Things of Note!

1.) In a classy marketing move that elegantly serves both brand promotion and pregnancy prevention, Sir Richard’s Condoms steps up and offers free packs of condoms to ladies that send in a snapshot of their recalled birth control prescription.

2.) Durex fails to hit the mark by leaning on tired stereotypes, delivered via emailed videos of talking teddy bears, to “slow him down” or “speed her up.” Among the short and vaguely insulting video clips? A wedding march that’s sure to keep him from firing off and “no armed pushups” that will certainly trip her trigger.

3.) Susan G. Komen Foundation reverses the decision to defund Planned Parenthood. The internet briefly puts down its torches and pitchforks.

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Losing One, Gaining Another

When I penned my last entry, I fully intended to return back to blogging full time, joining the illustrious ranks of momma sex bloggers like my Pink pal. I had a full head of proverbial steam, things were falling into place, I was newly engaged and ready to take on the world.

The best laid plans, as they say.

It began the way a deluge might, the faint tremors of an earthquake, the birds rising as one to escape an approaching storm. A tiny drop of blood. Nothing, really. I worried and sniffled, as new mothers are want to do, and my soon-to-be husband stepped into the time-worn role of comfort and reassurance that it was nothing. Unfortunately, the HCG numbers at my next doctor’s appointment started declining, and I felt like I was slowly failing at a test I had studied my whole life for.

In the weeks that followed, I took shower after shower, crying hard against the ugly plastic tiles as the first child my body had ever carried literally washed away from me. My little Tybrid was taken from me by some inconsequential mismatch, some microscopic firing or connection that simply failed to happen. The new flower of my baby furled back into a bud, receding into my body as if it had been mistaken about trying to bloom at all. I mourned in a way that I never thought I could for something I had never even seen with my eyes.

In the depths of our grief, my partner and I realized that the child had only urged us in a direction we were headed anyway. In November, we stood before a Justice of the Peace (and our respective parents) and were legally united. Life has continued, more or less the same, though I still tear up now and then when I see other babies, or another coupon or sample for diapers comes in the mail. It’s been hard for me, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I take a little to get back into the swing of things. It’s felt like forever since I smirked and told bawdy jokes, or ridiculed outrageous dildos and I’m kind of anxious to get back into the (sybian?) saddle.

Life’s too short, folks. Do what you can with what you got, and love everything you’re able to. ❤


Holy Crap.

I’ve had some major upheavals in my life, including an infidelity scare (he didn’t, but it sure as hell looked bad), a birthday, a conception and, as of about 15 hours ago, a proposal – all in the last three weeks. Yes, you read all that correctly – TC managed to get herself to 29, knocked up, and engaged – all within the month of September. That’s gotta be a record, right?

The hilarious thing is that we’d been planning the engagement from back in May, and just hadn’t gotten around to the jewelry part. The baby kinda put things into overdrive, which, also hilariously, resulted in ToySir having to ask my father for my hand in marriage, request to take my family’s name, and explain to him that I was pregnant, all in about a half hour span in a taco bell.

I’m almost at 8 weeks now and feeling just fine, although my breasts hurt like hell – suddenly opening up a milk factory in a pair of F cups has some side effects, evidently. It’s for these developments that I’ve been off the radar, as we’ve opted to (because we’re insane) get married this November to legitimize the lil one before he or she gets here. Tons of planning out of the way already, tons more to do, and I’m damn near dizzy keeping it all in mind.

More updates on sexy stuff and the toychicklet later. 🙂




I have had a lot of odd jobs over the years, and I have Craigslist to thank for many of them. One of my most infamous, outside of the land of madness and dildos, was as the personal assistant to an exotic dancer-cum-reality star-com-adult model.

We met in Starbucks, and I of course had diligently googled her beforehand, and had also diligently confused her with a similarly-named porn actress and buddy of my hometown’s hero Kevin Smith. The conversation got off to an awkward footing as it became increasingly clear I was lauding the achievements of her pseudonym doppelganger, and not her own. Corrections were made, chai was consumed, and I found myself with a job. From the beginning, my duties and pay were incredibly vague. I may or may not eBay her shoes. I may or may not pick up her dry cleaning. I may or may not write things for her site.

There was a photographer that lived a half mile from my apartment at the time, her photographer, who ran a number of porn sites that he shot photos for, including a Jersey-themed one. The guy was nice enough, but sent up in me that skittering feeling that made me want to edge away from him when my pseudo-employer left to use the bathroom. I stepped down the hall to bring her the requested shirt (a scant piece of fabric with a few armholes for good measure) and was confronted with a fully nude woman I’d met only yesterday, nonchalantly applying makeup in the bathroom mirror. No prude I, the shirt was handed over with only a few blinks of surprise.

The next hour was spent watching her writhe around on his ridiculously red couch, pulling at various bits of her clothing like it was full of bees, making moues at the camera. It was later that I would have to put pen to paper to tell the world in her voice how she just couldn’t seem to keep her clothes on or her hands off of herself. Naturally, I took it for the fantasy it was intended to be, but as I wrote, I couldn’t help but think I was cashing in some of my women’s lib points to get a paycheck.

Other shoots that day included (hilariously) the three of us piling into her BMW, parked in the lot outside the apartments. I was assigned the dubious task of holding a flip camcorder through the sunroof so that site members could, in time, watch my employer strip down, inexplicably in the backseat of her own car. Spanish families walked by and raised eyebrows at the apparent clown car of paparazzi that had exploded mere steps from their front doors. Other escapades included a shoot in a semi-abandoned airplane assembly yard, with a crew of mechanics watching appreciatively as she tottered around in stripper heels and the faintest notion of a skirt. Later, in a state park*, we were chased down by rangers who had caught her on camera, prancing around naked in stilettos along a hiking trail with a pervy photographer and my nondescript jeans-and-t-shirt self in tow. There are few things more chastising than slinking out of a state park with a pair of fuck-me heels in hand that don’t even belong to you.

The woman was younger than I was, and, though undeniably pretty, looked ten years older than she was. She ran her life, and her sexuality, like a business – right down to perfecting her image and body through implants and liposuction, the latter of which I was informed of when I complimented her on what I thought was a rigorous gym schedule. A few years before she hired me for those scarce few months, she had gone on a reality dating show in a bid to get her name out in the world, keeping a partner back home all during filming. She won, turned down the “prize”, and came home to build her image and make an empire of sorts. I wrote her bio, amazed at the amount of times she’d been in fairly high-profile nude mags, despite her lack of a sex tape or any sex depictions on her paid-membership website.

She took me to Lane Bryant, dressing me up like a personal “curvy” barbie doll in clothes she felt I should wear, but privately I thought looked atrocious. She was the boss though, and wanted me to have a certain image, so I kept my head down and nodded while I slipped on yet another nautical-themed jean jacket. When the working relationship tapered off shortly after, I ended up returning the clothes and getting things that were a better fit for my wardrobe. I was the broad-shouldered semi-butchy purse puppy to her sparkly stripper self for a few weeks, and it was an interesting employment experiment. I made the most out of picking up her be-fringed thongs from the tailor, driving her to the airport for Spring Break party hosting in tropical destinations, and getting to watch her lounge across her dining room table and laundry machines for photo shoots, as if her own sexuality just reared up and possessed her meek cheerleader-outfitted form in the middle of housekeeping.

The time I spent with her taught me that I wasn’t willing to pay the prices needed to be that sort of sexy, and despite her occasional unthinking comment about my weight, made me more comfortable with my own body. I’ll never be a model, but damn do I respect the ones that are.

Here’s to you, K. Thanks for the fun times.


* Earlier, I’d watched a girl dildo-fuck herself in the ass atop one of the park’s tables in videos on the photographer’s other website. There was a family of four cheerfully eating sandwiches off the same table when we were there.

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One of the Girls?

I’ve always maintained there was some class in kindergarten that I missed – some absent day where all the girls were taught how to dot their i’s with tiny hearts, how to gossip correctly, and how to fold notes into origami shapes that were so complicated they could, in a pinch, probably double as sport utility vehicles. It only got worse as I progressed through school, an earnest, loving girl but not a terribly feminine one, except for my long hair. I preferred to tromp through the woods with Billy rather than stay at home playing dolls with Liz, and no one said boo to me. In laymen’s terms, I was a tomboy.

My one foray into femininity came one stubborn 4th grade summer when I refused to wear anything but sundresses, but it was most assuredly a phase. I watched my mom apply her makeup out of kits large enough to dwarf the aforementioned SUVs, and splash on jean nate. I liked the idea of it all, but putting any makeup on made me rub and brush my face until it came off in my palms. It literally felt like a physical weight on my face until I managed to get it off.  I actually suspect my longtime struggle with trichotillomania began when I’d pull out my eyelashes the few times I tried to wear mascara.

In high school, I wore button up shirts and tweed jackets, slacks and ties, entire thrift store outfits that did little to hide my chest, which was even massive back then. I loved my body, but I felt awkward in it, like a sweater that was too tight in the elbows.  I eventually settled into a very comfortable routine of jeans and t-shirts, which became my uniform to this day. Jeans feel good, won’t hold me up if I have to run from ninjas, and have pockets for storing things. That’s essentially my checklist for what good clothing should be – comfy, ninja-repellent, and imbued with some sort of storage.

Today, I got a box in the mail from a makeup store. I had ordered this box with things I thought I should have, including some sort of cheek tint glow, eyeshadow, and creams that would penetrate my face (har!) and give my cell walls SPF’d shiatsu massage.  I spread the contents of the box out on the bed and eyed the jeweltoned tubes and boxes with a healthy dose of skepticism. I tried some sort of mineral makeup and saw no difference. I smeared charcoal-hued shadow across my eyelid in an attempt to re-create sultry and looked more like a prizefighter after a losing bout. I smooshed hot-pink tint with provocative names into the apples of my cheeks and looked like a doll brought to life – not Barbie, mind, but her cousin Bambi from the dollar store that the rest of the Mattel family didn’t like to talk about at family functions. I was not good at this.

I sighed, smudged things around with my fingertips, and tromped into the other room to get an opinion from ToySir. I presented myself with a flourish and waited patiently while he complimented me on “new shirt”, which I’d been wearing all day. He didn’t notice the makeup, and even when I pointed it out, and his pleased reaction to me being nearby didn’t change at all. I snagged my new facial cleansers and went into the bathroom to wash off what already felt like ten pounds of makeup, even though it was barely any.

I’m happy with myself, my partner is head over heels for me even with bedhead and dragon breath, and I’m old enough now that I really don’t give a shit about being seen as unfashionable or less than feminine. Still, though, I feel like there’s some secret world in makeup that’s been kept from me. I want to understand the secret joys of $32 lipstick and perfume that costs more than three days’ pay, but I struggle to understand. Shoes elude me, to the end of owning only three pairs. I’ve been carrying the same khaki-colored purse for a year now. I revel in my wide-hipped fertile beauty, but I feel decidedly more Athena than Aphrodite these days and I wish I could find a happy medium.

Maybe I’ll give the shadow another try, after all.


Weird Sex Toys O’ The Week: Interesting But Odd Idea Edition

A sort of mixed bag this time around, this Weird Sex Toys O’ The Week was intended to be an “in development” version, but I could only find two things in development worth writing about! That being said, here are three sex toys – two in development and one on the market – that might take stimulation places you’ve never seen it go before.

1.) The “Talk2Me” Vibrator – This is an incredibly interesting concept – a rabbit vibrator that purrs in tune with your favorite songs’ bass in the shaft and treble in the clitoral attachment – but is backed by a strange company that seems to have neither the will, funds, or momentum to get it to market. The site’s been literally the same for the last three years, and any attempt to contact the makers is met with disinterested staff that seem to dodge questions like a nervous politician.  If you know more about it, do feel free to educate me because I’m terribly curious when it will be available. Calls and emails generally are not returned, in my experience.

2.) The Y Dildo – Originally pointed out on twitter by the fabulousness that is Megan Andelloux, this unusual silicone cousin of a dowsing rod purports to stimulate both the G-Spot and the Perineal Sponge when the toy is inserted..i.e. both prongs up the girlybits at once.  Check the site here!

3.) The Touche Vibrating Ice Dildo – This is actually on the market and purchaseable. Think of it as those tupperware make-your-own popsicle molds from the 80’s paired up with a vibrating bullet. (edit, 12/8/09 – I was searching in vain for an ice vibrator review that I knew AAG had written…would you believe there are TWO ice vibrators? I also present the Icegasm for your WSTOTW approval)

Enjoy the oddness! More to come soon 🙂



Weird Sex Toys O’ The Week – The Floating World Edition

One of my first days trying to re-locate back home saw me rushing headlong back into toychickiness,  in a familiar place playing trusty sidekick to Ms. Vera of For Your Nymphomation.  Along with the singularly lovely Ms. Wendy Blackheart (who – and you heard it here first – is a shameless cheeto fetishist) – I served as a super sexy, and still very tired, booth bunny.

While there was a bit of oddity, it was more of the fun, quirky variety that makes you go “Huh. Nice.” and kinda grin to yourself. I am by no means a painslut…hell, if I could get pillows reclassified as a flogging device, I would…I can still appreciate a nicely rendered tool. (Stop giggling. I know you’re giggling.)

My friend M. from Wolf Princess Designs debued a really neat cheeseburger gag – a rubber life size cheeseburger squeaky-toy (minus the squeak) mounted sideways on a vegan strap for semi-ironic and animal-friendly kinky fun. I regret that I have no picture of this delightful and original design, but the cell phone enforcement was hardcore…and not in the fun way!


Canes4Pain had  very cool “beach canes” –  particularly painful looking rattan sticks covered in sharp broken seashells from Sanibel beach in the proprietor’s native Flordia. In a thoughtful finishing touch, the handle is wrapped in rough nautical rope that can also be employed as the sadistic wielder sees fit. Covered in a special material that ensures all the shell bits stay put, the canes are proudly proclaimed to “easily cut skin”. Yeowch!

…and this last one, while it wasn’t at The Floating World, rounds out what I always try and make at least a trio of strange items. I’ve seen this idea in santa, in soldiers, in firefighters, and in policemen – and now proudly (?) continuing the tradition of wind up masturbation novelty toys, our very own commander in chief…


In a funny side note, I took some “artsy” shots of vintage arcade games on a trip to the shore awhile ago. There was an old brass “love meter”, the plaque of which is now my blog header. Basically, you would grip an egg-shaped handle with a trigger on the front of it as hard as you can to measure your “love strength”. While I’m sure this was a quaint and perfectly acceptable notion back in the 1920’s or so when the games first debuted…it only took one look at the handle to send the perverted mind of yours truly into fits of mental snickers:


P.S. – Okay, so I’m totally late to the party on this one, but if you haven’t heard, Tantus made a cool sparkly dildo called the Vamp that totally has nothing to do with Twilight. Nope. No Sir.


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