apparently, there’s “orgasm conditioning” that utilizes hypnosis that makes it so someone can verbally order an orgasm.

— Joan Defers (@JoanDefers) March 9, 2013

My loins just winced.

— Jenny Lyn (@JennyLynwrites) March 9, 2013

I want to meet someone who has undergone this conditioning b/c I am calling bullshit

— Linzy Antoinette (@LinzyAntoinette) March 9, 2013

right?I am very skeptical.

— Joan Defers (@JoanDefers) March 9, 2013

So far as I can tell, the “best” source for this “Orgasm Conditioning,” is a Fetlife Group called “Orgasm Control Conditioning of Females,” where the big debate of the moment is about the “ethics” of using hypnosis for the purposes of, and I quote, “Perfecting Fuckmeat.”  Previously, the definition of “orgasm control” I was most familiar with had to do with not coming without permission.

These guys (and, not-so-mysteriously, it does appear to be largely made up of guys) have decided that they can go a step further.

The theory appears to be based on Pavlov’s experiment. From Submissive Guide:

An interesting training option for orgasm control is Come on Command training. It’s a form of hypnotic suggestion that can and does work. Then the Dominant totally owns your orgasms because you can’t control them yourself. A trigger word, phrase or touch sets it off.

I don’t know.

What I do know?

There’s no magic skeleton key for sex.

I get emails asking me, “What do I do!? What’s the secret password to the Garden of Earthly Delights? YOU WOMEN ARE SO CONFUSING!”

Only not so poetically.

Thing is, there’s no one technique. There’s no single, handy-dandy, 100% guaranteed or your money back method for being an amazing lover. The closest thing to being a universal panty-dropper is to just be psychic.

This is a huge bummer, I know.

Psychics are hard to come by.

Barring telepathy, there’s… asking.  Asking whoever you’re trying to please just what it is they like.

The world is full of temptation.

The asking thing isn’t bad advice.

Good luck getting an answer, though.

Most women I’ve run across are a lot better at telling you what they don’t like, than they are at detailing what they do like.

So, in that spirit, I’ll give you my top ten lists of things you shouldn’t do:

1. Just because it worked on one woman, doesn’t mean we’re all going to like it.  Don’t assume all women are built the same way. One woman’s “yum” is another woman’s “I’d like to see a motherfucker try.”
2. Tangentially: Odds are that you’re not as good at oral as you think you are.  Do not assume that your magical pussy eating method is a universal constant. Really. I don’t quite know why this is so common, but it is. It’s the same thing with blowjobs, too. A person gets it into their head that they’re the Oral Avenger, or something. It’s a pride thing. Weirdos.
3. For the love of all that’s holy, don’t do something weird, messy, invasive, or possibly infectious on the spur of the moment. Ask before you blow a load on someone’s face. Or hair. Semen in the hair is the worst. Ask before anal. Do not attempt intentional “accidental” backdoor action. We are on to you. We know the difference between real accidental and fake accidental.
4. Likewise, that meme running around that all women like ass smacking and hair pulling?  A lot of women do.  But, you know, maybe bring that up before nudity is involved?  ”Mother may I” in the act can actually sort of ruin the whole point of ass smacking and hair pulling, but if you know ahead of time that she likes it, you win. Be a winner.  Ask if she’s into it. It makes for sexy date conversation, anyway.
5. She’s probably kinkier in her head than she lets on, and she’s not going to tell you just how much. Even if you know she’s kinky?  She’s probably actually kinkier. This one is a comedy staple, really. Stand ups love to talk about how disgusting men are in the privacy of their own minds. I’m telling you–women are just as disgusting. She’s thinking about things that she’s never going to do with you. In fact, she doesn’t even want you in the same region. And it’s a bitch, but too bad, dude. Too bad. Don’t pester someone about their wank bank. That stuff ain’t yours.
6. Don’t use the word “frigid,” with a woman who’s not up to your level of sexual adventurousness. There are also a lot of women that are just not into any sort of sex that’s not the “making love” kind.  They hate “empty” sex or “meaningless” sex or “demeaning” sex.  There is nothing wrong with this. She’s not frigid. She’s just getting something different out of fucking.  If that’s a dealbreaker, fine, but don’t go throwing around armchair diagnoses. I hate the word “frigid.”
7. Likewise, there’s this notion that if she’s not initiating a lot, she’s not that into sex. This is bunk. There are a lot of things going on in our culture that make it hard for a woman to display spontaneous arousal.  Or, to even recognize it.
8. Don’t freak out if she seems excessively fastidious about cleanliness. I’ve seen men complain that she immediately runs to the bathroom.  Let me tell you why:  UTIs.  Peeing right after sex can prevent UTIs.  It’s not hot, but anatomical biology is not interested in any of our precious feelings, you know?
9. No woman likes to feel like a portable vag and boob transporter. There are other parts. Really.
10. Don’t immediately demand to know how good it was. Be a zen sex warrior. If you have to ask, you are not the master.

Usually, it’s “literary” titles.  Or, genre books written by men for men.

This year’s winner, Rowan Somerville, however, decided he was over it.

When I realised that sex was going to be the central part of my novel The Shape of Her, I was a little worried. I sensed that to examine this subject with any authenticity required a suspension of defences, and that to do so in this country is to ask for a kicking.

When the book had been written and published, and I was told by an editor of the Literary Review, the magazine which runs the Bad Sex in Fiction Award, that I had won their annual prize, it felt like the closing of a circle.

Not only had I committed the crime of writing a novel in which sex was central. I had been quoted earlier that year describing the Bad Sex Award people as “sixth-formers sniggering because someone said penis”, and in this newspaper I had referred to their award as a “tediously titillating spectre”. So the response seemed inevitable. I arrived at the men-only “gentleman’s club” in London where the awards were being held, curious to see how the scene would play out.

I don’t enjoy wanting to correct punctuation in something someone got paid for. I’ll ignore it.

The message stands.

There is something sort of Beavis-y about the whole endeavor.  Yes, misguided prose happens. I seem to recall one recent-ish nominee likening a vagina to a cold oyster.

Not hot.  Ever.

But sometimes ‘not hot’ is the point.

I know that they are going to enjoy themselves when it comes to my novel. It is essentially about sexual abuse. The way the protagonists have sex is meant to be an expression of childhood experiences about which neither is consciously aware. The sex is deliberately wrong, cringeworthy, full of expressions of disassociation, of blocked passion and misunderstood urges.

When the young man finally has sex it is “like a lepidopterist mounting a tough-skinned insect with a too blunt pin”. This is meant to be an inappropriate and gruesome image. When the actress reads out the passage in a mawkish moan, the crowd erupts. I had an idea that I would explain how misguided it all was, but a boozy night in the club is no place to do so. So I collect the award and say that “there is nothing more English than bad sex, so on behalf of a nation I thank you”.

WHY IS THE PERIOD OUTSIDE THE QUOTE MARK?

Nevermind.

He mentions James. And, yes, if anyone should be on the list of Bad Sex Awards this last year?  It should be her.

But… she wasn’t.

EL James, aka Erika Leonard, has done more than put together a gripping yarn; she has created a cheery and safe-looking high-street supermarket in an unexplored, guilty and subterranean corner of the mass consciousness. Yes, her prose is supremely anodyne, but it is precisely this quality that ensures its success.

The bland, easy-to-project-onto characters; the BDSM-lite; the reassuring but toxic idea that romantic love can change another person into the fulfillment of all your needs, and the shrewd use of a first-person present-tense narrative: all these features create an experience through which someone with a reading age of about 13 can explore desires that, prior to 50 Shades of Grey, were illicit and hidden. In short, James has moved this area of fantasy from taboo into Tesco.

This reminds me of a quote which roams the internet.

“Nothing about sex is cerebral…at least, none of the good parts are.”–Chuck Klosterman

Which is to say, you get to be the Worst Sex in attempting to elevate it. A huge chunk of the population demands that sex be as stupid as possible.  The dumber the better.

Discipline: Adding Rules and Discipline to Your BDSM Relationship

Several months ago, Mr. Daddy put on his Dom Hat and decided that we needed something contract-y.

And, I laughed, because, hello!  That sort of thing can be pretty darned funny.

“Oh, really?  Are you going to add a border full of official looking clip art?  Can you used fancy Ye Olden Script?!  Oooh. Can we include lots of pretend legalese!”

I do believe his reaction was something like, “I’m going to take that legalese out on your ass.”

For the record, he did bring home something in Ye Olden Fancy Font, just to crack me up.

Because it’s still pretty darned funny.

So, now I’ve got rules.

In Ye Olden Fancy Dragon Script.

It’s one of those things you do just have to jump into. You have no idea if the water is cold!  At first I was very self-conscious. This was that whole scary 24/7 thing that sad people try to use to prove they’re not poseurs.

Then months down the line, it’s all old hat.  Boring even.

My tips for the adding of rules and discipline, from a Sexy Contract Noob:

1. It’s okay to laugh. Really. If it’s not okay to laugh, then, maybe you need to dial the Srs Bsns down just a smidgen.
2. Don’t start with that gigantic list those contract generators spit out. Start with a handful of things you think are really helpful or really hot or really in need of mindfulness and work.  See if you can manage those first.  It’s no fun to be set up for failure.
3. Set up a time frame for a formal re-evaluation. Maybe you can add minutia! Maybe you were too ambitious in the first version. We had the big discussion about How it All Went last week. I think we should have had it sooner. I would have liked something more like 3 months. We went something more like 5 before really re-evaluating.
4. It’s helpful to be very clear about motives. There’s nothing more weird and potentially a turn off about doing something pointless, or even mildly distasteful, and having no idea why. Let’s just say, we’ve had a lot of panty-wearing battles at Casa de Joan this year, and I always lose.
5. Maybe I’m a big old baby who doesn’t have Deep Dark DeSade Monsters living in the depths of my psyche, but I think a system of punishments could do with the occasional reward. If you’re not of the Dark and Tortured bent, then remember that your new contract can literally contain anything you want.  It doesn’t have to be one long list of “don’ts” and punishments.  The word “training” is sort of overused in BDSM land, and sometimes you can train with treats.

And, good luck to Lily on her forthcoming book!

I’m giving flash fiction a try. Because, why not?

I lean on the cool railing and look down at the marbled floor. My feet hurt.

A man’s hand stops the door.

“You look good.”

I squint up, expecting a creeper.

It’s Evan. The elevator doors shut.

“18.”

I push the button.

I am now stuck in an elevator with Evan the Ex. Perfect.

“What are you doing here?”

“The conference. You?”

“Same.”

“Yeah.” I study his profile. I try to convince myself, when he’s not around, that my candle is lit with false sentiment and lost youth.

It’s bullshit.

His puppy dog eyes are all honey and hope. We’re bad for each other.

I realize how low my blouse is cut.  “How’s Lisa?”

“Gone.  Last week.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Vain.”

“How… ’bout you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

The elevator hits the 14th floor, and the doors open. He follows me out.

I always find him when he’s lost. It’s inevitable.

I stop next to an ice machine. “Get back on the elevator, Evan.”

“Don’t make me.” Like I could make him.

I look up at the lips I never stop fantasizing about. I shouldn’t do this. I should insist he get back on the elevator. I’ll only end up fucked in the head for the next month about this.

Instead, I grab his coat lapels and pull.

He pins me against the wall of the hallway, and brushes his lips along the one spot he knows gives me goose bumps. My spine shivers and my nipples harden. My body wants him closer. I miss the weight of him. I miss my arms around his shoulders, pulling his hair.

“Amy,” he whispers, his lips, that mouth that haunts me does it’s magic. His hand moves down, from hip to mid-thigh. He hikes up my skirt, and grips my thigh like the boy I remember. I kiss him, greedy for a taste of him.

I grip his shirt in my fist. I miss him when he’s gone, and it hurts. I can feel that familiar bulge against my hip bone.

His big cock. I miss that, too.

“My room,” I mutter. I grab him by the hand, and we run down the hall. Room 1402. We tumble into the dark, and he yanks up my skirt and pushes my panties aside, finding exactly what he thinks he will.  “Jesus, honey.”

I unzip his pants, and put my hand in his boxers. There he is. I bite my lip.  ”Mmmm.”

“What?”

“You.”

I grin, push him out of my way, and strip off my shirt. He kicks off his shoes and strips off his pants, and chases me to the bed.

He’s bigger than I remember. More solid. He moves down. I missed that mouth.

He nips at my inner thigh. His tongue runs over my clit, gently, slowly. Teasing. He runs his hands over my hips, and urges me down to the edge of the bed. His fingers are inside me, his tongue drives me to the brink.

I just want it. Too much.

I moan and buck into him, but won’t let me come. He keeps backing off, leading me to the edge. Teasing.  I don’t want to be teased.

“Just fuck me,” I gasp in frustration.

He chuckles into my thigh. “Is it that bad?”

I whimper, and he licks me one more time.

“Poor baby.” He rubs his thumb over my nub.

“Evil, evil man.”

He’s inside me, easily, climbing on top of me. I gasp at his girth. He’s warm and solid, those honeyed eyes are full of lust.

I spread for him. I let him in. Again.

Lost in Translation. I can’t recall what the title was.

We’ve all done it.

Or, for the sake of my own ego, I hope we’ve all done it.

That moment where someone tried desperately to be sexy, and it missed the mark.  There you are, frozen in horror–in my case probably blushing. Or you laugh, and then figure out it was not meant to be funny, and you’ve probably scarred them for life.

But the worst, for me, is always The Guy That Wants to Sing.

I ran across two singers.

There was Singing in Public Guy. I am pretty sure that he thought he was super romantic and dead sexy.  I was stuck in perma-giggling because holy mother of fuck, he wouldn’t stop.  And, in public there’s the horribleness of knowing that you’re being watched, because upon randomly breaking into song, you’re now a public spectacle.

That dude did not get laid.

There was Singing in Private Guy.

Even worse.  We’re talking like, sexy-times R. Kelly music.

And, you can’t convince Singing Guys that they shouldn’t sing. For Singing Guy is certain that his vocal prowess is a panty-dropping magic missile. He’s the amazing movie moment you’ve been waiting for, in his wild imaginings.  If you complain to Singing Guy about his singing, somehow it makes you the asshole.  You become the physical incarnation of Why Romance is Dead.

Singing Guy doesn’t know that he’s officially in the same category as Bad Pick Up Line Guy, or Wierdo That is Always Touching Your Arm and Murmuring, or Bizarre Jackhammer Sex Guy.

He’s got no idea.

You know who I’m talking about. THAT guy.

I have a really hard time identifying as “a submissive.”

It just seems so simple.

Too simple.

The about page is more-or-less accurate given my current relationship.  It says I’m “a spanko-y, bondage-loving, d/s-y, masochistic-type.”

In true “bad at this” fashion, I forgot to capitalize the D.

That’s some serious eyebrow. Recognize.

It’s really not a case of hating labels, or anything. I just have a tough time identifying with the Mythic Submissive concept. The True Sub who’s magically “connected” to the True Dom?

You know the one. They need permission to breathe.  They wilt on the vine without micromanagement. Etc.

I’m not that girl.

I have respect for the “service” theory.  Service-oriented submission makes sense to me. Pride in a job well done. It’s all very Protestant Work Ethic.

There are passive people out there.  I get that.

There are endorphin addicts that like pain.  I definitely get that.

There are bondage lovers and humiliation connoisseurs and age players and yeah. There are subs.  Some insist they’re not doormats. Others prefer being ottomans.

But, the True Sub of BDSM lore? Not so much.

And I actually have a tough time not sneering at the Mythic Natural Born Slave concept. Just-so-stories in pretty boxes bring out my sneer-face.

There’s something about in the earnest, full-blown-slave that makes me want to push, push, push straight into “just how self-negating do you think you are?”  Because, it has a logical conclusion as an train of thought, really.

And, well, I know that there are people that go there. They don’t want to be a person. They don’t want to have a will.  They want to be meat.

I don’t find it noble. I am not jealous of their Very Twuest Submission. I just find it creepy.

I think it’s some expression of a death wish, at heart.  Longing for annihilation.

Wannabe Slaves actually bring out my inner sadist something terrible. And I have an inner sadist, so clearly I cannot be the Truest Sub.

So, yeah.  I’m a “bottom” at best. And, a bratty one that’s pretty good at head games.  And, I’ve got noooooo interest in life as property.

For some reason, these both included Michael Fassbender.

I don’t know. His is a notorious dong. That’s all I’ve got. His actual appeal sort of eludes me. I suspect I am supposed to find him attractive.

First up: A Dangerous Method.

I would watch Viggo Mortensen in pretty much anything. Scowling at a phonebook. Taking long, bleak walks and grueling rides across desolate landscapes. Speaking with a dreadful Russian accent.

I’ve endured quite a bit to gaze upon The Mortensen.

But, really, this was the worst of the lot. I don’t know if I was lured in with the false promise of Viggo-spankings and now harbor a  grudge, but I can tell you I wasn’t pleased.

This is a movie about people navel-gazing about having sex. It’s not really about the sex. It’s about the navel-gazing. And, it’s not just any kind of navel-gazing. It’s navel-gazing for science. It’s noble.

It’s basically stripped of any and all genuine emotion or essential humanity, and it’s main function is to fuel an intellectual feud between two men. It’s meta sex. In some ways, it’s man-sex by proxy. Kiera Knightly’s character, Sabina, is permitted a bit of leeway in the emoting department, probably because she’s a woman, but mostly because, and this is important: she’s totally batshit insane at the beginning of the movie. Utterly bezerk. Uncontrollable hysteria. Screaming and twitching. The works.

She’s female and crazy.

And, then, once cured, she’s cold and removed, except for the one or two times she gets a rise out of Jung.

Last night, I saw Shame.

Shame, Manscaping Edition

This is the other big SEX MOVIE from last year. This one is about a cold, emotionally stifled sex addict. He’s hooked on porn and hookers. He’s physically incapable of sex with an intention for emotional connection.

Then his overly emotional, co-dependent sister with serious abandonment issues (aka, “crazy”) gets a rise out of him.

Are you sensing a trend?

Yeah.

Me, too.

So, here we are in 2012, and these movies are supposedly boundary-busting art pieces to be reckoned with.

You can make a high-brow movie about non-committed, non-monogamous sex, but the sex better be at an emotional distance–at best a source of shame and guilt.

And, it had better be related to clinical diagnoses of psychological dysfunction.

Ethical people, in both of these movies, are monogamous, committed, vanilla, and (particularly in Shame) singular in orientation. Non-angry emotional outbursts are largely limited to women who require hospitalization. The men are cut off from the socially-sanctioned and prescribed joy that acceptable sex is “supposed” to bring. (Presumably, improved emotional “closeness” with a partner?)

The audience is more or less cut off from the main characters. We are only supposed to identify with their shame and anguish, and their frustration with women–that’s as deep as it gets. Brandon in Shame is so devoid of warmth that reviews online constantly reference Patrick Bateman and Travis Bickle. In A Dangerous Method Freud (IT’S FREUD, ENOUGH SAID) spends every other scene telling Jung to put a lid on it, lest he have an errant feeling. These are movies about the performance of stoic masculine isolation on an exceptional scale.

The requirement for psychological dysfunction to backlight unacceptable sex practices is nothing new:  the main character in Secretary is a cutter. Cronenberg’s movies have gone over the sex and madness concept over and over and over (Pro-tip, just don’t ever watch Crash.) Hell, look at Christian Gray.

I suppose 2011 is progress, because no one boiled a rabbit or committed murder.

This stuff drives me nuts.

Anyway. Bring on the sexy movies of the future. There’s a world to explore, once we’re all pretty sure we have permission to actually engage with the material.

(I have actually spent a bit of time parsing out what exactly the “ideal” of “healthy” sex is supposed to look like, lately, but that’s another entry for another day. I have already noted that it’s certainly not okay for lonely people to use sex for human contact.)

Pietro Aretino (20 April 1492 – 21 October 1556) was an Italian author, playwright, poet and satirist who wielded immense influence on contemporary art and politics and invented modern literate pornography.

First portrait by Titian, 1512. He would fit in an episode of Portlandia.

Aretino prospered, living from hand to mouth as a hanger-on in the literate circle of his patron, sharpening his satirical talents on the gossip of politics and the Papal Curia, and turning the coarse Roman pasquinade into a rapier weapon of satire, until his sixteen ribald Sonetti Lussuriosi (Lust Sonnets) written to accompany Giulio Romano’s exquisitely beautiful but utterly pornographic series of drawings engraved by Marcantonio Raimondi under the title I Modi finally caused such outrage that he had to temporarily flee Rome. In 2007, Michael Nyman set eight of the poems to music. They proved no less controversial: at a 2008 performance at Cadogan Hall, the programs were withdrawn on allegations of obscenity.

Livejournal’s Weepingcock community has some translations.

“Cradled the General’s songster in the palm of his hand and began stroking its back, as one stroke the back of a cat”

“Placing his paintbrush, which he first moistened with spit, into her tiny color cup, he made her twist and turn as women do in the birth throes or in the mother’s malady. And to be doubly sure that his nail would be driven more tightly into her slit, he motioned to his back and his favorite punk pulled his breeches down to his heels and applied his clyster to the reverend’s visiblium”

“Were now pounding the sauce in the mortar”

“Filled the glass tool”

“I was more worn out than pawns are frayed by usury, and began rubbing my dear little monkey with my hand like cats in Jaunary rub their backsides on a roof”

“Speak plainly and say fuck, prick, cunt, and ass if you want anyone except for the scholars at the Sapienza Capranica to understand you. You with your rope in the ring, your obelisk in the Colosseum, your leek in the garden, your key in the lock, your bolt in the door, your pestle in the mortar, your nightingale in the nest, your tree in the ditch, syringe in the flap-valve, your sword in the scabbeard, not to mention your stake, your crozier, your parsnip, your little monkey, your this, your that, your him and your her, your apples, leaves of the missle, fact, verbigriata, job, affair, big news, handles, arrow, carrot, root, and all shit there is”

Down. There.

There’s an anal sex scene that manages to never reference an ass or an anus.

Hence, The Generator:

Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his timed slimer slid deeper into my other vagina.

Heh. Classy.

Julian Mandel, Nu allongé dans le boudoir, 1930’s.  I bet if it were called “quivering love mounds” it would still sound pretty fancy in French.

Yesterday, Richard Thomas at LitReactor said that there were really only six acceptable terms.

For men, keep it simple. I think I’ve only ever used the words penis, dick and cock. Anything else just seems strange, and to be honest, makes me laugh. So no throbbing manhood or spear of salvation—or whatever flowery or weird phrase you’re trying to incorporate into your writing. It just doesn’t work.

For women, likewise, keep it simple. Breast or breasts are probably the most common words used, but I’ve also seen tits work in the right setting. “Honey, I love your tits. Them titties are the reason I keep working so hard.” To me, tits can often sound harsh coming from a male POV, but coming from a woman’s POV it can work. “He ran his tongue over my flushed tits and gently bit down on my nipple.” Something like that might work.

That only leaves the complicated and mystical female nether regions. See, sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I try to avoid naming this famed portal of pleasure because, again, from a male POV it can sound aggressive. But the obvious choices are vagina, pussy and cunt.

I have never read any of his sex scenes, but I do wonder how you write sex that includes Dick and Tits, but no Mystical Female Nether Regions.

I actually enjoy an occasional flowery euphemism. They stick with you. Sometimes they stick for the wrong reasons, but hey! You can’t win them all.

Really, there are two reasons to go with creative nether-regional phrasing:  you don’t wish to offend the delicate sensibilities of the type of woman who dutifully brings her coupons to the Winn-Dixie every Saturday, or you just start to go a little nuts with how often your brain coughs up the same word over and over in your mind. Take “dick.” You start to sound like a dick stopwatch in your own mind. Dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. You live in a mental race where it’s always dick o’clock.  (See what I mean about a decent euphemism?)  So, you’re all, well, I’ll alternate. Dick-cock, dick-cock, dick-cock.

I’ll stop.

Anyway. What are your favorite terrible euphemisms?