Project Sugarlips Go: In Which My Hubby’s a Lucky Bastard

So, my recent foray into Masque Oral Sex Strips got me to thinking. I’ve given curious readers a peek at a product that changes the taste experience of fellatio from the outside – why not from the inside? I am a fellatio enthusiast (while I’d like to say my sparkling personality was the reason I went from first date to wife in under a year, it had some help) as ToySir is happy to attest to, and semen enhancers hold a certain fascination for me. There are several of these products on the market, and I think a comparison experiment is in order.

So far on the roster, we’ll have a “control” application, an “apple cider” application, a “pineapple” application and one application for any of the following that I can snag sponsors for:

• Sweeten69
• Semenex
• Cum D’licious
• SueetX
• YummyCum
• Sweet Release
• Yummy Cummy

Each application will be rated for Difference from Control, Bitterness, “Ammonia” taste, Sweetness, Scent and Overall User Experience. I plan on declaring a winner when all is said and done (this project may take a few weeks, there is a human element here 😉 and possibly even giving some swag away, depending on the generosity of my sponsors. Stay tuned!

…and Then, Suddenly, A Meteor!

I know that it’s supposed to be a hot sex toy for men ‘an all, but when I saw one of Pipedream’s new products, this is where my brain immediately journeyed to:

 

The gentle Penixasaur forages for his dinner.

( Want a real dino cock? Check out some awesome fantasy silicone dildos from Bad Dragon. )

The Ultrasound and the Fury

For those readers just joining the blog, I was pregnant in September of last year. Things did not go well, and I lost my baby in late October.

There were a dizzying few days at the end when my HCG numbers, which are commonly used as an indicator of pregnancy via blood test, went down then oddly back up before eventually declining again. Those numbers are only supposed to go down when the pregnancy is being lost, and aren’t supposed to go back up if they’ve declined, as I was told. To this day, I don’t know what happened – I assume the first test was incorrect.

When the HCG numbers briefly went back up and my hopes along with them, I was sent across town to a clinic to get an ultrasound done so my doctor could see what was going on with him or her. The clinic seemed nice enough, but I was just a wreck – steeped in hormones, steadily bleeding and afraid to have hope that the beloved little life in me was going to make it after all. My partner, now my husband, was there with me and held my hand like his life depended on it. He was my anchor when everything was falling apart in that clinic. He helped me out of my clothes and into the gown, drying my tears and assuring me that we’d make it through either way.

He guided me to the darkened room and onto the table, where he stroked my hair and tried to calm me down while we waited for the doctor. They came in, and he stood by my side and watched like a hawk as they doused my abdomen with lubricating jelly and passed the scanner over and over without a word. My anxiety was practically audible at that point, and the desperate questions we both had – is that our baby? Is everything alright? – were brushed off, firmly and politely, with repeated reminders that only my doctor could tell me anything. I cried softly and my partner moved closer to the table so I could lay my cheek against him for comfort and support.

Then they brandished a wand and explained they needed to take pictures inside of me. And told him to get out.

My partner, my rock, and the father of the child inside of me – the one who had seen me gloriously naked thousands of times and at least, provably, once – had to leave. It was against “company policy” to have a man in the room when the procedure was being done. I was terrified and disgusted at the same time, scared out of my wits for my child and the fact that a completely unfamiliar procedure was going to be done on me without my partner there to hold my hand. I was vulnerable, and the fact that another nurse was called in to assist the first one only made me feel more exposed. I felt sick as I felt the probe slide home, the monitor turned completely away from me, denying me even the steadying influence of watching my tiny child. Repeated requests for both my partner and a look at the screen fell on deaf ears and I was left to lay back and allow not one, but two people to move this piece of machinery painfully around inside of me.

When they were done, I was left to clean up and I cried in gut-wrenching sobs in that darkened room, using the gown to clean my own blood and what felt like gallons of medical lubricant off of and out of my body. I stumbled back to the changing rooms in my ill-fitting and now stained robe and my partner wordlessly gathered me in as I wept. I felt bullied, abused and alone in that room, with a million different questions no one would answer and a heart ache that could have tumbled cities.

This, dear readers, was voluntary. This transvaginal ultrasound story was the experience of a woman trying to have a child with a committed partner, a woman who had a home, car, job and supportive family and friends.

Imagine for a moment there was no partner waiting to gather me in after, or to hold my hand before it all started. Imagine I had no job, or house or car, no friends and family to support me. Imagine if my birth control failed, if I’d been raped or abused, if a million other things went wrong that precluded my desire, willingness or ability to step into parenthood.

I’ve been alone on that table at a moment when my life was changing, and everything hinged on what happened next. To be forced to go through that? When I know what it is? It sickens me in my soul.

I hope it sickens you too.

 

My Husband is not Intimidated by Dicks

 

I think the idea that people ever *really* stop looking at attractive people is overly optimistic, regardless of their relationship situation. When the sex died off and the stresses piled up with my ex, going to some sci-fi/kink conventions in the name of work wrecked me like a sugar-loving diabetic in a candy shop. Ohhhh did I want to reach out and touch someone, and I’m surprised at a few points that my eyes didn’t pop clear out of my head as I watched some seriously WTF-level beautiful people traipsing around hotel hallways in hot costumes. You could see my need with the naked eye if you happened to look directly at me during those lean times.

My ex, on the other hand, got cagey about where I looked, and who looked at him. Notably, for being as into certain acts with me as he was, he was curiously homophobic. He would see men “looking at him” to pick him up when I, sexually hypersensitive as I was, saw no such thing. In Ihop, at the grocery store, in the movies – no place was safe from the rampant gays that were obviously following him like a rabid fan club of cocks. This wasn’t a fun-sexy obsession, cause lemme tell ya, your Toychick can appreciate a lil man on man action. This was a twitchy needs-meds situation on his part. If I ever suggested – in a fantasy setting mind you, not real life – that he’d look cute kissing so and so, or hugging some other guy, he’d flip out and I’d get the cold shoulder. Second generation homophobe, that one.

In seven sex-and-affection-starved years with my ex, I never strayed physically. Never kissed, never touched, no clandestine dates, no internet flirting. I practically vibrated – and not the fun way, either – with desperation for something, anything, from a sexual kindred spirit. But good god did I look. Pretty men and women in the mall, downtown, in the bookstore, whatever. I was an unabashed field-of-vision slut and it was probably the only thing that kept me from utterly losing my shit.

Cue my spouse. He has knowledge born from various past relationship setups – poly, open, you name it, leading to a more enlightened view of sex and relationships as a whole. We both prefer and are happy living out our lives monogamously, having both come from multi-person relationships in the past and deciding they weren’t a good fit. Gloriously, though, he’s not above having crushes on male movie stars or even commenting about the prowess of men in our social circle. He’s just heteroflexible enough without it being a preoccupation – he can discuss dick size of passersby without me feeling the slightest bit eclipsed as his partner.

Today while we were heading to lunch with family at an upscale restaurant, the host that sat us was a beautifully slender young man with a blonde ponytail. I totally checked him out, but simultaneously slid my arm around my husband’s waist, grateful that I didn’t have to look with longing anymore.  We walked in, sat and ate lunch, enjoying the beautiful weather, company and a particularly amazing sandwich. On the way out we passed the same host, busy showing other guests their seats. My husband, completely uncoaxed, leaned into me and murmured something absolutely delicious about the same young man and what he’d do to him.

I had a little trouble walking back to the car, dear readers, on account of my knees going wobbly.

55 Gallons of Lube on the Wall, 55 Gallons of Luuuuube

What’s better than a 55 gallon industrial drum of water-based lubricant?

A creepy horse head mask and a set of portable testicles, evidently.

I don't know what Amazon's planning, but it's probably a bad idea.

Sex Toy Store Flow Chart – A Tongue-in-Cheek Rendering

My take on the inception process.

More Than Ability

A former co-worker and several-years buddy Shanna Katz was the first one to really make me stop and think about sexuality as it relates to people coping with a disability. We talked about it over tea, over twitter, over email at various points and she opened my eyes about the issues, problems and especially stigmas that those with disabilities face when sex comes into the conversation. Whether it be muscle or flexibility issues, missing limbs, mental problems or other differences from the perceived norm, those that are disabled often deal with being socially sterilized when it comes to sex – the same unfair cell that the elderly are often crowded into.

People tend to like intimacy. They like to make love, touch each other, touch themselves or even just meditate on the idea of being, and the way they express those concepts might not always pull up neatly alongside our own definitions. There are the asexual and those that abstain for personal, religious or cultural reasons, and those instances are as much about intimacy with their belief systems as genital-involved sex is about intimacy in the flesh. Intimacy is important, and trying to take it from someone who defines it differently by mocking or belittling it is nothing less than a violation of their personal human rights. I feel this, in my heart – do I always succeed when it comes to the actual practice? No, but it’s definitely something I aspire to make natural in my interactions.

In my journeys as ThatToyChick, I see echoes of social concepts in the products that pass through my hands or across my screen. It’s heartening to me to know that friends and loved ones that may experience medical issues later on or currently struggle with them have options in the sex toy world when it comes to enhancing their sex life. I was going to make this a “Weird Sex Toys o The Week / WSTOTW” piece, but I felt that would sensationalize and undermine what I’m trying to say here. These toys aren’t weird, they’re cool and progressive – just like the people using them. They open sexual doors and allow connections for people that are trying to not only live with and overcome a disability, but the heavy anchor of the social stigma that goes with it.

Buckling Leather Thigh Harness from Aslan Leather, $55

In Your Face Chest Harness by Sportsheets, $39.95 at NawtyThings.com

Heeldoe Foot Harness, $24.99

 

A Matter of Lube

I like lube. It’s like a drink of water for one’s exciting parts: slick and inviting, and I don’t hesitate to give it a big ol’ thumbs up. I wrote a comic about it, even.

That being said, I haven’t used a damn drop of the stuff with my husband since we met about a year and a half ago.

This confuses and delights me, because I used to run through it like crazy with my ex – we had a big bottle of maximus (the one with the pump top) on our headboard out of necessity. If sex was in the works, I’d get haphazardly slathered with the purell-looking stuff before he’d attempt to get down to business, which usually happened while the stuff was still cold on my ladyparts. I hadn’t realized how complacent I’d gotten over the course of seven years, putting up with not only infrequent sex that I had to all but beg for, routine and unloving when it did happen. Lube got him inside my completely-not-warmed-up self, much the way it assists a speculum during a pap smear. Sex was a matter of getting through it, and I don’t know when I became okay with that but it turns my stomach that I did.

From the very first time I was with my husband, I remember being completely surprised that we were in the act with no outside assistance. He was looking at me, not straight ahead, and I was looking at him instead of squeezing my eyes shut and trying to shift my hips to alleviate that awful dragging feeling of unready penetration. It felt gloriously right, like the sort of things that join together so readily you can’t even see the seams. My brain wasn’t busy compensating for my lack of arousal and wandering into parts unknown, it was focused on the amazing things happening to and around me. This wasn’t mechanical, it was warm and pliant, organic and wonderful. My beloved throe, once relegated merely to protecting the sheets during my girltime, was pressed into service to shield them from my enthusiasm instead.

The small rail-shelf above the bed holds my coveted Inttimo Oils (can you tell which ones we like?) and a massager, but that’s it for the moment.

Where the magic happenz.

 

So, refreshingly, I look at lubes with new eyes now – like exciting new sex toys to be incorporated into an already-fantastic sex life. I look at warming and cooling formulas and flavored offerings with a giddy little excitement I haven’t seen around much since age 18. I’m looking forward to getting to know my lube all over again, in the very best of ways.

Dildos Broke My Retina

Okay, so it was actually a spontaneous tear. Supposedly. All I know is that New Years Day of 2010, I got knocked out while my eyeball was removed, spruced up and popped back in. Nonetheless, I have seen many, many dildos through my travels in the adult industry, from prototypes to conventions to store shelves. My memory, which is far stronger in visuals (ironically) than anything else, keeps a mental catalog of faux dicks that dance behind my eyelids when I’ve been penning adult store copy too late into the evenings.

My twitter feed produces an endless supply of new online stores, products, and “stuff” from the adult industry – typically, I just add companies to the Massive Manufacturer List or use my findings for yet another installment of Weird Sex Toys of the Week. However, as I was perusing the single forthcoming product from my newest twitter follower, a staggeringly expensive $150 dark chocolate penis filled with your choice of fondants and shipped chilled, something rang out in my visual database of disembodied cocks.

I grant, it isn’t identical to the Doc Johnson Dil on the right, but hell of a similarity, isn’t it? If you live in the UK and have 89 pounds burning a hole in your wallet, head over to the awkwardly-named Unindecent.com to grab yourself a chilled, fondant-filled cock.

Yum.

The Vertical Stuff Rub

My partner’s stepfather has to be the most adorably earnest man that’s ever existed. In slow, honest speech riddled with his own “isms” and a healthy southern tinge, he makes the act of retelling mundane things both hilarious and compelling. Car trips with my guy’s folks can always find us reduced to gasping laughter in the back seat at least once as the stepdad rambles on about anything from lolcats to the motivations of the drivers around us.

Recently, two good friends of ours broke up after almost a yearlong romance. Dealing with the inevitable fallout of the split has consumed a lot of our time and energy as we make sure they’re alright. Naturally, when asked about our life en route to the planetarium with his folks, this bit of information came up. In a five minute soliloquy that I desperately wish I had recorded, the stepfather waxed poetic about what eventually became apparent as a call to have breakup sex with someone else to clear the proverbial cobwebs.

Being wholly uninitiated in the ways of lesbians, the call to action became increasingly hilarious, to the end of laughing hard enough to make me cough.

“Well, she should just go up to another girl, you know, but make sure she likes girls first, and go “Hey, do you want to go back to my place and do the vertical stuff rub?” And then, she should get one of them there double dong things, and they should do stuff with it, and bam. She’s not sad anymore because she found another lesbian.”

I don’t know what about the phrase “vertical stuff rub” that sends me into paroxysms of laughter, but I just picture two young women, traveling town holding hands and gently stroking lightposts, door frames, and car antennae in the stepdad’s world of narration. My guy and I have taken to stroking the side of the refrigerator and looking at each other with sultry eyes, whispering that we want to do the vertical stuff rub before utterly cracking up.

Feel free to add it to your lesbian lexicon, dear readers.