|STRANGEWAYS, HERE THEY COME: GIRLS HAVE SEX IN ODD PLACES.|
|By Crystal Kash ,, ,||
Most of us are well beyond the age where sex is a dirty, ugly, awkward, and fleeting moment that provides limited amounts of pleasure. Once we've had enough relationships the whole humping thing becomes a whole lot nicer than it was when we were all acne-riddled teenagers. At least, it's supposed to. Sometimes it'd be nice to just sit in the back of the car and have a hand-job be the highlight of the evening. Ahem.
This month our ladies plowed through their own sexual archives and pulled out some of their most awful, fabulous, gut-busting, wince-inducing, hysterical experiences they've had in their storied careers as bed-hopping little vixens.
Be sure to e-mail them all and thank them for their candor and promiscuity.
It's common, when discussing nice little suburban kids who take lots of drugs, to wonder what went wrong. In Rick's case, I'm pretty sure that the Clown Room had a lot to do with his troubles.
Rick's parents were circus aficionados. They collected circus-themed figures and costumes and artifacts, which they kept in the rumpus room of their otherwise totally normal-looking split-level ranch.
At parties, if he was in the mood and enough people were on acid, Rick would conduct tours of the Clown Room. Highlights included props from the Bozo the Clown show and a staggering collection of merry-go-round music boxes that played evil tunes.
I didn't take acid, so I only went on the tour once. And it was creepy and all, but I didn't see what the big deal was. That is, until the end of the tour, when my boyfriend at the time leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Hey, you know what we should do?"
"Have sex in the Clown Room?"
Actually, doing it was harder than you might expect. We decided, for reasons of time and convenience, to dispense with full disrobing and just drop our pants. But then there was the problem of position: I have terrible OCD, and the Clown Room, while festive, was not up to my housekeeping standards. So I was particularly eager to make sure that none of my pink bits touched any part of the room, at any time. This was somewhat limiting and also led to some conversation, which, out of context, might've sounded strange:
"That's not going to work. You're too short. Stand on the Joker step-stool."
"Maybe I can just brace myself against the Ronald McDonald doll."
"I really hope you're not expecting much, because I think I'm going to have trouble concentrating with Pogo the Killer Clown staring at me."
We'd just managed to work something out when our friend Jay came downstairs to look for us.
"Hey, guys, I -- OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD." He dashed into the other room, calling apologies after him. "Sorry! I didn't know ... you were busy."
We rearranged ourselves in a hurry and followed him, apologizing. "No, no, we're sorry!"
"No, me! I'm sorry." He paused. "Oh God, am I sorry. You filthy, filthy perverts."
"No seriously, guys. The Clown Room? You sick fucks. Also? I hope you don't think you're first people to think of that. Rick had to be conceived somewhere, you know."
It was a fairly good point, and I was happier than ever that I'd decided to not to touch anything.
Jen Hubley admits she still gets a little damp in the pants every time she goes to the circus. But who doesn't? She blogs you like a hurricane at JennieSmash.com.
"Help me out here, Litz! I'm strugglin'!"
"Oh dear God," I thought. "This is what I get for sleeping with a math teacher."
Danny and I had been dating for two weeks. He had sandy blonde hair and a biker's physique that compensated for his early-bird sleep schedule and frequent use of the word, "inappropriate." I'd just come off a ridiculous fling with an actor -- is there any other kind? -- and had craved a bit of normalcy.
"That's OK, sweetie. You don't have to finish," I said. He was focused on his subsiding erection and didn't notice my bemusement.
"Wait, I can do this," he responded, sweat dripping from his clenched jaw. He pulled out and furiously rubbed against my left thigh, like a Boy Scout coaxing fire from two sticks.
"Really, Danny, I'm sure that--"
"Aaaarrrrgggggghhhh!!!!" Danny yelled and arched his back. I looked down at my leg. He was done.
I rolled out of bed to get a towel and some distance. He reached for my arm. "Wait," Danny said. "I want to hold you."
Reluctant, and careful not to smear goo on my nightstand, I crawled under the sheets. He wrapped his arms around me. Usually, I enjoy the post-coital wind-down, but this time I'd gotten the sticky end of the lollipop, as it were.
"Did you climax?" he asked, sounding like an instructional video.
"What?" I blurted. "When?"
"When I did. Just now." There was something almost poignant to his cluelessness, and it kept me from laughing. Or kicking him.
"Um, no, honey. I didn't."
"Really? Why not?" He looked crestfallen.
"The little-kid-on-a-bike technique doesn't work for me."
"What?" he asked, puzzled. "A little kid riding his bike?"
"You know, 'Look, Ma! No hands!' And tongue is good, but leg fucking is not."
Danny sighed. "Litsa, didn't I get anything right?"
"Sure you did, sweetie. My name." I kissed him on the cheek, rolled over and went to sleep.
Litsa Dremousis blogs like a goddamn banshee here and will read her McSweeney's piece, "An Open Letter to Keith Richards' Immune System", on NPR later this month. She insists she did not let any NPR producers leg-fuck her to secure that gig.
Rachel Kramer Bussel
The time: June 2001
I'd flown in to visit friends and get away from the chaos of New York and was already taking full advantage of being on vacation, having bedded two San Franciscans in the days leading up to the gay pride parade. I find sex in other cities much easier to find and to let myself jump into, without the worry of "when will we see each other again?" "where is this all going?" and other annoyances. For the parade, a group of around 50 of us, all dressed as schoolgirls (with a few notable male exceptions in kilts) roamed the streets of the city by the bay alongside an enormous, realistic pussy puppet float (made by House O' Chicks). Armed with stickers reading "Pussy Power" and the like, we were greeted by endless cheers from the very suburban crowd lining the sidewalks.
Walking next to a giant pussy that occasionally rained down "ejaculate" on us had gotten us all in the mood, and a flirty camaraderie had developed, a sense that anything was possible on this special day. We owned the city and were welcome to be as slutty as we wanted to be.
I loved running down the street bare-breasted with only stickers covering my nipples, and by the time the parade ended, we were all a little bit high from the excitement. Though it hasn't been that long, I'm sorry to say that I don't exactly remember who I wound up inside the body of the float with, only that she was a cute girl I'd just met and had been flirting with all day. The float was parked, and we somehow were left alone inside; we managed to use our time wisely, tossing and tumbling until, without much clothing being removed, our fingers were inside each other. It wasn't exactly the ideal setting comfort-wise, nor the grand cosmic sex of my life, but for absolute meta queer pride value, fucking a girl I'd just met that day inside a huge float shaped like a pussy couldn't be beat.
We only had a few minutes alone before the float was being jostled, and we had to surrender our cozy little sex nest, which totally broke the mood, but left me grinning all day. How's that for Pride?
I've been this way for a while. Walking down the halls of my high school used to incite a chorus of the classic Simon and Garfunkel ditty "Mrs. Robinson." And it's not as if the age gap between freshmen and seniors was THAT big, right? Barring that one 28-year-old (who was practically 18 because of his Spongebob sheets), I have always like to keep them on the Kutcher side rather then the Trump side. I'll be the first to admit I like 'em younger.
I'm pretty good about keeping my boys pure. and I am rarely doing more with them then making out and trying to get them to read something other then comics. However, one night when the booze was copious, I found myself chatting up a friend of a friend who fit my classic object of desire. Eyeliner? Check. Dyed black Emover? Check. Did someone say "band?" Check.
A few drinks later, I headed back down to my apartment leaving behind my shoe-gazing cutie. By either sheer stupidity or wanton lust, I left my backdoor unlocked. Ten minutes later, cue 18-year-old. I discovered three useful things to keep in mind for future romps.
1. Youth = Staying Power: "Give me 20 minutes, and I'll be ready to go." Again? Are you kidding? I need a hoagie, some vodka and probably more then 20 minutes before I can go for round three.
2. Sometimes, real people think they are porn stars: When I was 18, I barely knew what to do with the opposite sex. Now you wanna do what? Really? On my face? Wait did you just choke me? Hey, that last one was kind of hot. Unfortunately, the mood was ruined when I playfully commented on his skills and was informed "My dad gave me a book." Wow. Libido killer.
3. Emo Guys = Emotional Basket Cases. Now I like my men sensitive, but I draw the line when mid-cuddle I hear "OK, now I want to be the girl..." Um, excuse me? What? I don't even know what that means. My expression must have said it all, "Oh, I just...I want to be the little spoon." OK, you can get out of my bed now. Thanks. Buh-bye.
Crystal Kash is a freelance writer and sexy ass DJ in the state of Washington. She doesn't want to say where for fear of any army of teenagers with yardstick erections storming her studio.
"Look, I've never been with a woman before. Maybe I've missed something."
This -- and two-thirds of a bottle of red wine -- were all the encouragement I needed. My friend and I were sitting in my apartment, getting drunk and reviewing our sexual histories. He knew he was gay from about age eight and got right into guys. He had never even kissed a girl in a sexy way before. Now, at 23, we got the bright idea that it was time for him to experience the thrill of the box, just to see what everyone was talking about.
I was intrigued in part because I have the power to make people queer. Two of my boyfriends in high school and one prom date came out shortly after they did time with me. Then in college, I tipped a couple of women into the Ellen camp; although, to be honest, turning college girls into lesbians is basically shooting fish in a barrel. I wondered if my powers could actually work in reverse. Could I make a gay man straight? That would make me awfully proud of my vagina.
We each slammed another glass of wine, and I moved in for a kiss.
"Wait, do you want to kiss? Or should we just skip that part?" he asked.
"Fuck you, Julia Roberts, there is going to be kissing." I slurred, and pushed him down onto my ratty couch. We disrobed, and he stared at my rack with amusement. "Look, just pretend I have really big pecs."
I snapped, and he muttered, "Not that big." None of this was getting either of us exactly primed. After some self-conscious groping and awkwardness, he finally seemed to get into it a little bit. Then I noticed that he kept glancing at my coffee table: at the TV Guide with Luke Perry on the cover.
"Would you like to hold that in front of my face?" I asked, feeling about as sexy as a troll doll. "Could I?" His face brightened.
"That does it." I growled. "Prepare to repent for your sins." I gave it every ounce of energy I had. I did my damndest to banish all thoughts of hot oil and Magnum P.I. from his brain forever. For womanhood.
When it was all over, I lit a cigarette and casually asked, "So, what do you think?"
He patted my arm. "I'm definitely gay."
Kelly Mills is a freelance writer based in Berkeley, still desperately trying to get homos off by the truckload.
The adult retail store where I worked offered for sale a beautiful white leather straitjacket for $500. One afternoon when I came on shift, I found it lying in a heap behind a pile of boxes. I picked it up and saw that the seams were coming apart, the white leather was soiled and there were suspicious stains in the crotch. Turned out the night shift clerks amused themselves by staging live sex shows with willing customers, using the store's extensive bondage collection as props. The strait jacket was a crowd favorite.
A customer I had a major crush on, a handsome Navajo Indian, came into
the store. His eyes zeroed in on the straitjacket lying on the counter.
He asked if it had been sold, and when I explained it was damaged, he
said he would buy it at a discount. I winced at the thought of anyone's
skin touching this now biohazardous item, but -- Capitalist Whore that
I am -- offered to sell it to him for $150.
He asked me to pull it tighter. And tighter still, until he was gasping out the request in a high-pitched voice. I wondered if I was liable if he suffered internal injuries.
After studying himself in the mirror, he turned to me and said, "Do you think it would be easy to have sex in this thing?"
My response was not whorish; I was merely providing excellent customer service. And may I say that it is amazing what a man trussed up like a pork roll can accomplish with just his mouth, tongue and body pressure.
Joanne Heen is a writer for the Weekly Volcano, a free arts and entertainment paper covering South Puget Sound. She is also the best-selling author of the book "How to Seduce the Handsome Young Navajo Wearing a Strait Jacket".
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