I consider myself a vibrator connoisseur and, as such, I’m always interested in new products. When I read that Good Housekeeping U.K. would be publishing it’s first ever review of vibes, my heart skipped a beat. They invited 100 women to test a variety of products and rate them according to a satisfaction scale. Now the Good Housekeeping seal of approval for the gift that keeps on giving is huge—the next logical step would be a Consumers Report dedicated to best buys in buzzers.
So it was with great anticipation that I clicked on THE LIST. The rabbit, check, warming bullet, check, but then my eyes moved down to number 5. The rolling pin? WTF? I googled hard but could not find it. That’s when my imagination took over. First of all is the size altered so that an Easy Bake chef could you use it? Does it require two hands to roll out the relief? And if you‘re going to name a vibe after a kitchen tool, surely there are other names that come to mind. Melon baller, sizzling spatula, OXO good grips g-spotter all have more appeal that than a gadget designed to pummel dough into submission. But wait, it gets worse. Number 6 is the Tongs vibrator. Why not just invent a Tweezerman twister that can give you the big O and Brazilian at the same time? I understand that British slang differs from the US variety, but do tongs really conjure up randy shandy, rumpy pumpy sex? We might as well rename the rabbit the toad in the hole and label remote vibrators as the ultimate call-box. But I saved the all-time worst name for last: Leftovers. Why beat around the bush (as it were)? Just call it sloppy seconds and be done with it.
I’m not an expert on British slang but I do know my arse from my shag carpet, and frankly these names seem like marketing nightmares. How could you sell some of these vibrators? “Leftover orgasms are special because they’re even better the next day.” Perhaps a diddle riddle could work? “What bashes your dish and the bish?” It’s a cheeky challenge—no doubt about it. For me, I’ll stick with my favorites and leave the tongs across the pond.
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First of all, I hate novelty gifts. They seem pointless to me. I mean, really, how many times can a pooping pig induce true belly laughs. I look at Whoopee cushions, toilet seat outhouse decals, and racing grannies with disbelief—who are these people who shell out $15 for a nose shaped shower gel dispenser? Yet, my scale of stupidity had to be adjusted when I discovered the Sex Snorkel.
Can you imagine strapping this contraption on the next time you decide to take a dip at the Y? Not only is it ridiculous, it’s completely unnecessary, and counterproductive. Oral sex is all about finesse, not face plants in the crotch, and we all know that the clitoris hates to be bullied. If you can’t figure out how to breath through your nose, then you totally deserve looking like John Belushi in his bee costume. What’s next? Sending a canary up the vagina to see if survives?
If you really find oral sex so difficult to master, you can always add the ear mounted light specifically designed to illuminate the crotch during oral sex. 
Perfect also for grilling the labia “And Majora where were you and MInora exactly on the night of July 3rd? Nerd spoiler: the device is not Bluetooth compatible.
There’s something inherently unsettling in these “jokes”. There is the implication that a woman’s body is so unknowable that we have to engineer new ways to master the foreign terrain. I’ve said this before, but it obviously needs repeating. Great oral sex requires emotional intelligence. You both need to communicate and respond to each other’s sexual expectations and desires, with patience, knowledge and a willingness to listen. A high erotic quotient implies confidence, respect, imagination and the ability to laugh like a gibbon at these ultimate gag gifts. So put down the toys of these sexual saboteurs and say a toast to the female form, which is both path and journey and just waiting to be explored.
I rate porn on a scale from room temperature to sauna-like heat, and Velvet Thrust never made it above the “watched plot never boils” mark. Billed as porn “made especially for women who love and enjoy men,” the film features some bad actresses and actors engaged in a variety of pretty tame heterosexual sex scenes. The first and last scene are the best, by far, but fast forward through the middle unless break dancing, the tango and techno disco music turn you on. Then there is the, um, stuffie problem. One poor guy has trouble achieving and maintaining an erection; trust me, the very last emotion you want to feel when you’re gazing at porn is pity. If you are an absolute porn newbie, this film might be all you want to handle, but if you’ve been down this road before, The Velvet Thrust” is more of a Polyester B
ust!
If you has posed that question six months ago, the bells would have rung, and I’d go home with all the prizes because the answer would have been me. We have every age-appropriate book ever written on the subjects of sex and the human body, and I’ve always answered my 12-year-old daughter’s question with great candor and ease. Years ago, when she came to me requesting more information about her “Virginia,” I was all over it. Two days later she was explaining body parts to her bears. “Repeat after me. This is the vagina.”
Now, I have a rival, and she has an unfair advantage: she’s got street cred. Her name is Jenny, and everyday she holds court at the back of the bus. This where she practices her art of dispensing fallacious and salacious information while her acolytes whisper urgently and nod their head in agreement.
Picture a mini-Betty Davis with pink and black hair, peering through her cigarette smoke” and proclaiming in a world-weary voice, “Put out, honey, or be shut out.” Her puberty came early (of course) so she’s got plenty of curve appeal. To the sports bra set, this is all the qualification they need, but Jenny offers so much more. “Who’s doing it?” “Who wants to do it?“ “And who better do it soon?” Jenny sees and tells all. A mobile maven who is part sex therapist, part relationship coach—it’s so new millennium.
I first became aware of my nemesis when I took my daughter to see Juno. Great movie with lots of teaching moments, or so I thought until she uttered these words: “Jenny-from-the-bus said you can’t get pregnant the first time you have sex, so I think this movie was stupid.” I turned purple and through clenched teeth asked, “What else does Jenny-from-the-bus have to say.” This opened the floodgates. Everything from “you can’t get pregnant standing up because the sperm can’t swim that fast” to “ the only way to know for sure you’re pregnant is if McDonald’s fries make you puke” to “word to the wise—don’t chew gum if you’re doing your guy. It can get caught in his pubes and make a real mess.” Gee, thanks Jenny for those tips. I so totally get your point– Love/sex isn’t for sissies and it requires some help to make it happen.
I managed to keep my cool as I calmly explained that Jenny was a stupid little so-and-so who should mind her own damn business. Since then I’ve tried to right my enemy’s wrongs. Now, like a soldier on the eve of battle, I’m stockpiling ammunition. I completely reorganized my Tivo line-up so that The Secret Life of an American Teenager and I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant are feature presentations. We’re starting with the basics, but this time I’m injecting them with extra awesomeness!
I’m not sure who’s winning, but at least I’m in the game. Yesterday, my daughter came home with news from her source. The headline was that Mark broke up with Serena because she wouldn’t give him a blow-dryer for his birthday. I asked if those were Jenny’s exact words. “I’m not sure. I mean why would Mark get so upset? He doesn’t even comb his hair?” So we sat down for a delightful conversation on oral sex, and I felt so much better. As long as she keeps asking, I’ll be there with the answers.
Several weeks ago, I posted a piece on my nightmare experiences that transpired after I placed a personal ad in the New York Review of Books. I wrote of one man who sent me his “Intimacy Test;” since then, I’ve received numerous questions about the exact specifics of this correspondence. I’m afraid that any attempt at paraphrasing just cannot capture the staccato tone and the stark revelations of the letter; therefore, I’ve decided to share the test with you. It was very long so I’ve deleted paragraphs, but this should provide you with more than enough information to evaluate this potential prospect. My response: I read it, immediately called my three closest friends, and then filed it under “You can’t make this shit up.”
Hello, I’m a 47-year-old, straight, financially secure academic. Once married and divorced, once cohabited and separated—no kids. After my writing and teaching, my deepest interests lie in opera, cycling, art, horse racing, the stock market, and some movies and travel. I am not interested in cold rotten weather, or casual sex. I would be more contented, make that ecstatic, if I were to find a feminine soulmate wrestling and questing with the mysterious synopses of the personal ads.
I am 5’10”, 150 lbs. and balding. I wear glasses, a short salt-and-peeper beard, and have sometimes have been mistaken for the late Peter Sellers.I smoke and drink moderately and my health is superb. On the physical downside, I have impossible teeth, mediocre coordination, and no manual skills whatsoever. My mental-emotional health is not superb. I am firmly plugged into reality, but I have been vulnerable to fierce depressions when severely frustrated. I now have a therapist on call as-needed.
I had a rough and raggedy trip up from the working class, the scars and vestigial anxieties are very noticeable. I like small spaces and own few possessions. I live and work in shorts, swimsuits, sandals and headbands. I used to be a night person but unexpectedly became a day person in my thirties. My faith is an unchurched and ultraliberal Protestantism that is unconnected to sect, doctrine or observances, and follows solely from my apprehension and unquestioning acceptance of the cultural foundations of First World civilization.
My sexuality is entirely defined by my needs or emotional expression and my capacity to evoke and engage the varied selves of another. I like structure in music, coherence in literature, and I split quick from aesthetic creations which offend or bore me. I am prone to sudden bouts of eczema. My poker, bridge, and chess are so mediocre that I no longer bother with them.
And finally a note of caution. I have weathered two previous intimacy failures, and these failures occurred primarily because each partner did not understand my strengths and limitations until long after she became involved with me. So I now ask that any prospective lover/companion/spouse understand exactly who I am before she gets involved, and I hope the most thoughtful and deliberate consideration of these disclosures will inform your decision to make or not to make contact.
Consumer Advisory
This nonstandard product is offered in good faith but carries no guarantees. It satisfies and endures best when applied firm and often to the deepest emotional needs of an autonomous, experienced, and knowledgeable used. All complaints will be negotiated promptly, but since payment is strictly in kind, no refunds can be given.
J.
If you are new to bondage, these cuffs can turn any room into your own private dungeon. Just place the tethers over a door, and a short plastic tube at one end will hold the straps in place. Also, this ingenious design is perfect for travel, since even when a four-poster bed is nowhere to be found, every hotel room has plenty of doors. Additionally, there is nothing that will damage or mar the surface. Imprison your victim with the Velcro sportscuffs and let the games begin. For more experienced bondage lovers, there are several features that will make this seem like child’s play. There is no way to adjust the tethers and it doesn’t take too much effort to slide your hands close enough to release the cuff. But that, of course, would be very BAD and might require more punishment.
The set comes with two door jam nylon straps with D-rings and two soft black velour cuffs for wrists or ankles.
Here’s my dirty secret. I once dated a clown. Now in my defense, I didn’t know he was gaga about greasepaint when I accepted his dinner invitation. He told me that he worked at a Children’s Hospital—it was only later that I found out he was the Resident Clown on Call. Like many people, I have a strong visceral reaction to these joking jesters with rubber chicken fetishes. They scare the shit out of me. Individually, bulbous noses, baggy pants, and brightly colored striped socks may seem innocuous, if slightly bizarre, but put them all together and you’ve got the makings of a horror show. As someone once said, “There are two kinds of people in this world: those who hate or fear circus clowns and those who are circus clowns.”
But back to the date. He was perfectly pleasant, in a Future Farmers of America kind of way, and the conversation was just what you’d expect. His opening gambit was “What’s your favorite song from Mama Mia?,” which then led into a spirited discussion of the effect of bot flies on the brain. I could go on, but you can connect the polka dots. No sparks or sparkling bon mots. By the time the salads arrived, he was waxing rapturously about his love affair with the dulcimer. I decided that a double scotch with a xanax chaser would get me through yet another episode of As the World Spurns. At the end of the evening, I evaded a kiss on the cheek, declined his invitation to go back to his apartment to listen to his original recordings of Edith Piaf and peeled out of the parking lot. (Word to the Wise: always, always take your own car).
I had forgotten all about him until a week later when he called to say that he had a present for me and asked if he could he drop if off on his way home from work. Ok, I’ll admit it, I’m a gift whore so I said sure, but warned him that I had to leave soon. Ten minutes later, I opened the door and discovered “Chocko” the clown. I did what any sane person would do: screamed and slammed the door; unfortunately I was unaware of just how effective those big ugly shoes can be as blocking devices. He apologized for the scare, explained his real job, and handed me a small gift-wrapped box. His parting words were: “Call me after you watch this.”
I peered through the peephole to see if he had a posse of 20 other clowns crammed into his Pinto and then gingerly tore off the balloon embossed paper. What did I find? A DVD of Clown Porn! I guess that Chocko was promoting sex-positive clown eroticism for Humpy, Jumbo and Kinky and wanted to spread the love.
I knew that if I watched any part of it, I’d be scarred for life. Reading the liner notes just confirmed my worst fears. In the seedy world of clown porn, there’s a lot more that goes on than juggling and pie throwing. Honking or horn blowing heralds an orgasm, circus music plays in the background, and clownsomes are standard. I put down the DVD but couldn’t stop my mind from racing: Do clowns tie their genitals into animal shapes? (Look, now it’s a dick and shazam; now it’s a duck.) Do they shoot confetti out of their cannon when they come? And when the fright wigs come off and lights dim, are the stars still panting on the outside but crying on the inside?
A furtive google search confirmed that yes; there is subculture of clown porn actors and aficionados. One of the leading figures in the clown-dom category is “Ouchy”, whose “Nice to Beat You”expertise includes his evil clown act, complete with bondage, hot wax and genital straight razor shaving. He brings new meaning to slapstick.
The practice of “clowning” has grown to such proportions that there is now a Stop Clown Porn Now organization, complete with website (stopclownpornnow.org). This grassroots campaign is on a mission to stop the clownsploitation “of the power of the clown archetype.” Worse, the degradation of clowns is likely to lead to the increase chance that “a legitimate clown will be abused by a wrong-headed clown parpaphiliac.”
The group is also working hard to stem the tide of non-clown actors usurping the work of true professionals. Bogus Bozos you’re on notice. (I figure it’s only a matter of time before PETA springs to action over the inhumane treatment of chickens. Imagine the psychological damage poultry endure being squeezed between Big Bertha’s bazookas.)
So now I’m left with unwanted images of filthy hat tricks, clowns pulling yards and yard of silk scarves out of someone’s ass, and a growing suspicion of unicycles at masturbatory implements. I’ve had to delete Judy Collins’ rendition of “Send in the Clowns” from my iPod, and it will take more than time to delete the thought of ejaculatory clownsters from my neural pathways. I’m desperately in need of deprogramming. Where is the website for that?
Product Review: The One Vibrator I Would Save if My House was on Fire
After I used the Eroscillator for the first time, I actually called the owners of my favorite sex shop to thank them for recommending it. I wasn’t in the market for a new toy, especially one that costs $140, but they kept raving about its virtues. Not technically a vibrator, this device produces a side-to-side oscillating motion as opposed to the up-and-down movements of a vibrator. Now I normally don’t turn to Dr. Ruth for sex advice (make that never), but the Eroscillator® is the only sex toy that she recommends and sponsors.
A university study asked 30 women (age range 24-47) to test the Prelude III, the Hitachi Magic Wand and the Eroscillator. Admittedly, this is a pretty small sample size but their data support my own conclusions, i.e., the Eroscillator was most likely to 1) produce the high intensity orgasms; and 2) result in multiple orgasms. I also give it props for the different pop off attachments with such adorable names as The French Legionaire’s Mustache.
Here are the top 6 reasons why I love it:
- It’s so quiet that every other toy you use will sound like a jackhammer in comparison.
- The flexibility of a 12-foot cord.
- It’s waterproof so you can clean the entire device (minus the power converter, of course) with soap and water.
- Three speeds and several attachments so you can vary the intensity and sensations with ease.
- Very lightweight and streamlined design.
- The company has a 30-day return policy that allows you to try it out, and if you are not satisfied, you can return it and get a 50% refund.
7. Ability to use it for clitoral, vaginal and anal stimulation depending on which attachment you choose.
I’m working on a new book, and I’m hoping my readers will help me out. Specifically I’m looking for your list of 10 things that turn you on and off sexually. I’m also looking for people (all genders) to interview, so email me at athenaiwg@gmail.com if you are interested. To get the conversation rolling, here’s my list.
TEN THINGS THAT TURN ME ON
- Men who make me laugh
- Someone who makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the world.
- Someone who, when we’re out for dinner, slips me a hotel key because he can’t wait to have me
- Intelligent, curious, articulate men who know when to speak and when to be silent
- Someone who understands my intense need for solitude
- A man with a rich fantasy life who is eager to act on it
- A man who asks me to look at him when I come
- Generosity
- The preparations of slipping on fishnets, securing them with a garter belt, and lacing up a corset for a man who appreciates the effort
- The juxtaposition of male and female bodies
TEN THINGS THAT TURN ME OFF
- Hypochondria
- A man who collects disappointments instead of discoveries
- Poor hygiene
- Narcissists
- Someone who says, Oh, we couldn’t” instead of “Why not?”
- Lederhosen and knee socks
- Anyone who continuously talks about the girl who got away
- Lying
- Physical awkwardness and sexual timidity
- Slurpy, sloppy eaters
