMy things. Specifically, holding down my head while I’m giving head is my no. 1 blowjob no-no. But, in this case the physical restraint was amazing. And I trusted him completely. He was very attentive to my reactions. My greatest fear was that he’d break my beaded necklace and I’d have to restring it. Soon I got so breathy I had trouble sucking him. He came, we fucked, and I had a little trouble getting there. I transitioned from Andy to my husband dildo; as he watched me fuck myself in a reclining position, he played with his cock a little. The visuals were sublime, but not quite enough. I ordered him to straddle and loom over me. (Read ‘In Your Face’ for details on staging.) Feeling him beat his balls against my chest—in combination with panoramic visual confrontation—was just the extra stimulation I needed. He timed himself perfectly: we came at the same time. Couldn’t have timed myself better to porn. What. A. Pro. Aiming at my neck, he overshot a little. Mmm. Maybe he estimated the distance according to how far he’d shoot alone. A goofy grin swept my face. Blissed out. Dazed. Moonstruck. Contented. I marveled, “This is perfect. I’m so glad I found you.” He let out a hearty laugh and I teased, “What, girls don’t normally say that to you when they have cum on their faces?”

The next morning, Danny woke me up early and requested morning sex. Which I politely declined. He insisted, “One day I’m going to fuck you to your senses and you’ll realize, ‘Wow, all this time I could have started my day like this.’” Fuck the sense into me? Ahahaha, precious. Never will I ever think, ‘All this time I could have started my day at 11 a.m.!’ He was the best sex since I dumped my college boyfriend a year and a half prior. Nevertheless, an unceremonious awakening is an unceremonious awakening, sex or none.

 

COMPENSATION

February 19, 2009

Charlie: ok so let me ask you this though

since i worry

i mean, i feel like if i ever fuck a girl

ill be pretty good

just bc

Charlie: i have seen SO much porn and am a really sexual person and just have so much pent-up sexual energy

but my q is

given that he has a small d

what does he do to like

make up for it as it were

or

do you not need to “make up for it”

Genie: i’m not sure he has to make up for it

i mean, the dildo i am married to is small

and i have other dildos

you can work on friction and angle more with small, whereas with big it is all about fullness

fullness is good, of course, but can get boring

desensitizing

Charlie: i see

as much sex as ive seen, at very close-up camera angles

i cant imagine how much more i have to learn

never having actually stuck my d inside anything other than a mouth

Genie: and perhaps a bottle of conditioner?

Charlie: hahahhaa

never a bottle of conditioner

Genie: andy told me he didn’t put shit in his hair bc i complained last time and so i ran my fingers through his hair and was like “you need conditioner.” apparently he constantly runs out bc he uses cond as lube. this was my plight in like middle school. but that was only bc you can ask your mom to buy you more cond, but if she constantly is asked to replenish lube she begins to wonder.

now that i can charge anything from the drugstore to my parents’ cc, no qs asked, it is lube aplenty.

actually, i don’t really use lube bc i have this theory about it, but if i did i would think i was old enough to purchase actual lube, not pantene pro-v with vitamins a and c!

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Vomit for Sex, Part 2

VOMIT FOR SEX, PART 2

 

MORNING AFTER (February 7, 2009)

We woke up to sunshine soaking our bodies. You know that Cake lyric, “With fingernails that shine like justice.” His pubes shone like justice. They are ever brighter than his head hair. Neon orange. Never had I ever seen pubes lighter/brighter than head hair. It was confusing. And magical. Mommy, I caught a real, live leprechaun!

While I was admiring his crotch tinsel, he commented on how flaccid he was. Like, “Have you ever woken up to such a flaccid penis before? Feel that. It’s soooo flaccid.” Eh, he had been drinking. I was unfazed. At least he had a sense of humor about his small penis, which garnered him twenty Genie points on top of the one hundred he had already earned for being a phenomenal fuck. The night before when I pulled out the dildo to whom I’m married, Andy assessed, “I’m not threatened by that.” And I questioned, “Why? Because it is tiny?” His response: “I was going to say it is the exact same size as my penis, but if you want to put it that way.” As we lay in bed contemplating his morning-after hanging foliage, he shared a story about how he gets self-conscious peeing next to alpha males at work because his penis ceases to exist when it is flaccid. As if his coworkers are vying to sneak a peak at his firebush. Oh, Andy. You’re ridiculous.

He tried to convince me to have sex with him again before he left. Too bad I hate morning sex and he woke me up extra early. As a concession, I told him he could jerk off in front of me. He declined my thoughtful offer. We ended up chatting in bed for over an hour, at which point I told him I was getting hungry and asked if he wanted to go out and get food with me. His response: “I have to ejaculate before breakfast. It’s my morning routine.” Whaaaa? You aren’t even remotely hard. And I asked you if you wanted to jerk off an hour ago. You said no! I reminded him of this, and he claimed he had only declined because he hadn’t believed he couldn’t convince me to have sex with him. So I confirmed that we really weren’t going to fuck that morning and told him to be quick; I was hungry. I lay on his chest as he rattled his dick around. It was so much hotter than I expected. Gingers get extra super red, and so much breathing! I helped out a little bit with my hand. He came on himself and it glistened like his crotch tinsel. Being the empath that I am, watching him and being so involved, I was like, “Fuccck, now I need to get off too. Ejaculate before breakfast, so to speak.” So I announced that we were going to shower together and that I was going to get off in the shower as per my morning routine. Was killing two birds with one stone. He smelled like a mildewy distillery and that is no way to partake in bagels.

We showered; I lost my nerve. Mostly because it didn’t seem practical to get off with another human being in the shower unless I found a step stool of sorts so I could face him. This showerhead cord just isn’t long enough. With Andy, you can ask anything. I asked if I could get off alone. He resisted a little until I wrapped my arms around him and asked cutely (which I wasn’t even conscious of). He was like, “Now that you want something from me, you are being affectionate for the first time all morning.” When I got out of the shower and he tried to be affectionate, I didn’t really react. He was like, “Look at that: you are all post-coital; you have no use for me.” Post-coital is a funny way to describe someone post getting off in shower.

Once we had both unloaded, we went out for a totes romantic Jewish breakfast. He even paid for my egg salad and Yoo Hoo. It was like a proper date. During which he relayed that he remembered little about the previous night and apologized for his rudeness in asking how it was. Predictable considering he passed out. After cumming twice at like 4:30 a.m.

The best part of the morning was when my mom opened my door to collect my well-kept kitty, who used to travel back and forth from my apartment to my parents’ apartment for maximal attention. It isn’t even as if Andy saw my mom or she saw him. Nevertheless, he was freaked out. I liked it! I’ve never seen him look vulnerable before. He is so casual about sex. Humanizing moment.

February 9, 2009

A few days later, we had a sex recap. Andy asked me thoughtful questions about my sexuality. I got to explain my blog, specifically its purpose and what constitutes fodder for it. Fun. Nothing like having an analytical conversation about sex with a guy who is a sexual superstar.

Genie: are you aware that fashionable women can now subject themselves to labia liposuction?

Andy: get the fuck out

thats absurd

Genie: apparently large labia can be the impetus for loss of self esteem

and unsightly vaginal bulges are as unsightly as any

i just wrote an article on this

Andy: theyre the worst bulges of them all

Genie: ha

it boggles my mind that female genitalia beautifying surgery involves minimizing and male genitalia beautifying surgery involves enhancing. so socially telling.

Andy: may i ask you an introspective analytical question that may sound very personal, but im really asking for your objective opinion?

or even better, can i spend the next hour writing detailed disclaimers before every remark i make?

Genie: yes, all of the above

are you going to ask me about my large labia?

Andy: hahahaha, i thought there was nothing irregular about your labia

your labia rivals the pouridge of a baby bear

in it’s just rightedness

Genie: aw, cute

so, ask away

Andy: theres that charm i’ve so captivated you with lol.. comparing your vagina to stolen breakfast

who was that thief? goldilocks?

heres the question-

do you believe everyone should express their sexuality the way you do and that most people are repressing it, or do you think that you have a greater sex drive than most and etc.?

Genie: ooh, that’s a fantastic question, but one which i cannot answer, for i wonder the same thing myself

am i suppose to say something insightful?

since i am studying to be a psychologist?

Andy: yep

Genie: oh, no. i am a failure!

Genie: i think sex drive is pretty impossible to quantify, esp in women

like we could measure my testosterone but not my desire

Andy: your communicating, experimenting, actively seeking of it

Genie: and, and of course i don’t think everyone SHOULD express their sexuality like i do. that is so prescriptive. but i think that maybe if everyone expressed their sexuality openly, theirs would appear more like mine.

Andy: none of it actually speaks to whether or not someone who doesn’t do those things as openly is completely horny all of the time

ok, so we’ve drawn the same 2 possible conclusions about this

Genie: i’m not as open as i seem

i am only open about certain things

Andy: are you holding back with me?

Genie: no, it’s not that exactly. what i mean is i am open about physical things, especially as it pertains to fucking bodies or bizarre and unpleasant sexual experiences–anything that can be mocked because it is meaningless. but if you asked me about relationship shit, i would turn into stone.

i want to be a cold, unfeeling jerk, besides emotions are such passive chick bullshit. i am loosely paraphrasing chuck palahniuk, my hero.

Andy: i understood what you meant. i mean in general, being you, expressing anything, we haven’t interacted much and i cant tell if you’re being yourself completely yet

hes my hero too

i get all fucked up and crazy when im reading his books

Genie: you wile out?

Andy: hahahahaha- exactly

Genie: i urban dictionaried that today in attempt to bridge our communication

Andy: aw

Genie: i’m not sure what “being yourself” means. obviously i act different ways around different people.

Andy: everyone does

Andy: are you going to write about the other night?

Genie: i mostly only write about repulsive experiences

good ones don’t make for captivating newsprint

and i sort of like presenting myself in a negative light

i want to be the great american sexual antihero

one who does reprehensible and humiliating things to get off

Andy: tucker max

Genie: yes, except a good writer

and also, i have a way better puking on dick story with an exchange of painful e-mails to go along

Andy: from friday??

Genie: girls need a sexual antihero. all the outrageous stories about female sexuality are about girls getting taken advantage of or girls naively putting themselves into situations they can’t handle.

do you think i puked on your dick?!?

Andy: no!

nevermind

Genie: wait, so what did you mean?

Andy: i asked if you were going to write about it and you said you had a better story. thought you were insinuating from the same evening

Genie: and do you think that humiliation incurred upon puking on a dick is inversely proportional to penis size?

no, my dick puke story is from my wild college days

obviously

Andy: it should be

all you really said about the other night was i was really hard, how’d you enjoy it?

my being drunk is a heavily-weighted variable

Genie: how did i enjoy your dick?

ha, nice try with lowering the expectations

Andy: haha, its true

my perception can be different than reality. i would just feel bad if it were just some drunk selfish thrusting about

Genie: ha ha, it was mostly fun. until you passed out.

Andy: haha, during?

Genie: no, not exactly. you came a second time and i asked you if you were scared of dildos and said something along the lines of “no, i just want to make you happy.” then i commenced fucking dildos and i needed help because i am too weak to fuck dildos myself after a night of sex. so i asked for your assistance and you were non responsive. then i moved your arm and it fell down limp.

Andy: hahaha, okay

well, apologies my dear

Genie: and i contemplated what to do with your cummy-condom bearing dick and cold, uncovered body

Andy: :/ so sad

Genie: but i figured if i covered you and the condom fell off, my covers would be covered in cum

so i left you untouched

Andy: :-O

you put a blanket on me

Genie: the positive part of you passing out was i was like great well i don’t have to feel self conscious about doing this now

except i felt like such a fucking loser for being so weak

Andy: cut it out

Genie: i need to get arm exercise other than dildo-fucking

seriously

it isn’t a problem by myself, though, because my arms aren’t pre-used

my vag muscles are so strong and the rest of my body is like silly putty

Andy: btw, you know, you have to understand that you’re a little intimidating (e.g. having just read your thoughts on using people of my race) and you did ask me in the beginning if i’d care

haha, i like your vagina

[his “race” being gingers]

Genie: intimidating? like you think you have some standard to uphold?

well, thank you. i like your penis.

are you intimidated because you aren’t used to people of your race being put on such a pedestal?

Andy: both

Genie: well i have had repulsive red-head experiences, thoroughly repulsive ones, so i don’t come with extra expectations

but you have restored my hope

that i too can adopt a red-haired baby, one day

Andy: the sex part or the human part

oh, the im adopted part

Genie: yes!

and all i want eventually is a red-haired baby and it has come to my attention that i may not be able to produce one myself, i may be red-head barren

Andy: i question if i can ever adopt

your kids come w/ a shit-ton of baggage

Genie: yeah, i know. i have adopted friends. i gravitate to them, apparently.

Andy: we gravitate to each other as well

Genie: ooh, is your community of red-haired jews adopted?

Andy: lol, i should start a club. i actually know at least 4 others but none are adopted

Genie: aw, too bad

Andy: im a commodity i guess.. a lot harder than those cheap chinese imports

Genie: ha ha, and those mexicans from texas

i have seriously always wanted to adopt

Genie: by the way, one of my litmus tests for determining whether a guy could be a long term partner is whether or not he’d be willing to adopt

if a guy said no i would assume he didn’t really want to have kids

and since i had such a shitty dad my main criteria in finding a guy is that he actually wants to be a father

not that he wants some trophy kid

Andy: Yeah, my dad wasn’t around much so I have the same ideas but what if tyler durdens right?

scary thought

Genie: right about what?

Andy: that this fatherless generation of mother raised boys shouldnt procreate

b/c we’ll never know how to be better fathers like we think we can

SWOOOON.

 

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Vomit for Sex, Part 1

VOMIT FOR SEX, PART 1

And now for a flashback to the heyday of my sexual shenanigans. Let’s turn the clock back to the eve of 2009.

 

December 31, 2008

Daria strongly encouraged me to hook up with Andy of ‘if it turns out you’re a bitch, i’d still fuck you’ fame.

Daria: you should hook up with Andy because he specified that he thinks watching girls get off is the hottest thing ever

Genie: i would be amazed if I got sex out of this. because our whole exchange was one of those “just kidding, but not really” things. my mantra.

 

January 7, 2009

A week later I asked him out.

Andy: what do you have in mind?

Genie: I don’t have ideas, only impulses.

 

January 21, 2009

We finally made plans for a specific night.

Andy: i hope you’re ready for friday

Genie: ready for friday? how do I prepare? by giving up compulsive masturbation?

He flaked out on me. Good thing I don’t believe in orgasm budgeting.

 

December 31, 2008

I would be remiss to tell this story without any foreshadowing. Remember, part of what attracted me to Andy was seeing the video of his vomiting up a bottle of soy sauce the night before we met. And after we tentatively agreed to fuck, he specified that he wasn’t into vomit sexually. Refer to ‘if it turns out you’re a bitch, i’d still fuck you’ for conversational context.

Genie: ha ha, you’re saying you prefer kinky and gross sex but you think I can handle it?”

Andy: I just meant altogether bad and weird, but yeah- sometimes that too. not vomiting or urination or anything but sure

Well, it turns out he isn’t into vomit during sex, but you gotta do what you gotta do to prepare for sex.

 

NIGHT OF (February 6, 2009)

On February 6th, 2009 at 3:20 a.m., I got home from a night out with my friends and methodically laid out the game plan for the rest of my evening: 1) ingest sleeping pill (Lunesta), 2) get off before pill kicks in, and 3) go to sleep. There is about a 15-minute window before the meds impair my ability to get off, and that is plenty of time. I completed step 1, leisurely brushed my teeth and washed up, and then my phone interrupted me! It was 3:30 a.m. Andy proposed, “Let’s have gratuitous sex.” I told him I wished he had called literally three minutes earlier because I had just taken my sleeping meds and I now only had a 12-minute window in which I could get off easily. I asked how soon he could come over. Was he right outside my window? Sadly, he was downtown and would have to take a cab to Midtown, which he insisted on referring to as the “Upper East Side.” Undeterred, he instructed me, “Puke. It. Up.”

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I don’t think I’ve talked about this on my blog much, not because I’m ashamed of my past but because it is just that: my past. When I was in high school, I had a serious eating disorder. Let’s call it bulimarexia. It doesn’t affect my life in any way now. Some of the behaviors have lingered, like performing surgery on my food before ingesting it. The self-destructive thoughts are in the very distant past; eating is no longer a chore and my relationship with my body is delightful. Thank you, sex, for helping me appreciate what my body can do for me.

Because of my grisly past, I am an EXPERT puker. You know how in the cautionary (I mean, instructional) material they give you in health class, one of the telltale signs of bulimia (along with worn-off tooth enamel) is “bite marks” on the back of a hand? That is such amateur hour. Seasoned bulimics do not have to shove fingers down their throats to vomit. You just lean over the toilet, contract your stomach in a wavelike motion, and use your hand to break the fall to ensure there is no splashback. Hey, no one ever said eating disorders are glamorous. Soo orgasmic, though. Those rhythmic contractions and the ensuing feeling of emptiness and relief. Makes me kinda cream my pants a little.

_________________________________________________________________________________

I felt obliged. After all those years of puking for no good reason—irrational fear of fatness. Finally the opportunity to puke for a good cause: VOMIT FOR SEX! I would pay my dues for daily self-destruction. Redeem myself via the ultimate purifying ritual.

I told Andy I would call him back in two minutes to report the success of vomiting. Hanging up, I contemplated the situation: I had no choice. I was planning to masturbate my way to sleep before he called. If I didn’t have sex with him, it would be like turning down red-haired sex to masturbate. Don’t wanna be that kind of LOSER!

Entering my apartment, he grabbed me. Shoved me against a wall. Without any talking, we made out. I led him to my bedroom. He was assertive and amazing. Though things were a little fumbly and communication was a challenge because he was plastered. He literally smelled like a distillery. And his knuckles were bright red from being a drunk asshole who punched a cab because the driver observed the 4-person rule.

His penis was especially small but high functioning. Yes, I am using the term “high functioning” to mock him for incessantly bragging about his high IQ and Mensa membership, in order to compensate for his alleged lack of socioeconomic class. He had nothing to be insecure about. If nothing else, his penis was “brilliant.”  Not to mention, he read my non-verbal cues fluently. He got harder than almost anyone I’ve ever been with. Within thirty seconds he was ‘you can break things on my dick’ hard. Which made it difficult to predict when he was gonna cum but also made me want it more. He had no refractory period. I sucked him to completion then fucked him to completion within rapid succession. After sucking him off, I was content with the idea sex might be off the table; he got rock hard again within two minutes despite his incredible wastednesss. The next morning he spoke about how sore his cock was. Probs because it was filled with sooo much blood. And who knows what he even did with it before visiting me.

Andy was a master ass fingerer. Makes sense because he mentioned ass fingering is one of his things. His technique was unique. I had received unsolicited fingers up my ass before, but never during sex. He slid them in during doggystyle; it was the ultimate enhancement. Though, like many before him, he forgot to spit on them first. PSA: asses are not self-lubricating! After adjusting for his blunder, things heated up quickly. We both got breathy and thrusty. He pulled it out of me and I got panicky like, “Fuccck, I’m getting close. Put it back in.” Then, in a split second, he shoved it my butt. Bluntly. No lube. I don’t think it was supposed to be surprise anal; he probably figured his fingers were prep enough. No matter how small a penis is, it’s always substantially bigger than fingers. You have to lube up and coax and asshole before you go to town. He thrusted feverishly and firmly, and after I could compile a sentence, I screamed, “I can’t handle that.” Immediately he exited me, but the moment was already ruined. Like I was in physical and mental shock. It would take me a while to get back to where I was. He committed the cardinal sin of anal: back-to-front. And with a few more thrusts, he was done. At least I got to enjoy his dick sucking. Though he was especially thrusty with that too, and I had to tell him multiple times not to face fuck me.

The most pitiful part of the evening is that he passed out almost immediately after cumming the second time. He was done and I was like, “Are you scared of dildos?” He responded, “No, I just want to make you happy. So I commenced dildo fucking. But the problem is, I am so weak post-sex when my arms are pre-used that I am a terrible dildo-fucker. I asked for his assistance and he was non-responsive. I asked again. Nothing. I moved his arm and it fell down limp. I realized he was asleep. Which was good in that I didn’t have to be self-conscious about the situation, but depressing in that it was so hard to get off and I felt so pathetic. I wondered whether all the shaking would wake him up. Nope. Unlike Davey of ‘Special Now?’ and ‘Mangina’ fame, he does fall asleep on girls masturbating.

He passed out on his back, uncovered, with cummy condom on. I considered condom removal and whether I should cover him. But I figured if I covered him and the condom slipped off, my covers we be slathered in spoiled semen.

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