Roundup (NSFW)

Because good ideas blurted out in 140-chars need to be rehashed and expanded.

By now, anybody with a functioning cortex should be able to deduce that I talk about sex, a lot. By extrapolation, I most probably tweet about it, too. During one of my online dildo-shopping jaunts I discovered that most of these pleasure implements were made out of glass. Now, the thought of using something made of such fragile material evokes horrifying images of shredded vaginal flesh. The proprietors try to reassure me with soothing text about how Lucite, acrylic, art glass and Pyrex are “made to withstand temperature extremes and mild bumps”.

pickle dildo

you need to eat some veggies.

Pyrex, you say? Oh yes, dildos are made of the same space-age shit people microwave and bake food in. Technology is full of amazing contradictions, like Mr. Peace Prize Alfred Nobel inventing dynamite. With some imagination, an enterprising trigger-happy inventor could build one out of Lexan bulletproof-glass. Perfect for the harried hooker who gets all her gear messed up when the po-lice come barging in with their semi-automatics on fire, looking for the druggie pimp.

They caution against vigorous use, however, as this can cause severe wear and tear on these sensual art pieces. I wonder what their metrics for “vigorous” are. Septuagenarian sex doesn’t sound vigorous, but I doubt if these people comprise the prime demographic for dildo marketers. Anyway, advantages of glass-made dildos include their ability to provide novel sensations: they’re rock-hard, and you can warm them up like a comfy water bottle, or ice ‘em up like a bucket of sub-zero beer. Best of all, they’re dishwasher-safe. These crafty sex entrepreneurs think highly of their customers’ convenience and their product’s ease of use.

Now, I don’t own a dishwasher (we have these clumsy, manual, fleshy ones called hands) but if I had one, I ain’t putting that in with the eating utensils. Talk about eating you out (pun alert).

That reflex reaction got me thinking, though. Although I’m certain that the vagina is chock-full of microscopic flora (flora, flower, hehe), they can’t possibly be as bad as the tiny criminal fuckers inhabiting our mouths. Yet we swap spit with numbing regularity! How unhygienic (and very pleasurable). Despite our highly evolved intellects, humans have illogical overreactions all the time. It’s the same visceral reaction, devoid of any logical reason, that makes people separate sanitary napkins from the cans of sardines when bagging groceries. The can of sardines probably has Clostridium botulinum swimming in it, but sanitary napkins, ewww, you put them on your pussy!

You could even go all feminazi and theorize that the aforementioned is a classic example of subconscious patriarchal conditioning to reinforce the idea that pussy is dirty, ergo, women are dirty. Women menstruate, that degenerate, repellent monthly ritual of expelling blood from her nether regions. I’m not sure if it was a Sidney Sheldon novel, but as an innocent girl I read about a man with Oedipal tendencies having sex with his momma and licking all that filthy discharge.

I’m sure I could Google sex, menstruation, and power, but I’m afraid Rule 34 would win out and I’d end up looking at pictures that would make me want to scratch my eyes out.

Ah. Sidney Sheldon, with his gratuitous scenes of lesbian killer sex with cream and fruits, and conflicted nuns enjoying rape. That got me thinking of writers who would be able to do such perversions justice, describing them in a deep, thought-provoking, powerful, sexual manner. Yet they manage never to descend to a disappointing level of schmaltz or peanut-gallery amusement. Probably not de Sade; he can get boring and overwrought sometimes. I’m thinking of a Palahniuk erotica short story, but I can’t name it. Or must have been another short story.

This just tells me I need to read more intelligent erotica. Probably even try my hand at writing some afterward.

The sort of good writing that puts fuck on the page, but reading fuck doesn’t give you that shallow bad-lover-who-thinks-he’s-pervy-performing-different-positions-read-from-men’s-mag feeling. The kind of writing that prints fuck and gives you the grimness of fucking, the pleasure of fucking, the pain of fucking, the ambiguity of fucking, the heat of fucking.

How fuck is gratuitous and shameful, and how fuck is power and liberation and domination. How fuck isn’t over-analyzed, yet refuses to dumb it down. How fuck is war between the sexes, and how fuck runs roughshod over your binary definition of gender and makes a merry throbbing orgasm out of your inhibitions and barriers. Fuck is contradiction. Fuck makes a lot of innate sense.

The entire complex ideology of fuck that is both fucking and thinking and not thinking and feeling and not feeling. How fuck is profane. How fuck is holy. How fuck is death and life in one sublime instance when cock slides into pussy.

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