Thursday, June 25, 2009

The Ghost of Sex Toys Past (Part One of Three)

I’ve been meaning to talk about sex toys for awhile now. Just another subject on the long list of topics that makes up the blog’s ‘to-do’ list. I’ve even had a couple of intro sentences rattling around in my head for the piece:

“I don’t have anyone to have sex with. (A complaint my readers hear from me time and time again.) So here’s a slightly different complaint, just for variety – I don’t have anyTHING to have sex with, either.”

Of course, that’s no longer accurate. I now have a couple of sex toys. (I had an strange couple of weeks, several weeks back.) But I’ll get back to that in part two.

“Do Blowjobs Always Make Your Hand Hurt This Bad?”

A long, long time ago (maybe ten or fifteen years?), I sent off for a product I found advertised in an adult mail-order catalog. My often faulty memory tells me it was called an ‘oral-simulator’, or something along those lines.

The thing looked like it was the illegitimate child of a piece of a fish tank filtration system and something you’d find in a toilet tank. (“Mmm . . . sexy? No.”) The business end was a hard plastic cylinder, the back of which connected (via soft rubber tubing) to a hard rubber squeeze bulb. I hesitate to say ‘rubber squeeze bulb’, because it will no doubt make you think ‘rubber’. This thing felt like plastic. Not soft plastic, either.

Anyway, it came with a latex sleeve that you had to fit over the open end of the cylinder. Once it was attached thusly, the next step was to reverse the remainder of the sleeve, stuffing it into the cylinder. The instructions then said to lube up the inside of the sleeve, lube up your erection, and slide it in. Then you just squeeze the bulb, which supposedly provided you with oral sex-like suction. You were to do this over and over again until you came.

I tried using this thing three or four times, each time succumbing to Santayana’s definition of insanity by thinking, “By God, maybe this time the damn thing will work!” Invariably. by the third pump my hand cramped up. By the fifth I’d get sharp pains in my hand. I don’t think I was ever able to pump the thing more than ten times, at which point my whole arm was throbbing and riddled with sharp, shooting pains.

The device claimed to feel JUST like a real blow job. Uh-huh. Somehow I doubted it. (I think if I was left handed if might have felt JUST like a real heart attack.)

Each time I’d give up on the device’s proper use, I’d go ahead and detach the latex sleeve from the friendly little torture unit, and finish myself off (practically from the starting line, for all the good the pump and suck did me) by sliding the lubed sleeve up and down on my cock.

CJ’s Toy Collection

During my occasional get-together’s with CJ, she’d usually bring an assortment of her toys along with her. The usual girlie toys – dildos, and vibrators, and the like. (She owned buttplugs, but they never accompanied her on one of our naughty little trysts. Sadly.)

Despite not losing my virginity during our association (or indeed ever, as of this writing – and I’m so fucking horny!), I did get to play with her pussy. I would finger her. I’d fuck her with the dildo du jour. I’d occasionally hold a vibrator to her clit while she squirmed and writhed around on my couch.

But interestingly enough, the very first foreign object I penetrated her wasn’t a regulation sex toy. There were a few classic ‘improvised’ toys that she was fond of, and one of them factored into the correspondence leading up to our initial physical encounters. So, early on in our erotic affiliation, I used my first dildo-like object to fuck a woman. But not actually a dildo.

Strangely, being a picky eater, I had always thought that a cucumber had NO viable uses up until that point. But when you peel about two thirds of the length of one, exposing it’s slippery insides (and leaving you the unpeeled third as a handle) you’ve got an interesting object to play with. Especially if you’ve also got a naked woman laying on the bed, her legs spread, asking you to put it in her.

Now, I don’t get hard walking down the produce aisle or anything, but I do have some very fond memories of that night. Sliding that slippery cuke into CJ’s even slipperier cunt. Sliding it slowly in and out of her. Slowly at first. Picking up speed when it seemed natural to do so. Driving Mother Nature’s sex toy with my right hand, locating and playing with her clit (CJ’s, not Mother Nature’s) with my left.

Wow. I’m picturing CJ naked with a cucumber sticking out of her, and I think I’ve gotten somewhat off track. What was the topic of this post again?

Sex toys. Right. I remember now. Yeah. She had a fair collection of sex toys. (Man I want to fuck someone with a cucumber again. Bananas, too. Actually, mainly bananas. If I could take a banana and . . . okay, getting off track again)

Sex Toy Discrimination

One year, around some gift-giving occasion (Christmas? Birthday? Valentine’s Day? Arbor Day? The Anniversary of the Death of Richard Nixon?) CJ mentioned that she’d thought about getting me a sex toy of my own – something I could use to get off with.

But she’d never paid any attention to toys other than vibrators and insertables before, and she was flabbergasted by the price difference between what she usually shopped for and her speculative shopping trip for me.

“Boys’ toys are so much more expensive than girls’ toys!” she told me. (And thus, no gift of a sex toy for me that Cinco De Mayo or Klingon New Year. Or whatever the occasion was.)

Of course boys’ toys cost more. How do you manufacture and sell a hole? You need quantum physics. Or the ACME corporation. (Didn’t Wile E. Coyote have a portable hole at one point? Or was that just a Dungeons and Dragons thing?)

Okay, I’m going to admit that it’s not so much just a hole as it is an object with a hole in it. Because otherwise I’m sure I’d get off on some weird tangent comparing artificial vaginas to donut holes, and – well, nobody wants musings like that.

The Anal Experiment

A couple of years ago I’d been in a particularly anal-oriented mood for a week or so when I was sitting at a computer doing some on-line Christmas shopping. One thing led to another, and ten to fourteen business days later I was the proud owner of a Doc Johnston Anal Probe.

A foot-long hand-held butt-fucker. (Huh. Used up a lot of hyphens back there.) About five of the overall twelve inches were handle. The rest was intended to go up the ass. (To go up MY ass.) Most of the ‘probing’ length was slender, but it had a good-sized bulb atop the thing. Something intended to make you say, “Hello!” upon initial entry.

I successfully used this toy three times. I attempted to use this toy over a dozen times. I think it’s a good toy – it’s just not a good toy for me.

It’s floppy. And I’m obese. I don’t know how many of you have ever tried to put a floppy foot-long sex toy in your ass while being obese, but it’s not something I recommend.

Plus, at my size, I’m not really built for a prolonged connection between my fingertips and my butthole. They can reach, but they can’t stay for very long. Floppy toy renders the handle relatively useless for the purpose of initial insertion. Which means grabbing onto the bulb and pushing it directly into my anus. The lubricated bulb. Into my lubricated anus. Even starting with bone-dry fingers, you’re soon working with lubricated digits.

So, it’s not a good toy for times when I think, “Gee, I think I’d like to go fuck my ass with a sex toy.” It would probably be a great toy if the sentence “Darling, would you please come fuck my ass with the anal probe?” worked, but without the ‘darling’ in question . . . useless.

But my not being able to get the most out of the probe isn’t the best part of the story. Oh, no.

When the toy wasn’t in use, it was wrapped in a towel behind a box on the top shelf of my closet. The last time I used it (or attempted to use it, as case may be), I washed it afterwards, like always. Let it dry. Wrapped it in it’s towel, and put it where it got stored.

And there it stayed for about six months or so. Until I was in the right mood (horny, anal, and desperate) to try it again. So, I reached back, retrieved it – towel and all – and discovered something weird.

Mice had eaten it.

Oh, they hadn’t ‘eaten it’ eaten it. It’s not like there was nothing but a plate of anal probe crumbs and a note reading, “Thank you for the snack – signed, the Mice”. But they had chewed on it. It had been nibbled on. There were chunks missing. (They’d eaten through the towel to get to it.)

Is the material that Doc Johnston makes his anal probes out of really tasty? (To mice, at least.) Or is it that the flavor of the inside of my ass is a rodent delicacy? (Good God, I hope that’s not it.)

Needless to say, it went into the trashcan instead of my ass. Didn’t even use lube, and it went right in. (Trashcan’s a fucking show-off.)

Wrapping This Up

Anyway, that’s my basic history with sex toys. Not really much to speak of. Definitely not much to speak of successfully. (Except for that cucumber, of course . . . )

I’m planning on posting part two of this series (“The Ghost of Sex Toys Present”) early next week. That’s where I’ll talk about the two new sex toys that I recently obtained.

And the predictably named “The Ghost of Sex Toys Future” follows at some point after that.

Now if I can just get out of here without making a lame Charles ‘DICK-ens’ joke . . .

Sugasm #168 (Yes, That's Right, I've Joined the Sugasm)

Sugasm #168

HNT courtesy of Erotic Garden.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #169? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

“My mouth waters at the sheer beauty.”

Lilly’s Turn - Part 3: Wherein Lust, Greed and Risk Intersect
“She was biting her lip to prevent herself from making a sound.”

Oh Dirty Girl
“It was at that moment that I knew I needed him to take me and take me dirty.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Porn’s 2009 AIDs Outbreak

Sugasm Editor
Review: Why Just Her

Editor’s Choice
My very first HNT!

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Erotic Writing & Experiences

He Can Use Me All Night – Part Two, Yet Another Hotel
Hump Day Poetry
I Can’t Get No Contraception - Part 2
Just fucking.
Keeping It Simple
Tedious Training
Wet dream at the airport-part2

News, Reviews & Interviews
20 Questions with Satine Phoenix
Favorite Jeans -HNT
Girly HNT.
Glow Plugs and the Kegel8 Effect
I’m unemployed and I live with my parents
Protection and Promiscuity

Sex Advice
Congrats! You are the new proud owner of some Sexy Lingerie!
Pompoir: The Art of Milking the Lingam
The truth about female ejaculation

BDSM & Fetish
Breed Sex Part 1: They Want to Cum in You.
Daddy Spanked Me
Darklady’s 9th Annual Masturbate-a-Thon - The Solo Sex Circus
High School Bully Part 3
A Kiss Goodbye
Meeting a Domme
Le 6 janvier…L’histoire!…My version

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Bent in the chair for harsh punishment
Lindsay Lohan Topless Twitter Picture
Liv - Pure Perfection
Nude at daylight
Teen girl bending over for some harsh cane stripes

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Eagerness & Blow Jobs – Lessons Learned From Gay and Bi Men
Faking Orgasms | How it feels for a girl
On Love, Loss and Taking Risks

Friday, June 12, 2009

Darklady's 9th Annual Masturbate-a-Thon - The Solo Sex Circus

What the Hell? An event report going up on the blog a mere 13 days after the event took place? That’s unusual for me, here of late.

The Road to the Masturbate-a-Thon

Remember me saying that I absolutely HAD to go to Darklady’s 9th annual Masturbate-a-Thon party? In my recent post on National Masturbation Month I explained how she’d named me the Official Portland Masturbate-a-Thon Solo Sex Circus Clown. I mused about the potential for hot, sexy, scantily clad (if clad at all) women in clown make-up to be attending this circus-themed event. (And me with my great big clown fetish and everything.)

Well . . . I went. Darklady, the ultimate party hostess, found me a ride from Salem to Portland and back. And armed with that, I guilted my siblings into getting me into Salem, and then home again afterwards. My brother was drafted for the ride over, my poor sleep-deprived sister for the post party return trip in the wee hours of the morning.

Earlier – and with more sleep charging her batteries – my sister helped me out with what was to be my headgear for the night. We thwarted my greasepaint allergies via the use of an (off) white fabric and colored markers, creating a clown face in mask form.

Clown mask, the ever-present sunglasses, white T-shirt, black shorts, red suspenders . . . and a bicycle horn. (Honk! Honk!) Stylish!

And in the week leading up to the event, I would masturbate myself to orgasm many a-time, all the while fantasizing about the party. All those sexy masturbation fantasies about masturbation that ultimately [SPOILER] I proved far too shy to perform in public on that occasion. [Stupid ‘issues’.]

Carnalval Games

The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence were on hand, manning (womanning?) the kinky carnival games.

The ring toss game where the rings were the typical carnival sort, but the targets were a field of dildos. The ‘Guess How Many Condoms Are In the Jar’ contest. And, of course, the ever-popular ‘Whack-a-Nun’.

I declined to play the cock ring toss. (I know my limits, and hitting a target with a moving object using only my sense of aim is waaaaay beyond them.)

I thought about whacking a nun. I’m quite fond of bringing some kind of impact tool (bare hand, paddle, etc.) down upon something spankable (usually the classic bare feminine ass). If I’d have seen any of the Sisters who were really into it, I’m sure I would have. But everyone I saw paying their $5 to take their three swats were told that they could only deliver one hard one, the other two had to be soft. Skirts came up, but panties stayed in place. It just wasn’t exactly the thrill I was looking for.

Oh, I didn’t rule it out completely . . . everytime I saw a nun taking her three paddle hits, I thought, “Probably later.” It’s just that later never came in this instance.

I did place a guess as to how many condoms were in that jar, though. My guess was 734. The actual number was in the neighborhood of 1050. The closest guess was 1025. Followed by a number somewhere in the mid-800s. The third place guess? 734. Which earned me a reach into the ‘It’s My Pleasure’ grab bag, from which I pulled out a ‘vegan-friendly polyethylene’ blindfold. (Which goes right into my woefully thin selection of BDSM toys, right next to the wooden paddle and roll of duct tape.)

Action As Far As The Eye Could See

During the two previous Darklady events I attended, all the sexual activity I witnessed took place in designated areas – in the roped off dungeon section, on the casting couch, and upon the mattresses of the Rubitorium. Examples of tasteful nudity (both partial and full) could be found all through the venue, but the actual genital stimulation was always kept in it’s properly assigned places.

At the Masturbate-a-Thon, however, everywhere you looked, you could find somebody playing with themselves. Usually men, stroking their exposed erections while watching something arousing, either on the projection wall or right in front of them.

Most of the acts of masturbation involving women that I was witness to weren’t women playing with themselves as much as women being played with. (Male fingers disappearing up between female legs.)

At one point in the evening, a woman that I met at KinkFest (a woman that I’d really, really, really like to play with some day) was standing in the ballroom, bent at the waist, sucking the cock of the guy in front of her while the guy behind her was playing with her pussy.

I see this from across the room, and decide to move closer for a better look. Large, slow moving vehicle that I am, other people surround her before I get there. It’s still fun to watch, but I don’t have a ‘ringside seat’, as it were.

The majority of the people surrounding her are male, and most of them have their cocks in their hands, stroking away as they watch. That’s when the guy playing with the lady’s pussy motions to one of the masturbating onlookers. To me, it looks like he’s offering to let the guy play with the pussy. At which point I’m thinking, “Holy fuck, why wasn’t I the one standing there?”

But I apparently misread the signal because instead of stepping aside to let the newcomer at her pussy, he instead takes the guys cock in his mouth and starts sucking away. Huh. I-uh, okay. My brain processes that for a moment, and then seeing the guy that I thought was about to get to play with her pussy getting his cock sucked instead, I reiterate the thought: “Holy fuck, why wasn’t I the one standing there?”

(Clown would really like a blowjob someday.)

Eventually, more of the surrounding men step forward, and it turns into a big man-on-man group grope/suck/hump with a hot girlie center.

After midnight, when – according to party rules, actual intercourse became acceptable behavior – a few of the people who’d been masturbating all over the venue switched over to fucking. All over the venue.

I was sitting in a chair in the ballroom, people watching, when a couple came over and took the chair next to me. She stripped and sat down, he flipped her legs up over her shoulders, mounted her, and started pumping away. Crazy!

Our Ringmistress

Now, as stylishly attired as I was, I had nothing on our hostess. The Dark One was resplendent in her Ringmaster’s dress, top hat, and funky hypno-swirly goggle-style sunglasses.

When Darklady and I first came face to face (face to mask?) during the party, she looked at me curiously, like she was only about 75% sure of my identity. “Are you Zeitgeist?” she asked.

My response was to shrug my shoulders and honk my horn a bunch of times. (That’s not a euphemism for anything.)

She grinned, and said, “I thought so.” I then thanked her for having me at her party, and she reminded me that as the Official Portland Masturbate-a-Thon Solo Sex Circus Clown, I had responsibilities throughout the evening. So, I asked. “Just what are my responsibilities, exactly?”

I think we were both stumped on that one. What she came up with was that I was to circulate throughout the party, and be ‘Zeitgeistastic’. (My spellchecker redlines ‘Zeitgeistastic’, but I know that it’s a real word, because Darklady said it. Fuckin’ idiot spellchecker.)

She then reminded me of the opportunity to ‘perform’ a masturbatory act on the casting couch. Which is when I told her my sad, sad story.

“You know how the rules here are ‘don’t touch without first getting permission’?” When she nodded her head, I continued. “Well, earlier I asked if I could masturbate, and I said ‘no’.”

She seemed appropriately amused by that. Then told me to relax, maybe have a drink or two . . . and then ask again.

My First Real Sex Toy

There was a cute little crossdresser walking around with a tray of ‘goodies’ – like the peanut and hot dog vendor roaming the aisles between circus acts – distributing free sex toys to those interested.

I was one of those interested. So when the question “Would you like a toy?” came, I said yes. The majority of what was in the tray were little plastic flowers, although there were other options.

“Would you like a vibrating flower? Or do you want a pussy?”

That had to be a trick question. I’ve wanted access to a pussy since I first saw one in the pages of Penthouse magazine. Oh, wait, he was still talking about toys. Right. Gotcha.

I told him I wanted a pussy, and he came up with a large blister pack containing an “X-Rated Cyberskin Virtual Touch Pussy”. (My first real sex toy!) Then cute little crossdresser handed it over, saying, “You can have a pussy, big scary clown man.”

(I really need to start grabbing people at these events and asking permission to use their names – or scene names, as the case may be – in my blog. The ‘cute little crossdresser’ in question is one of the local BDSM/kink personalities. I see him everywhere at these events. Everyone knows him. But my weird obsessive-compulsive rules structure won’t let me call him by name here in the blog without first getting permission. Names withheld, and all that stuff. And yet, I never remember this until I’m sitting back home at the keyboard.)

To date, I still haven’t tried out my pussy. Why? A couple of reasons, which I’ll go into in my next post, assuming that my next post is about “Sex Toys”, like I suspect it will be.

Everyone Loves a Clown?

During the course of the party, I’d be told that I looked creepy, scary, frightening, and a litany of other synonyms for the sentiment. (I sure hope that they just meant the mask.)

One lady even screamed. Now, granted, she caught sight of me when my head was slowly – and admittedly creepily – emerging out from between the folds of a curtain. But still, screaming? Really?

One guy pulled me aside to tell me that after seeing me, he was going to have nightmares for a week – and that he was an artist, who often drew ‘creepy and scary clowns’, so he should be immune.

I put the mask on when I arrived at 6:50. Full head mask. Very warm. I tend to overheat easily anyway. Hundreds of people in the venue. Active people. Socializing, dancing, masturbating people. (Not all at once.)

By 11:30, I realized I was headed toward an incident. And after having a full-blown seizure at Darklady’s New Year’s Party, I thought that passing out from overheating at this one would probably be a little much. So I went ahead and unmasked.

There was one really attractive woman who had evolved throughout the evening from being dressed to wearing nothing but a pair of bright red panties. Everytime she saw me she gave me a dirty look. Until I took the mask off. The first time she passed by me after the clownface was stuffed into my pocket, she slowed to a stop, doing a double-take in my direction. Then she actually smiled at me before moving on. Weird.

I Lust a Clown

There were a few other clowns at the party – mostly male.

The one female clown in attendance was half of the husband and wife team that was making kinky balloon animals for the party. (I saw a lot of woman wearing balloon cocks in balloon harnesses that night.)

I’d previously seen the female clown’s profile on FetLife, and wanted to talk to her (fantasized about more than just talking, actually, but talking for a start). But when she wasn’t actively twisting balloons for people, she was moving around the place, never seeming to stop. “Social butterfly,” her husband called her. “Flitting here and there . . . can’t catch her.”

The husband seemed cool. But my fetish didn’t come to the party to talk to GUYS in clown make-up. Oh, well.

What Else Does One Find At a Circus?

There were all sorts of impressive costuming efforts in synch with the circus theme. I saw several people in skintight animal suits, being followed (or led) by animal trainers. There were acrobats, strongmen, and other circus traditionalists.

But my favorite costume had to be the guy walking around in a giant box costume painted up in perfect reproduction of a popcorn box . . . which he’d lined with plastic, and in addition to containing him, was also filled with popcorn! People would reach in and help themselves, happily munching away at his costume’s innards.

Partway through the evening the box sprung a leak, and you could find him by following the trail of popcorn.

Broken Promises

In addition to vowing to attend the party during my National Masturbation Month post, I also mentioned that I’d promised to actually masturbate during the event.

I had planned to. I wanted to jack off in front of people. I wanted somebody to watch me cum.

But I’m ever so shy . . . (bats eyelashes)

I saw a lot of cocks at the party. But I didn’t see any small cocks. (I’m not saying that there weren’t any out on display, just that I didn’t happen to see anybody exposing theirs.)

And I’m sure that I wouldn’t have been laughed out of the building had I dropped my pants. But . . . did I really want to take that chance? You wouldn’t think that a 450 lb man with a smaller-than-average sized penis would have any body image issues, but . . . there you go.

One of the first things I did when I got back to my house that night was to jack myself off, berating myself for not having done it at the party. Jack off, and, you know, die a little inside.

The Image I’d Leave the Party With

Somewhere in the 1:00 hour, my ride homeward and I both decided that it was probably time to leave.

As we were preparing to depart, this woman came up the stairs from the Rubitorium. She was wearing fetishy high leather boots and a top hat. (And yes, that was her complete ensemble.)

Incredibly build and mind-numbingly sexy. Long brown hair with a matching nest of pubes. Her breasts were on the large side of my ideal, but still within the fuzzily defined range. Yikes!

If she hadn’t been arriving naked from downstairs – an indication that she’d probably just gotten done playing – I think that I’d have tried to postpone our departure, and propositioned her.

As it is, we just left. Probably better to have that image of her in my head than the memory of her turning down my clumsy advances anyway.

All In All

It was my third Darklady party, but my first Darklady Masturbate-a-Thon. I’d been told that there was a discernable difference between her parties and her PARTY. Between her regular old shindigs and ‘The –Thon’. And I was not lied to.

I’m eagerly awaiting her next party, whatever it may be. But deep down inside, what I’m really counting down time towards is next May, and the next Masturbate-a-Thon.

This is the Official Portland Masturbate-a-Thon Solo Sex Circus Clown, signing off.