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.

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?

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

1. Men who make me laugh
2. Someone who makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the world.
3. Someone who, when we’re out for dinner, slips me a hotel key because he can’t wait to have me
4. Intelligent, curious, articulate men who know when to speak and when to be silent
5. Someone who understands my intense need for solitude
6. A man with a rich fantasy life who is eager to act on it
7. A man who asks me to look at him when I come
8. Generosity
9. The preparations of slipping on fishnets, securing them with a garter belt, and lacing up a corset for a man who appreciates the effort
10. The juxtaposition of male and female bodies

TEN THINGS THAT TURN ME OFF

1. Hypochondria
2. A man who collects disappointments instead of discoveries
3. Poor hygiene
4. Narcissists
5. Someone who says, Oh, we couldn’t” instead of “Why not?”
6. Lederhosen and knee socks
7. Anyone who continuously talks about the girl who got away
8. Lying
9. Physical awkwardness and sexual timidity
10. Slurpy, sloppy eaters

]]> http://intelligentwomansguide.com/2009/07/need-your-help-what-is-sexy/feed/ 0 http://intelligentwomansguide.com/2009/07/the-new-math-for-sexual-accounting/ http://intelligentwomansguide.com/2009/07/the-new-math-for-sexual-accounting/#comments Thu, 09 Jul 2009 13:59:36 +0000 iwguide http://intelligentwomansguide.com/?p=311

You’re breathing heavily, buttons are coming undone, and the temperature is definitely rising when he asks, “So, how many other guys have you “been” with?” What is about men wanting to quantify everything from the number of tools in their garage to sex partners? I avoid this question for the obvious reason:  any answer I give will be wrong. It will also open the door for them to give me their statistics, which is the last thing I care about unless it signals a risk to my health.

If he’s really into numbers, you need to apply the principles of new math before uttering a sound. Here’s the formula that will give you the true answer.

X = S (People you’ve had sex with) – P (pity fucks + stuffies +penises smaller than a cat’s paw)

N = X – ½ W (everyone for whom you can only recall a first or last name.) Subtract 10 for vagrants.)

M = N – A (anarchy sex, i.e., sex you engaged in just to spite “The Man”)

Z= M divided by G (partners who bore an uncanny likeness to Emma Goldman)

If Z  is still longer than your credit card number, higher order concepts are definitely required.

Q = Z divided by H (Holiday sex, which usually involves lots of drinking, despair and generalized loneliness)

R = Q – L (any man who suggested a spit and lard slurry as an appropriate lubricant.)

H = R divided by I (% of men who referred to themselves and/or their penises in the third person, e.g., The Buckmeister is going to make sure that Mr. Grease Monkey shows you a real good time.)

D= H – C ( Clowns). Now this may seem discriminatory, but clowns have a tendency to pull quarters out of your pussy and typically refuse to take off their shoes.)

Round D off to the closest prime number and you’ve got a reasonable answer.

Or, you could just use my response: “Enough to know what I like and have every right to expect.”

Dear Athena.

I’m currently wrestling with some severe jealousy about my husband’s desire  to open our relationship so that he can have other partners. I told him that it was better off for the both of us if he explored that need of his, and then I could see if I could deal with it or not… He has his first date tomorrow. Oy.

I guess I’ll be getting more in touch with my self-love more now than ever, huh? RB

Sweet RB, you are trying so hard to accommodate his wishes, yet your pain is palpable.  Open relationships require boundaries, ethical negotiations and trust. These need to be mutually agreed upon, and both parties need to accept this core value as a part of their lives.  It sounds as if your husband made his decision and then you reluctantly agreed. I would ask you to contemplate if your seal of approval arose primarily from love or from fear.  If you are committed to walking down this path with him,  I highly recommend you read tThe Ethical Slut, by D. Easton and C. Liszt.   It will help you gain insight into your husband’s decision to reject a monogamous lifestyle and help you clarify your own position.  Hugs,

as you move to sweep me off my feet.

But I’m not made of air tonight.

I’m armed and dangerous

looking for a worthy gladiator

to mount the swells of passion.

Leave your refinements at the door.

and sweep away the debris of crimson petals.

Savage my lips until they are as vivid as redwings.

Scavenge my flushed thighs glistening beneath you.

Do not speak of tenderness—in fact

do not speak at all.

Show me your passport singed with carnal musk

so that we can enter a room where our bed

burns blue as an anvil’s edge.

Splay me on the table against the azure wainscoting.

Our language is tongue and groove,

which I learn with each stroke of your cock.

We are both raw and fearless and cruel;

both taken and used.

I am an acrobat seeking a tight wire act.

I wrap my ages around you like swaddling strips

unjointed and unhemmed.  Rise up to meet me and I

will be there waiting at the arc’s pinnacle seeking release.

No light caresses tonight.

No sweet embraces.

Take your scalpel and undress my flesh

so I can close my eyes and own you.

Be a little afraid, as one hand drips with sweat and sperm,

the other knuckled fist is hidden in lava.

Listen closely and you’ll hear friction’s passion

frisson rising from electrified nerve endings.

And do not speak at all

While phone sex comes naturally to some women, others find it to be worst kind of aural exam. “Will I sound silly?”  “Am I doing it right?”  “What if he starts laughing instead of panting?”  Only you can determine if this is the spice your relationship needs, but if done properly, it can spark a sexual revolution.  Here is my best advice:

1. Do your homework.  This is essential If you a true crude prude, and seldom are heard any x-rated words from your mouth. How do you get comfortable with the mainstays of all dirty conversations?  I recommend that you go to see a David Mamet play, tune in to Howard Stern, and/or study George Carlin’s “The 7 Words You Can’t Say on Television.”  Remember that you need to feel passionate when you say them, so insert them into your everyday thoughts,” e.g.,  “Time to get that asshole Jimmy out of his crib.”

2.Think outside the box and expand your focus group beyond your vagina.  There are dozens of sweet spots and each one is crying out for attention.  Start with the parts furthest from your home plate—nibbling toes, tonguing ears, fondling breasts and work toward the jackpot.  When you feel comfortable, consider adding combo-moves, e.g.” I love it when you squeeze my tits while you suck on me.”  This one comes with my personal guarantee.

3. Practice.  Schedule your annual physical and mammogram NOW.  During your appointments, engage in a lively inner conversation.  “Grind that speculum, Baby.” “You think that hurts? I like it that way.  Squeeze those puppies harder.”  You call that a rectal exam?  Try three finger and then we’re talking.”

4. A picture can be worth 1000 words.  If you’re still feeling shy and awkward, consider this.  Take a photo of yourself holding a vibrator.  Send it to his phone along with the text message. “Don’t make me use this,” and wait for his call.

5. Avoid cute phrases.  “My honey pot wants a visit from Mr. Bojangles” might be adorable in the bedroom but you’re trying to scorch the airways. Your goal is to get royally laid, so call a spade a spade. Try whispering “I want you to screw me so hard that I’ll scream,” and see what happens.  I promise you that, “I want you to put a finger up my ass and my pussy the next time we have sex” will win out over “let’s do that double thumbs-up thingie” every time.

6.Remember your motivation. You’re not trying to get elected into the canon of great works; you want to fire a cannon of trash talk.  Start out using an old standby, i.e., “ I want you to ram your _____ in my _____.”

Phrases to Avoid

Salami; lunchbox

Tongue; tonsils

Fingers; kidneys

Penis; neocortex

7. Use as many adjectives as possible. Remember you want to build the tension, and you want to make the call last longer than 15 seconds.  Instead of telling him, “I love your penis,” try this:  “I love your hot, throbbing, big (don’t ever forget this), amazing, hard dick. Now what are you going to do with it?” Note the difference? So will he.

8. Never say in 2 words what you can say in 20. This is called building the tension.  Don’t just tell him you want to straddle him—add some filthy flair.  Expand your repertoire by focusing on adjectives that end in “est” and verbs ending in “ck.”  Need some inspiration, rent 9 ½ weeks and take notes.

9. Avoid all food references, unless you’re planning on dripping chocolate and whipped cream on his body and licking them off.  Leave food analogies to the doctors.  “The tumor was a big as a cantaloupe,” just doesn’t bode well for wild monkey sex. “ My God, your balls are as big as grapefruits,” or “ I want you so much that my clit is as big as a chicken nugget,” are best left unsaid.

10. Use some judgment.  Which would you partner prefer? “ I can’t wait for you to get lost in my human hair farm” or “The heat from your breath on my pussy makes me so horny for you.”  Similarly, ” I love when you massage your flea stick in my face” is unlikely to win out over  “I want you to come all over my face and hair”.

11. Stick to the subject. You’re after one thing—wild, crazy, rip your clothes off with your teeth kind of sex.  Do not conflate this with a heart-to-heart about sharing and caring and renewing a long-term commitment ala Dr. Phil. Nothing like hearing “I’d like to bear your pigeon-footed children,” to shrink a man faster than cashmere in a dryer.  You’re creating a spontaneous passion play, so leave the spooning, crooning and honeymooning for another call.

12. Get in the mood. Before you call, put on something sexy and stretch out like the sex kitten you are.   When he asks what you’re wearing (and he will) you don’t want to admit you’re clad in sweats and those awful carrot slippers your mother gave you as a joke.  Set the stage with candles, soft music and dim lighting.  Avoid all distractions and please make sure your phone is completely charged.

13.  Have fun. This is a perfect opportunity to act out your fantasies. It’s just two voices teasing and tantalizing so make the most of it.  Russian spy? (Get out the trench coat, Mata Hari), or maybe you’ve always wanted to slip on the ruffled panties of a schoolgirl who keeps dropping her damn pencil.  Oops, I’m so clumsy Mr. ____.  For those 15-20 minutes, you’re a seductress. Period. No reminders about errands, no complaints about kids, no nagging about life’s irritations.  It’s about getting what you want and giving him what he craves—a brazen admission of how much you love sex with him.  Who could resist that?

Put me in a stationery store, and I’m ecstatic.  I finger thick vellum cards and imagine brown ink flowing like caramel toffee. I long to decorate the pages with wandering strokes, fine-tuned flourishes, and well-mannered spacing.  My mouth waters at the cursive possibilities.

In elementary school, I adored the perfect blues line dividing my practice sheets with dotted red lines perfectly bisecting the horizontal parameters. Even now, whenever I encounter tracing paper, I conjure up the directional arrows that provided specific instructions for every stroke of my no. 2 sharpened pencil.  Mastering that troublesome “q”, savoring the forward flow of “v” and “w”, and feeling just a little naughty whenever I lifted my pen off the page to cross my “t.”  Marvelous.

Unfortunately, my penmanship, once so proper and carefully crafted, deteriorated dramatically. One look at my signature and you’d swear that I should be scrawling pharmaceutical prescriptions instead of sex proscriptions.  Still I refused to let go of my cursive crush.  But then something happened, which brought it all to a crashing halt.

I wrote a very sexy note.

I was living with a man and we were in a serious holding pattern.  Intimacy and sex were at the bottom of his priority list, and I was getting desperate.  It was Florida in the summer so the saran wrap trick (always a favorite with the culinary crowd) was out.  I had already paraded around in my FM pumps and my best fishnets and garter belt, but the flag stubbornly remained at half-mast.  I was contemplating a pole dance on the curtain rod in the shower, and then dismissed that idea. Although I’m an agile climber, my 5’11” frame didn’t leave much room for splits and scissor kicks.

I had just about called it quits when an unexpected opportunity presented itself. He was traveling to interview for a job, and he asked me to pack his bag. I wrote a sizzling note of licks and strokes and how I would gladly choke upon his return. Slipping it between the creases of his shirts, I was confident that this was a message no proud peacock could ignore.

I saw him off and waited for his call.  And waited.  When the phone finally rang, it was 2 a.m., and I fumbled for the receiver.  “Sweetie,” I said hopefully, “Did you get my note?” Dead silence followed by a terse, “I read it and, quite frankly, I’m shocked.”  I was stunned and wondered aloud how this could be. ”But we’ve done that plenty of times.”  Sure,” he said, “But never upon my rectum!”

Ah, the slip of a pen turned an “r” and an “n” into an “m.”  At that moment, I gave up my cursive career and started packing.

Let’s be honest–women are complicated.  It’s as true for our eroticism as it is for

our emotions.  Sometimes no matter what men do, the thrill flickers and then it’s

gone. They take the familiar route, but inexplicably, this time the clitoris is the

ridge to nowhere.

Bringing a woman to orgasm can be a lot like putting together an Ikea cabinet.  You start out with lots of pieces and minimal instructions. It’s all supposed to work, but often you end up with some leftover mystery parts and a wobbly surface. If you want sex that’s mutually satisfying, be prepared to mute the male pride button and ASK FOR DIRECTIONS.

1.  You hold the key but every lock is different.

It would be lovely if women came equipped with a sophisticated navigation system, but sorry fellas, you’re on your own.  We’ve got pretty complicated niche marketing down there that’s influenced by a host of hormones. Sometimes our little baton stands at attention and other times it’s an erotic illusionist. Now you see it, now you don’t. And unless you’re into role-playing Captain Ahab and Moby Dick, echolocation is really not a viable option. That’s why questioning and listening are the two most underrated components of sex.  Put away your blunt objects for a bit and pay attention.  I’m not talking about the patter of an overly enthusiastic sports commentator (Joe comes up the middle, OH God, it’s the pick and roll, Yes, Yes, YESSS!)  A simple, Does this feel good?” will suffice.

2.  Gentlemen, start your engines.

Just when you think that the embers have died and you’re at risk for carpal tunnel syndrome, something shifts.  Lust resurfaces and demands to fed. Pretty soon the stifled yawn turns into a swooning moan.  The flicker of interest morphs into fizzling scarlet that blurs everything but the white heat of the moment.  It can happen, so eavesdrop on a woman’s pulse and be at the ready.

3. Feel first; think later.

I know that this is counterintuitive to most men, but to be a great lover you need to put aside the reasoning and add some seasoning.  The clitoris is a complete universe where sensations and desires stream.  Trying to “penetrate” it with the spike of logic is pointless.  Our pleasure dome is too mutable an empire for that.  If you mentally try to untangle our erotic aqueduct, you’ll get dizzy from the effort.  Relax, focus on sensory clues and cues, and give in to the mystery.

4. Embrace the detours.

If you’re lost and she suggests an alternate route, take it.  You could just be surprised by the results of your newfound talents.  Embrace them and remember, you can insert yourself into a vagina, but sometimes all you get for your efforts is a dial tone.  Follow her lead. Novelty can ignite the senses and waken sensuality from its slumber.

Now for enlightened  readers, this will all seem obvious. But trust me.  There are plenty of men who hear the sound of wet laundry flapping in the wind and think, “Now that’s what great sex sounds like.”  These are same men who take a few laps around the track and declare victory.  Who want more Punch and less Moody, and who belittle an honest outpouring of words caring only about their own geyser.  More’s the pity.

We sit across a table,

a gloved hand arranging objects

forged out of heat—crystal, china, sliver.

A perfect setting for mind quests, loving jests, secrets confessed.

But the bantering cantor of past conversation

is gone, replaced by the slow gait of

terse politeness and the incessant woodpecking

of your blackberry.

It is a Bride’s bounty.

but I cannot pronounce you husband and life.

Clearly divisible, we are. And the remainder is

a reminder that no promises can be trusted

My eyes scan your face, and in the blank of an eye

You are lost again.

The wine is decanted along with our lives.

The steam rises off the plates and you

become more mirage than man.

The air around us hangs heavy

with the masky dampness of embargoed emotions.

We compete with restraint,

and you tear a piece of your ire

off the loaf of bread, following

the path of yeast resistance.

Your quips are edged weapons,

Sticks and stones that hurt me.

I don’t know what to with my arms.

Limbs that fit together so seamlessly

are now gangly appendages looking for

neutral ground. So I make calligraphic strokes

on the menu’s deckled vellum and remember past caresses.

We are powder kegs lit by candlelight.

The heat is not enough to ignite confidences

Never mind that passion that once invaded our lives

Like Norman mercenaries.

The water goblet leaves a stain on the soft damask embankments;

a Rorschach that I am primed to inspect.

Is this a passing phase of your moon,

an heirloom calling card of renewal,

or an outline’s shard of the end of us?