Emails.

The year has been way too heterosexual so far. I hit the jackpot of dramas and their penises. In sexual relationships, tensions don’t hit the heart: there is no such muscle. They hit right in the ego. But the damage is reversible. However, the problem can’t also be the remedy, no matter how good it tastes. You become desensitized. It’s time to look around.

 

A quick call, and my V met the world’s longest P. Note to self: building relationships while I don’t care about the size of their sexual attributes (friendship) can prove fruitful in time. No need to even compare. Longest and… thinnest. Can’t have everything. Like a pen, but more like a 2D very long pen. The thing hurt. Like when you’re too full. That’s what I thought, until my arms started to hurt too, not from the moves that were my shy answer to my new mister does-it-all, but actually the pain came from the three travel vaccines I had gotten previously that day: one in each arm, and one at the thigh. The fact that it did not hurt right away at the clinic should have hinted that it would creep up when most appropriate. Needless to say the band-aids that proved those darlings were a great pretext and proof that I needed to end belly-up…who needs two people on top anyway. Classical does not mean boring, and can be and was source of (multiple) enjoyment. Perhaps I should tip him.

 

To be honest, my mind was somewhere else. It’s a bad habit I’ve been developing this year. When even the longest P doesn’t compare with reading an email, that means the email was sinful.

 

I think the good lovers are those who can grasp what’s going on in your mind. And The Best Lover knew exactly where to hit: an email. Maybe it was the timing (a friend I really cared about just insulted me real bad and I was already starting to miss him), or maybe it was that it was a total surprise, but the simple ‘Coucou, j’ai rêvé à toi hier soir’ (Hey, I dreamed about you last night) turned me upside down. Must have been a nice dream.

 

She knows me enough to know that I thought about her all day the next day, and even though I had to concentrate on studying and thus needed food and caffeine, I couldn’t get anything in. Even my stomach was thinking about sex.

 

And I knew her, that sentence was not to be taken as corny cheezy à la Marvin Gaye. It was daring and proud, it was there and not to be ignored, a bit like her butt. It was more like Coucou, je te veux demain soir (Hey, I want you tomorrow night) or even Coucou, je t’aurai demain soir (Hey, tomorrow night, I’ll have you). Even after a year and a half of not seeing her, she’s the only one I would make place for on my planned to-do list during finals. (The long P has developped a habit of just popping in: the door is usually open. We don’t plan, we just do. We’ll get tired of each other soon. It’s like having prime steak every night; it’s tiring for the mouth and for other organs. No matter how you have it. That’s why we have vegans and chastity underwear).  Maybe I’m idealizing the only girl I’ve ever really been with, or maybe I’m just bored of penises and their owners, all I know is that she was delicious and I could not feel too full with that.

 

We were the two people on top type of pair. So I didn’t answer yet.  I have a Suis-moi je te fuis, Fuis-moi je te suis complex, which is only good for breakup sex. Shouldn’t be bad for one-time reunion sex either.

and we thought Vanier was vanilla…

February 13, 2008 — The kinky college professor who was almost strangled during an S&M session at a NewYork city club said yesterday he’s deeply ashamed and is finally through with the double life he’s lived since he was kid.

“I don’t want this to spoil my marriage,” said Robert Benjamin, 67, still disoriented from the three days he spent in a coma but sitting upright in a chair in his room at St. Vincent’s Hospital.

“I don’t want my wife to leave me, but I have to tell her the truth,” he said. “I’m going to share everything with her. I think my family will forgive me,”

Benjamin said he’s desperately trying to break his addiction.
“It’s like when you crave a turkey,” he said. “You eat it and you eat it and you eat it, but you still want it. But now I’ve had enough. I don’t want turkey anymore. I’m full.”

His life was saved last Friday by a dominatrix at the Nutcracker Suite on East 33rd Street, who was assigned to check on him after her colleague left him with a dog collar around his neck and a leather mask over his face, suspended a few inches off the floor.

She realized his foot was turning blue because one of his high heels had slipped off.

“I don’t want to go to the clubs anymore,” Benjamin said.

“I’m trying to learn to control myself and my emotions. I’ve seen doctors to help me,” he said, adding that he’s been unable to control his desires “from very early on in my life.”

Benjamin managed to keep his shameful secret from his wife, his two kids, who are now adults, and the students he taught at Montreal’s Vanier College until his recent retirement.
He never indulged his “dirty habit” in Montreal, where he fooled relatives, neighbors and colleagues into thinking he was a respectable family man who enjoyed outdoor activities.

Benjamin would make regular trips to New York where he’d stay at a “Y” and spend his time indoors. He’d tell his family he was cross-country skiing upstate, then visiting the city “to take photographs” and eat pizza at his favorite Italian restaurants in Brooklyn.

“My biggest fear has always been that someone would find out. That’s why I come to New York and never do this in Montreal,” he said.

Hours later, Benjamin’s wife, Lynn, arrived at the hospital from Canada, but declined to comment. Benjamin, who came out of a coma Monday and is still recovering from his ordeal, struggled to remember numbers and dates, but guessed he’s been married for “30 years or more.”

He does not remember putting on the handcuffs, nipple clamps, dog collar, high-heel shoes or hood, vowing “I’m going to seek professional help to get over this dirty habit.”
“The doctors told me I was passed out, but now I’m awake. They saved me, they gave me the confidence that I will be OK.”

Benjamin attributes his recovery to his excellent physical health.

“I’m in really good shape,” he said. “I bike, I ski, I take care of myself.”

He vowed never again to risk his life during his retirement, saying he’s relaxing, enjoying his time and “doing all the things I never had the chance to do.
“Now that I’ve almost died, I can’t see myself going back to S&M,” he said. “If you gave me $100,000 to spend there, I wouldn’t. I’m not crazy.”
Taki Noriko, the dominatrix who trussed up Benjamin and left him alone – as he’d requested – was relieved to hear of his recovery.
“Thank you,” she said, with a long sigh. “Thank you very much for telling me.”

Queefing: The beginning of a love story

My vagina makes noises.

It makes noises during sex. It sounds sort of airy: A hiccup escaping, a bubble popping. Luckily, this phenomenon that my vagina exhibits isn’t rare. In fact, it’s common enough to warrant a name: Queefing. Conjugate it: I queef, you queef, we queefed, they are queefing …

I discovered what queefs were when I was in high school, fooling around with my then-boyfriend. When it happened, we both paused and sort of stared bemusedly at my vagina. He pronounced with much hilarity, “Your pussy totally just farted!” Needless to say, it was a little hard for me to resume our activities with the same eagerness.

Luckily, this embarassing incident didn’t scar me and turn me off sex permanently. It did, however, instill me with a certain sense of wariness before having sex with a new partner. Will I queef? Will it be loud? Will it – oh god! – occur while my partner’s face is right by my crotch, so that he or she receives the force full-blast?

I was just speaking with another girl who queefs not during sex, but up to 24 hours afterwards. I haven’t yet decided if I should feel envious of her. Is it better to queef in your partner’s face in bed, or to do it while quietly standing in line at the bank or while in Downward Dog pose at yoga class the morning after?

All that being said, despite the suckiness of queefing at inopportune times (like there’s even a right time anyway!), I’m starting (or trying to) get used to it. It’s something that most women have to deal with, so I might as well try to laugh it off.

I’m trying to be grateful: If I’m queefing, well, at least it means that I’m having sex. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right? I’m trying to be pragmatic: The body makes all sorts of weird noises. Stomachs gurgle, jaws crick, throats gulp. Why is it that any sound that goes on below-the-belt automatically gets demonized? I’m trying to be optimistic: Hey, at least queefs don’t smell!

I’m really trying to embrace the queef. I guess I’ve already taken the first step, which is admitting that I queef. Maybe next, I should search for a t-shirt that says QUEEFING IS CUTE, in an effort to give it some positive publicity?

– Yun

PS: By the way, if you’re like me and you do happen to queef during sex, you can try to take preventative action. Before having sex, try pressing down on the area right below your stomach and above your pubic bone. It might expel some air lurking inside your pussy.